An Interview with Feka Parchibell by Amy Madsen
I had a conversation with Feka Parchibell on December 12, 2021. We talked about her life and her struggle to confront injustice and inequity. We continued our discussion over WhatsApp for several days afterwards. On December 20th, she sent me good wishes for a Merry Christmas and a peaceful and prosperous 2022. And by the time I was finishing lunch on December 23rd, Feka was dead. She was killed in a car accident.
What a devastating loss.
Feka was a fierce fighter, undeterred in her quest for peace and justice, despite a life of unimaginable trauma. After our conversation on December 12th, I struggled with how best to capture her story. Her life was full of so many autricites, I was worried that it would not be believable to people outside of Cameroon.
In the end, I decided it was best for me to present her life and her life’s work, as she told it. The following is an edited version of our conversation for length and clarity.
*****
There’s a saying in Cameroon that “nothing good comes out of the camps,” that’s why I call myself “camp girl,” said Feka, with a mischievous and somewhat defiant glint in her eye.
So began our conversation.
Amy: Tell me more about the camps and your childhood.
[Part 1: Childhood]
Feka: I am Feka Parchibell. I'm born into a family of four, we had three boys and I am the only girl. I grew up in Water Tank [laborer] Camp in Tiko because my father was a CDC [Cameroon Development Corporation] driver.
The camps are not usually morally very right or decent, because you have a parlor and a bedroom that is shared by the parents. There's a lot going on in that one space that the children are witnesses to…sexual immorality, incest and all of that. So usually, the [Cameroonian] society thinks that nothing good can come out of the camp. So that is why I love the name camp girl. I'm not ashamed to tell people I'm a camp girl.
My [parents had] an abusive marriage. My dad used to be very abusive. And [my mom] was miserable. I remember I asked her why she was still in our house, and she said she was there because of us. So I was like, "Go back to your father's house." Growing up in an abusive home wasn't the best, and [I learned] to become very protective and very defensive. At the age of five, I start[ed] intervening in my parents' issues because for some reason, I knew I had to fight to survive. And fighting to survive was not easy, especially in Cameroon where culturally [there is a belief] that a woman has to be gentle.
[I also remember that] growing up in the camps, I need[ed] to go and fetch water. The homes did not have any flowing water. So sometimes when [I went] to get water, it was overcrowded. One day, I went to fetch water and there were these boys who were playing. I could not wait [for them to finish], because if I delayed and I went back home late, I’d be beaten by my mom. So I had to go remove [their] container to carry my water, and these boys came to fight. I got into a serious physical fight with them. And I told them, "I have to fetch my water. Maybe your parents do not need water, mine [do]. And I am carrying the water. And I am going home." And we fought and broke the buckets. But at the end of the day, I carried my water and I went home.
I lived [with] my parents [until] age nine, [then] my father sent me to his aunt in Douala for a year. Then when I turned 10, he took me to his elder sister, who was working in Yaoundé.
Growing up with relatives wasn't really the best. I developed my fighting spirit. I was that defensive little girl who would fight for anything that she wasn't comfortable with. If anybody did anything to anybody around me that I felt wasn't right, I would always jump in and fight. My aunt had only boys. I got into a series of fights with my cousin. And each time we fought, my aunt would blame me because I came from a low class and a low life. I brought “wildness” from there into her house. It was not easy.
When I got to school in Yaoundé, there was a lot of bullying going on. I was bullied almost on a daily basis. And one day, I decided to fight back. And [after] I fought back, everybody was afraid of me in class. My aunt shouted at me, saying, "I am disgracing the family, because they now call me Feka Fighter." And I [said], “But I had to fight because if I didn't fight, they were not going to stop.”
With that attitude, and with all the experiences, I decided to be defensive, first of myself, and then [of] any other person around me who I could assist. I would happily fight for them. That was in primary school.
When I went to secondary school, in the '90s, we'd transferred from Yaoundé to Bamenda in the Northwest region. It was during the transition period where multiparty-ism was introduced in Cameroon. There were numerous strikes. When I was in Form One [7th grade], when the multi-partisan riotings were going on, bullies came to [our] school. I was beaten. And I was like, okay, why did they have to beat me when I didn't do anything? I wasn't government. I wasn't anything.
