In the red plains of Adamaoua, somewhere between two windswept hills, lives Chantal, a young mother of three children. For her, as for millions of others in Central Africa, goats are not just animals: they are dinner, school fees, smiles, hospital bills – in short, the hope for a better life. “When a goat gets sick, it’s as if part of my house is falling apart,” she whispers.
One morning during the dry season, Chantal sees her animals suffering. Fever, coughing, runny noses. She had never heard the term Peste des Petits Ruminants (PPR), but she recognized the clinical signs. Within a week, six of her animals become tired, lie down, and are unable to get back up. On the terrace, little Noella asked her, “Mommy, why can’t our goats get up anymore?” Chantal had no answer. She was just scared.
Like her, millions of rural families depend on small ruminants for their survival, and like her, these families see similar signs afflicting their herds every year, sometimes with mortality rates exceeding 98%, leaving behind a silence that even the birds can no longer fill. In some areas, entire villages still remember the days when the disease took more animals than they could count, such as the 75,000 goats lost in the DRC in 2012, or the families in Congo who saw 399 animals perish in a single outbreak.
Yet what is as destructive as the disease itself is loneliness. When farmers were asked how they responded to PPR, many replied: “We do what we can. We isolate the sick animals a little. We give them plants. We wait…” Because only 46% are actually in contact with a veterinarian, and often only on a very ad hoc basis. Some say they don’t know who to turn to. Others admit to having lost confidence due to a lack of follow-up and a lack of continuous support from technicians, and yet, 95% believe deeply in vaccination when it is well explained, well conducted, and well supported.
One day, a team of veterinarians finally arrived in Chantal’s village. Accompanying them was a young woman, a veterinary intern, who spoke in the local language. She explained what PPR was, how it spreads, and why vaccination is a form of protection. Chantal recounts:
“It was the first time anyone had spoken to us as partners. Not as if we were worthless. That day, I understood that we had a role to play.”
That moment changed everything. Because the fight against PPR is not won in offices, but in villages, under mango trees, around enclosures, where livestock farmers become the primary actors in animal health.
Yes, I am now convinced that the fight against PPR will be won with livestock farmers at the center of all our interventions.
However, they are asking for it themselves: more proximity, more listening, more campaigns announced in a timely manner, more community relays, especially for women and young people, and more consideration for favorable moments for implementation and socio-anthropological realities.
When these farmers were asked if they wanted to continue participating, 97% said yes. Not out of obligation, but out of hope and, above all, conviction. Because they have already lost so much. Because they know the cost of waiting. Because they still believe that their children deserve to go to bed with full stomachs.
Chantal smiles today when she sees her new kids frolicking. She has not forgotten her losses, but she has regained something essential: ”confidence”.
“PPR took a lot from us. But it also taught us that we must stand together: veterinarians, livestock farmers, traditional leaders, young people, women, etc. No one can win this fight alone. “
In the evening light, Chantal watches the vaccination team leave the village. And she concludes, in a soft but firm voice:
”I hope you will come back, again and again. And if you do come back, we will be here. We want to protect what feeds us. We want a future without PPR.”
Source : AU-IBAR, 2026
