Could you tell me about the first time when you said to yourself: “Ok, I’m going to resist” and then did it. What was the context?
I grew up understanding the importance of the eldest child’s birthrights. Before becoming the eldest child, I had older sisters living with me in my parents’ house. It was very important to let the elder play their role. When my father hit my mother, it usually was my eldest sister who opposed it.
At the time, not having to intervene was a relief. I was conflicted because I was very close to my father and I wondered if he would take it personally or feel as if I didn’t love him if I went against him and got closer to my mother. Until I decided that it didn’t matter and that I had to do something about it. I would do tiny daily acts of resistance and say: “Dad, no, don’t do that, this isn’t right.” Or “Dad, leave Mom alone, don’t hit her too hard”. Then my sisters left home to go to college when I was about 16 years old. So I became the eldest at home and I had to behave accordingly. I was now the one who had to defend my mother, since the others weren’t there anymore.
What resources would’ve truly made a difference for you? What would you have needed to resist more efficiently?
Phew! Support. I would’ve needed to be surrounded by people who were outraged by this. People who didn’t normalise violence against women, who didn’t normalise having a woman with a broken rib without anybody rising up against that! I would’ve needed the adults to act as such and not let a sixteen-year-old girl be beaten up because she reacted when no one else would! (she cries) I’m sorry, all the bottled-up emotions come back to the surface.
Do you see how your resistance inspires or supports other people’s resistance around you or in the world?
I saw it with my father. There is a kind of respect that has come between us. I had already noticed that back when I visited him, there were some things that he wouldn’t do. Today, we have a more peaceful relationship, and even if he didn’t verbally ask me for forgiveness, he managed to do it in so many different ways. There’s also a difference in the way he treated my siblings afterwards. For instance, he never financially cut off a child ever again.
Today, despite this image of a short-tempered rebel that still follows me, I can see respect in my mother’s and my sisters’ eyes when they look at me, even if they don’t say it out loud. I see it in the way my younger sister and my little cousins consider me a role model. Some of my aunts use me as an example when talking to their daughters: “Act like Diane.” I used to be the person you absolutely shouldn’t be. When you start resisting in a place where everything seems against you, you’ll be sidelined. But if you are convinced that what you do is right and fair, that it has meaning, time will prove you to be right, and those who were against you will quickly become those who celebrate you later. Despite everything I’ve been through, realising that my resistance meant something, in the end, that’s my biggest victory.
What kind of world are you trying to build?
What gives me hope is the possibility to think about Cameroon without this feeling of depression that invades me each time I do.
Knowing that it is now possible for me to transform this feeling into action fills me with hope. To have become aware of the power of education for young people, the possibility of encouraging critical thinking in children (especially young girls, in connection with the importance of patriarchy in Cameroon), the importance of questioning things, and of being open to other ways of thinking also gives me hope. I want to contribute to exposing the youth of my country to opportunities and to have more choices. I think that is something that gives me hope. I imagine a world where everyone, regardless of gender and circumstance, is treated with dignity. That’s what I want. That’s what gives me hope.