When I went to Form Three [9th grade] there was this strike for the General Certificate of Education Board, because that is the only examination board for the English subsystem of education in Cameroon. [The strike aimed to] equalize secondary and high school final exams [for English and French speakers]. When the [strikers] took to the streets, I had to join them. I joined them in rioting and going to other schools to get students out. [I asked the other students]: why were they studying when they were not sure to write an exam that was going to reflect their educational background?
I didn't want anything that was not right to happen around me. And so I struggled through high school. I was a smart kid academically. Studying was not a problem. The little challenges I had were that I did not have textbooks, but at least I had friends who were ready to sacrifice their textbooks for me.
[Part 2: Marriage and Children]
[My aunt] raised me until the age of 25. I was at the Higher Teachers' Training College in Bambili in Bamenda in the Northwest region. And [then] I got pregnant in my final year of university. My aunt was so mad at me for not only getting pregnant, but keeping that pregnancy, and so she sent me [back] to my father. By then, my mom had died. I left my auntie's wealth, and went back to the camps. That was where I gave birth to my daughter. [It was] challenging because I had a newborn baby. I'd never taken care of any baby before. And about two weeks after I had given birth, I had to do research for my [Teachers] exams.
So I had to take care of this child all by myself, but I was there for just two months.
I had to get married because I needed to survive. I got married to my daughter's father.
When I got married, it was not easy. I was mentally and physically abused. At one point in my marriage, I “knew” I was a useless and worthless human. I just couldn't do things by myself. My [husband] would tell me: "You do not have 48 hours to live. If you joke, I will kill you.” In Cameroon culturally, as a married woman, you have to be submissive to your man. If he says, "Sit there," you have to sit there. If he says “Stand,” you have to stand. [And] I'm a very vocal person. I talk a lot. [When I] complained about the happenings in my home, [most people] always blamed me. They said I was the problem because I “obviously have a big mouth and look for trouble.” [My husband] was to society, the quiet person, the gentleman, whereas I was the trouble[maker].
I had no one to run to. I had no one to advise me. But, one day, I was like, was it not this me that told my mother to go away? What am I doing in a similar situation? I did not bargain for any marriage to be like this. I have my own vision of marriage. Not this one. Not to be beaten. I was like, if I stay in this marriage, I'll die. I had to leave.
Then one day [my husband] beat me up with a machete. I felt that I was going to die. I left. I went to the state council in Bamenda and reported it. I had patches on my body. I had patches on my body. The state council told me, "Madam, you do not have any proof. And it's not enough reason for you to want to leave your marriage." I asked them, "Do you want a proof?" They said, "Yes." They wanted proof. And I was like, "Okay. You want a proof? Okay."
I already [had] packed my things. At that moment, I knew I was not going to stay in that marriage because if he can beat me with a machete, it means he can kill me someday. I had to be alive to take care of my children.
I was like, "Okay. The law in Cameroon says I need proof. I need to have proof to back up my reason for wanting to leave an abusive marriage." So in March 2016, I will never forget, [my husband] beat me up bloody. I recorded it, I had to do an audio recording. I have that audio until today. This man beat me up in the audio. The children were crying and screaming. And I recorded it and I went to the courts.
It was still not enough proof. And I told them, "To hell with you." And I had to tell myself, I was so done with this whole madness. And I am not going back. No man is going to suffer me again under his roof. And I'm not going to suffer again because of a man. I have a right as a woman and that was how I became very vocal. I regained myself. I regained my confidence. And when I moved away, I did not die. Normally [society] gives you the impression you must remain married to survive. When I moved away, my respect did not drop. I still got the same respect. And I instead feel that my respect even doubled, because I have so many people who look up to me. I discovered that many women now looked up to me for encouragement. They listen to my story and it gives them some degree of hope.
And it was when I moved out of that marriage that I was like, okay, now I have finally had my freedom. I think I have control and mastery over me. I need to do something for women. That was when I took that firm decision now to start doing things for women.
[Regarding my children], I am closer to my daughter because he threw my first daughter out of his house and kept the last two children. So for five years now, I've not seen my last two children or spoken to them. The first three years were very traumatizing for me. Every year on their birthdays, I would try to call to talk to them. But each time I called, [my ex-husband] would insult and threaten me. So after three years of trying to get in touch with my kids, I stopped. I stopped not because I don't love them anymore, but I need to be strong and healthy for them because I know we shall eventually meet some[day].
