The EconomistNovember 9th 2019 Middle East & Africa 392 cording to the Centre for Human Rights
and Democracy in Africa (chrda) in Buea.
One was Ekona. Formerly the site of a bus-
tling market, today it is an eerie place,
where the walls of charred houses are pock-
marked with bullets.
“It’s like ‘Full Metal Jacket’,” says one aid
worker, in reference to trigger-happy sol-
diers in a film about the Vietnam war.
Ayuk, who lived in Ekona for four years be-
fore fleeing in April, says he can recall hun-
dreds of incidents where soldiers fired at
villagers. In one case his neighbour and
two others were shot in their car on their
way back from sowing plantain. “We had to
bury him quickly,” Ayuk recalls, in case the
army shot them as well.
Tah Mai, a journalist, lost two brothers
in separate incidents involving the army.
In November last year his brother and his
wife were shot outside their house in Buea.
A few months later his other brother was
shot in the back in his home village in the
north-west. “Mine is just like the many sto-
ries that you haven’t heard,” says Mr Tah.
No refuge
At least 500,000 people have been forced to
leave their homes. Tens of thousands have
fled to Nigeria, but most are in the bush,
making it hard to count them. Even in the
forests displaced people can be found by
the army. Frida, who was also forced to flee
Ekona, describes how she watched soldiers
enter her bush camp. They shot two wom-
en accused of cooking for separatist fight-
ers. Then they killed the informer who
brought them.
Mass displacement is having grave ef-
fects on public health. There are outbreaks
of monkey pox and measles, partly because
of plummeting vaccination rates. Before
the crisis about 70% of women gave birth
with medical help in the north-west re-
gion. Today 3% do so. The result is more
women and babies dying in the course of
childbirth. Cecilia Mah, the matron at
Mount Mary Hospital in Buea, says that it is
hard to run a hospital when soldiers threat-
en ambulance drivers and seize suspected
separatists convalescing in the wards.
The state is, however, not solely respon-
sible for the chaos; separatists share some
of the blame. Most of the separatist politi-
cal groups, such as the Interim Govern-
ment of the Federal Republic of Ambazo-
nia, and the Ambazonia Governing
Council, are based abroad. Their leaders
and donors are in America, Germany, Nor-
way and other rich countries. In Cameroon
their armed wings control swathes of rural
territory. This can lead to surreal moments
for aid workers. They may, for example,
have to negotiate access to villages not with
commanders on the ground but with mid-
dle-aged men sitting in living rooms in
Washington, Oslo or Dortmund.
Many separatist attacks are aimed at thesecurity forces. But some target Anglo-
phone civilians. “If you disagree with
them, they kill you,” says Cardinal Chris-
tian Tumi, the archbishop of Douala, Cam-
eroon’s commercial capital. He says that a
traditional chief from his home village was
“slaughtered like a goat” for allegedly col-
laborating with the authorities. Like Ade-
line, many people employed by cdchave
been maimed.
Brutality by separatists is likely to in-
crease as armed groups in the country seek
their own sources of funding to break away
from the patronage of leaders in the dias-
pora. So-called Amba boys are turning to
kidnapping and extortion for funds; other
groups are increasingly criminal entities,
not political ones. In March the football
team of the University of Buea was taken
hostage; many parents paid ransoms. Most
of the aid groups working on the ground
have had workers kidnapped. “I fear we are
creating a generation of warlords,” says Fe-
lix Agbor Balla, the president of chrda.
While bandits raise cash by extorting,
the economy is collapsing. The Anglo-
phone regions contribute about 20% of the
country’s gdp. cdc was the second-largest
employer in Cameroon, after the state. But
most of its rubber and palm-oil planta-
tions, and all of its banana ones, have shut
because of attacks. Most workers have lost
their jobs. Revenue is 90% lower than be-
fore the crisis; cdc has not sold a banana
since August 2018. Its leaders get death
threats from separatists. Asked how he
copes, Franklin Ngoni Njie, cdc’s general
manager, says he follows a simple rule: “I
pray more. I go out less.”
And yet an even bigger social and eco-
nomic crisis is looming. Almost 90% of
children in the Anglophone regions have
not gone to school for three years, a result
of forced displacements and the enforce-
ment of a boycott called by separatists who
see schools as arms of the state. (According
to this twisted logic a six-year-old keen to
learn subtraction is a collaborator.) Athome-schools set up by brave educators
children arrive with homework hidden in
their trouser legs, in case they are spotted
by Amba boys.
The sabotage of education is one reason
why many Anglophones are growing angry
at the separatists. Ernest Molua notes that
people used to refer to them as “our boys”;
now they say “those boys”. The professor at
the University of Buea believes that most
Anglophones want more autonomy, ideal-
ly within a federal Cameroon, not indepen-
dence. “There remains a strong sense of
‘Cameroonianess’,” he says, emphasising
that Anglophones’ grievances are with the
government, not their French-speaking
compatriots. But Mr Molua worries that
“the space for moderates is shrinking”.Loaded language
Signs of compromise are scant. Separatist
groups do not even have a common posi-
tion among themselves, despite efforts by
the Centre for Humanitarian Dialogue, a
Swiss ngo, to help them find one. For his
part, President Biya in September raised
hopes by announcing a “National Dia-
logue”. Yet it was a sham. The meeting was
not just about the crisis; it gave Cameroo-
nian leaders from all regions a chance to air
complaints (and collect per-diems). Many
important Anglophones were either not in-
vited or left in prison. “It was not a sincere
effort,” says Alice Nkom, a lawyer.
Mr Biya has been aided by a muted in-
ternational response. Donors have provid-
ed just 18% of the funding requested by the
unfor humanitarian operations in Camer-
oon’s Anglophone regions for 2019. (The
only countries for which the unreceives
lower shares of support are Venezuela and
North Korea.) Diplomatic pressure has
been meagre, too. Nigeria wants Mr Biya’s
help with Boko Haram and does not want to
encourage the hopes of Biafran separatists
in its own south-east. China is focused on
its economic interests. British diplomats
have offered gentle criticism in private but
do not want to slam Mr Biya in public. Most
importantly of all, France has done little
but urge cosmetic concessions.
The only influential country willing to
speak out is America. On October 31st it re-
moved Cameroon from a list of African
countries that get preferential trade terms,
citing “gross violations” of human rights
by the government. American diplomats
hope the move will send a signal to Mr Biya
that he needs to find a political solution.
For now there is only a bloody equilibri-
um. Separatist militias cannot take the
towns; the army cannot take the bush. In
the middle are people like Adeline. She says
that she feels trapped between the two war-
ring parties. And without a job any more
she has no means to escape. So she waits,
too weary to talk much about politics. “I
just need my peace,” she says. 7CHADCONGOGABONCONGO-
BRAZZAVILLECENTRAL
AFRICAN
CAMEROON REPUBLICNIGERIAEQUATORIAL
GUINEANIGERYaoundéGulf of
GuineaSouth
WestNorth
WestBuea
TikoDoualaEnglish-speaking region250 km