[Part 3: Advocacy, Activism & Conflict]
In 2009, while I was still married [and teaching], I started Gender Club [for my students]. I could relate to children who grew up like me: living with relatives who do not really have time to ask questions. For instance, the only time my aunt gave me a sanitary pad was the first few months when I started menstruating. And the only conversation we had on menstruation was that, if a boy touches you now, you're going to get pregnant. No sexual education conversation. Instead, I got blamed most times. If I returned home late, [she would say], "Oh, you started seeing men. You started having sex.” They were just words that rejected, that made [me] want to keep to [my]self.
As a teacher, I had students who kept to themselves. Each time I saw a child was keeping to him or herself, my childhood would play back on me. And I would go towards that child to find out what was happening. And I discovered that most of the girls, sometimes some of them, could not even attend my classes. They had problems with textbooks. Some of them had problems with their periods. Like they could not afford pads. So instead of coming to school and being mocked at by their classmates, because they've soiled themselves, they prefer to stay at home during their period. So I decided to come up with The Gender Club in 2009, as an opportunity for me to meet with my students. Initially, I wanted it to be an all girls thing. But at the end of the day, I [had] boys attending the club. And their stories were the same. That was when it occurred to me that I do not suffer because I [am] a woman. Any child who is vulnerable suffers. And so the boys had their own story, to share, their own painful experiences, to share.
And I'm happy because other people [liked] the idea of The Gender Club. I trained [other] teachers who now lead Gender Clubs. And you have so many gender clubs in Cameroon now. It's gone across Cameroon, and I'm so happy about that, that an initiative I bore has grown this big.
Fast forward to 2014, when my marriage was really that toxic and I left, I was transferred to the center region, to GBHS Bafia. I thought of my mom, I said, okay, probably she suffered because she didn't have any income generating activity. And I was like, okay, what about me? I have gone to school. I have a job. And I am still abused. So in July 2014 I created my own organization called Hope for Vulnerables and Orphans (HOVO). I was looking at vulnerable people, women specifically, and then children. HOVO started going across Cameroon, [and then] I took it out of Cameroon. I contacted an organization in Ghana and they connected me to another one in Kenya. And I joined them that year, December 2014, and we went to the Kyangwali Refugee Settlement in Uganda. That was my first time traveling to any African country, and I was so happy and grateful that I had that first experience at a refugee settlement. I've gone to Uganda several times [since then] and trained [women] on reusable sanitary pads.
In 2015, I went with the Teaching Excellence and Achievement exchange program to the United States of America. I was sent to Claremont Graduate University [California]. While there, I met Rose Academies [nonprofit organization], they partnered with HOVO. And when I came home, Susan Stasi [from Rose Academies] came to Cameroon. She trained me on how to produce reusable sanitary pads, since menstruation was an issue. And I started producing the pads and people donated pads in the United States and sent them to HOVO. We distributed those sanitary pads to schools across Cameroon. [Since then], I've trained over 7,000 women and girls, [from the] 10 regions of Cameroon on how to produce their own sanitary pads.
I also went to the Timangolo Refugee Settlement in Cameroon where we have refugees from the Central African Republic. I trained them too on how to produce reusable sanitary pads.
And then fast forward now to the Anglophone crisis. That started in 2016. The ongoing crisis in Cameroon has two faces to it. I don't know if the world has forgotten about it or the world knows about it.
One, it is the Anglophone problem. The Anglophone problem is the problem of identity. This is where the part of Cameroon that was under British colonial control agreed to merge with the French part of Cameroon. And so if we go back to the history in 1961, this is when two autonomous peoples had come together to live as one, where they had to have equal opportunity and rights. So it stated that if the President of the Republic had to be from the French speaking part of Cameroon, the Vice President automatically should be from the English speaking part of Cameroon. But unfortunately, that is not the case right now. The English speaking Cameroonians are practically non-existent in Cameroon. Because if you look at the presidential speech, there's never been a president who has addressed the nation in English. Never. You go to the ministries, you are tortured because they will speak to you only in French. They do not consider that it's a bilingual country. The texts, they would do announcements, they would do publications in French and forget that it's a bilingual country. So it is only after the Anglophone crisis started that we started having translations of some documents, official documents in Cameroon, into English.
So that is the first crisis we have in this part of Cameroon. And then there is a second one, that the world sees, and “they” are capitalizing on, which is the separatist war. They want to secede. They do not want to belong to Cameroon. They want their own country, which they call Ambazonia.
So as frontline defenders, it is difficult and frustrating for us because we have two situations we are dealing with. We are dealing with the Anglophone crisis, and the Ambazonia cessation crisis. We have people who are not for separation but who want their identity given back to them. And we have people who are for total separation because their identity has been taken away from them.
As an activist, you have to be objective. If you follow me on social media, I am attacked by both camps because I criticize both actions. If it's the military committing an atrocity, I criticize openly. If it is the non-state armed group, I criticize openly. I am so vocal without taking sides. And they are not happy. The non-state armed group called me a “black leg,” and so they want to kill me, because to them, I do not support them, I'm supporting the government. The government will see me as a threat because to them, I'm protecting the non-state armed group whereas I'm just doing my job. If I do not tell these stories, the way they are, nobody will know the truth.
Amy: Before we continue, can you tell me what Black Leg means?
Feka: Black leg is that word that came into existence due to the ongoing crisis in the English speaking regions of Cameroon. It is the non-state armed groups and their sponsors who came up with the word black leg. Anyone who does not support their idea, anyone who challenges their actions, or who tells them they are wrong, they automatically tag you a black leg. And that is how so many people have died. Because once you are a black leg, they start hunting you. You are kidnapped and you are asked to pay a ransom. This ransom is a huge amount of money. You might be lucky, they ask for a ransom, you pay, you are free. You might be unfortunate, they ask for a ransom, you pay, you are killed. You might be super unfortunate, they catch you, they kidnap you and murder you immediately without asking for any ransom or without even listening to you. Frontline defenders in the English speaking regions who are objective are black legs. Francophones naturally are all black legs.
Amy: Sorry to interrupt, please continue.
Feka: In August 2017, women came together in the English speaking regions of Cameroon, wanting to be heard. They wanted to put an end to this crisis. The Southwest/Northwest Women Taskforce, abbreviated SNWOT was created. I proposed for us to have an effect, we had to gather at a particular place, invite the administration, and cry out to them. We went to the streets of Buea. We cried. We cried out to the authorities, telling them the difficulties, the pain of women, as far as this crisis was concerned. We said it all to them. And that was it. To date, we're still waiting. We cannot say the government hasn't tried. They've tried, but it's not enough.
And after that, I joined the Cameroon Women's Peace Movement, CAWOPEM, which is another coalition. CAWOPEM has women from the 10 regions of Cameroon. [If] you go to the far north region of Cameroon, they have the Boko Haram. You go to the East, you have the Seleka that has sent refugees into Cameroon. And then you have the Northwest and Southwest crisis. So I had to join CAWOPEM. We are trying to see how we can go about peace and have solutions to the numerous crises going on in Cameroon.
When the Anglophone crisis was so hot, when they were shooting and killing, I went on a humanitarian intervention in Kumba, with no training, with nothing. And we went into the bushes. We discovered that most humanitarian assistance that came in [to the bush] had to do with clothes, maybe food. And then I start asking, what happens to women who are menstruating?
What I saw was so heartbreaking. I saw women in these bushes and I asked them what they were using when they're on their period. There was this video that went viral on social media of a woman using the moss plant as sanitary pads to stop blood flow. I shot that video in that bush. This lady in this video is a teacher whose house was burnt and everything burnt. So you see, she had a life. And within the click of a second, she lost everything. And she had to run to the bush to hide. And so she started using moss plants as a sanitary pad. I met other groups of women who were using rags. I took videos of them. What they used was horrible.
I had had about enough of this thing. And on some occasions I went into the bush, I saw women give birth to children in those bushes. And I was like, God, you give birth without any hospital, no professional. They use the blade of elephant grass to cut off the umbilical cord. You know, to do those things, that was risky. Some women survived, others died. So the women survived, the babies did not survive. All of those stories, they're just so heartbreaking.
I [also] continued working through my nonprofit organization, and we started a homeschooling program. Now this homeschooling program was something I learned in the US. I had to bring it out to Cameroon and take it to the community level.
In 2019, we went for the homeschooling program to Moko Village, in the Southwest region of Cameroon. The people of the non-state armed group started targeting us. They said, we have black legs, [and that] we were working with the government to rise up against them. We're going against their rule by wanting schools to resume. As a result of the targeting, my volunteer's right leg was cut off. They butchered her leg. We had to leave from there and go to the hospital. We had about 80 children who were interested in the homeschooling program. We had to stop.
[After that] some people went to my daughter's college and attempted to kidnap her. Fortunately for her, the discipline master on duty intervened and she was spared. Now, I was forced to take my daughter out of that boarding house, out of the English speaking regions to Yaoundé, so that she could continue her education.
[Later in 2020], a separatist activist based in Maryland wrote to me from the US. He told me that they had just murdered a lady, and the video was on social media, where they showed how they were cutting off her head. And [he] told me I was going to go through similar treatments. And I was like, you know what, you murdered so many women because they did not have a voice, and they did not have a platform. But this is me you're threatening, I have a voice. I have a platform. You will not murder me. I had to change my phone number. I do not answer strange calls anymore because the separatists are after me and the government at a given point too are after me.
That did not stop me. I still continued advocating for schools to resume. I went to demonstrate in front of the US embassy in Yaoundé, because those instigating the sponsors of the non-state armed groups are based in the diaspora. They are in the US. They are in Belgium. I urged the [US] government to bring these [diaspora] leaders to book [to punish someone, or to make them explain their behavior publicly when they have done something wrong].
We all know how the US government is strict on human rights. And we all know that education is a fundamental human right. So I could not understand why those people could be in the US, and they are instigating these guys back home to destroy. While, in front of the US embassy, I was arrested by the Cameroonian police and immediately tagged a terrorist. I was thrown into a cell. And then later on, thank God, I was released.
Later that year, in November 2020, I was again arrested by the gendarmes. Now they said they were not arresting me, but they were taking me for a conversation. Now, they did not keep me. They did not throw me into any cell. I was questioned and then again released.
But again, does that stop me from talking? It doesn't stop me from talking. I have to tell my story. I have to talk for the voiceless.
[Part 4: Hope and Inspiration for the Future]
Amy: I'm not surprised women are inspired by you because you're an incredible woman. The adversity, what you have overcome and what you are still dealing with to be a leader and to give back to your community, it's very inspiring. I know you're going to keep fighting, but I hope someday you make it to a place where you don't feel like you have to fight anymore.
Feka: I hope so, too. Thank you so much. That's my prayer.
Amy: If someone asked your daughter to describe her mom, what do you think she would say?
Feka: She would tell them she has the strongest mom on earth. She'll tell them her mom is a fighter, because I remember when she just went to boarding house and she was bullied. And I went to school during a parents' teachers' association meeting, I went to school and I called out that student and the student's parents. She was like, "Wow, this is my mom." So each time she's with her friends, she's like, "I'm not afraid of anything. If anything bad happen[s] to me, my mom would stand for me. My mom is a fighter. She can protect me." So she knows she has a very strong mom. And I think she's proud of me. And I'm so proud of her too.
Amy: Do you see yourself as unusual? Are there a lot of women in Cameroon who are strong fighters like yourself?
Feka: We have so many strong women in Cameroon, but Cameroon is a patriarchal country. It's a patriarchal country where…people hide behind tradition to do some crazy things to women, but there are so many strong women in Cameroon. They may just not have the opportunity to showcase themselves. They may just not have the platforms, but there are so many strong women in Cameroon, so many.
Amy: And what do you hope for the future of Cameroon?
Feka: I pray for a Cameroon where every individual matters, irrespective of your region of origin, irrespective of your language of expression. Everyone matters and everyone is valuable to the growth of the nation. No particular clan has a right to particular positions. Competence... Innovation…how innovative you are, how competent you are, should…qualify you to get a position of responsibility. I do not want a Cameroon where you'll be asked, "Who are your parents? Where do you come from?" It kills the spirit. It kills the dreams. I want a Cameroon where you can speak and sell yourself for you, and you do the things you know how to do best.
*****
Rest in Peace Feka Fighter. Your time is done, but may your story inspire generations of people, around the world, to stand-up and fight for peace, justice and equality in their own communities. #FightLikeFeka