- May 2025
Cameroonian migrant women journeying through Latin America to the US encounter multiple challenges. Despite mutual support and local community assistance, they face particular forms of violence as women and must develop strategies to keep safe.
With the increasing fortification of Europe’s borders, a new pathway for irregular migration has emerged among Sub-Saharan nationals. Instead of embarking on the traditional northward route through the Sahara Desert and across the Mediterranean to Europe, many are now opting for a westward trajectory. They are crossing the Atlantic Ocean by flight to visa-friendly entry points in Latin America, then making a dangerous overland journey to the US.
According to the US Customs and Border Protection agency, there were 58,000 Africans at the US-Mexico Border in 2023.[1] While migration routes in Latin America are well-trodden and extensively studied, the experiences of African migrants on these pathways remain under-reported. This article examines the experiences of Cameroonian women navigating these highly perilous routes, highlighting the risks they face, the support (or lack thereof) they receive from local communities and the gender-sensitive safety strategies they develop along the way.
Cameroon has been grappling with multiple, overlapping humanitarian crises, with the most acute unfolding over the past nine years in the North West and South West regions of the country. These challenges, compounded by ongoing conflict in neighbouring Central African Republic, have led to both internal displacement and significant refugee inflows. An estimated 3.4 million people out of Cameroon’s approximately 29 million population are in urgent need of humanitarian assistance.[2]
Fleeing conflict, persecution or lack of economic opportunities, many Cameroonians are increasingly taking this emerging migration route. For most, the journey typically begins in Nigeria or another West African country, where they board commercial or charter flights (with the aid of informal travel agents and intermediaries) to Peru, Ecuador or Colombia. Thereafter, they embark on the northward trek through Panama, Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Honduras and Guatemala to the Mexico–US border. The archetypal trajectory involves a long and gruelling trek through several countries. This inevitably includes navigating the Darién Gap, a treacherous 60-mile stretch of dense rainforest, rivers, mountains and swamplands between Colombia and Panama, fraught with drug traffickers, armed bandits and venomous wildlife. At the Mexico–US border, most then endure the brutality of the Sonoran and Chihuahuan Deserts that straddle the border (one of the deadliest regions for irregular migration in the world) before facing protracted detention in US asylum centres.
This article explores how the intersection of conflict-driven displacement, environmental factors, restrictive border policies and the social dynamics of local communities along the route shapes the experiences of these migrants. It draws on remote semi-structured interviews with seven Cameroonian women, a travel agent and a relative of a deceased migrant, conducted between November 2024 and January 2025. The participants, whose names have been changed for anonymity, comprise Mattha (aged 32), Elize (42, mother of two), Pamela (39), Eposi (32), Jama (32), Ngum (27), Atemkeng (27), Paul (travel agent, 49) and Rosaline (migrant’s relative, 34). They were selected through a combination of personal networks, referrals from travel agents, and ‘snowball’ sampling – in which participants recruit additional participants.[3]
A journey of violence, death, detention and deportation
A recurrent theme throughout the discussions was the violent impact of migration, with the journey inflicting both physical and mental harm on the migrants. Mattha recounted:
“My journey began with a flight from Nigeria to Ecuador, and thereafter mostly trekking [through several countries] … before arriving in Talismán in Mexico. This lasted for over a period of two months … and it was physically exhausting.”
Traversing these unforgiving terrains – rivers, mountains and swamps – for prolonged periods left migrants with bodily injuries. Mattha said that “we walked for several hours every day; my feet were swollen … I thought I would lose my toes… and my legs ached so badly.” Beyond physical suffering, the journey was marked by the ever-present spectre of death. Mattha witnessed how “a woman collapsed from exhaustion and never got up.” For those who succumbed to exhaustion, dehydration or injuries, there was often no help, and their bodies became silent testimonies to the brutality of the journey. As Ngum painfully recalled: “I saw many people who couldn’t go on […] left along the road to die or already dead.”
While trekking was the dominant mode of movement, almost all the women relied on unsafe smuggler-operated transportation for parts of the journey. These were often fraught with life-threatening risks. For example, Elize and her two children entered the Darién Gap via the coastal town of Capurganá. To get there, she and others paid for passage aboard a rickety speedboat. Reflecting on the dangerous ride, she recalled how “the boat was shaking so much, I thought we would capsize at any moment. I held onto my children tightly, praying we wouldn’t drown.” Others embarking on such unsafe transportation suffered a worse fate. In 2023, three Cameroonians died and 13 others went missing after a stolen boat sank off the coast of Saint Kitts and Nevis.[4] Rosaline reported that “my brother called me just before getting into the boat. He said the boat engine kept failing to start… that was the last time I heard from him.”
Whether on foot or aboard some form of transportation, the women reported frequent encounters with narco-traffickers, armed bandits and smugglers. While some of these criminals offered passage for a fee, many engaged in horrific acts of violence, including robbery, harassment, rape and even murder. Pamela recounted that “when we arrived in Capurganá, a gang charged each of us $125 to take us across the jungle… but they abandoned us on the way.” In struggling to find their way, the women met a group of armed bandits who robbed and sexually molested them. She reported that “they took everything we had…. they did things to the women that I can’t even speak of.” These violent encounters sometimes resulted in migrants’ deaths. Atemkeng recalled how “a Senegalese woman, who was fighting off bandits sexually molesting her, was fatally struck with a machete.”
Encounters with border controls were frequent. In most countries, this typically involved migrants having to register and receive permission to transit within a specified period. However, these controls became significantly stricter, and particularly violent, upon reaching Mexico’s southern borders. Recent changes to Mexican migration policy, particularly the suspension of humanitarian passage to irregular migrants, left many stuck in southern Mexico. When Eposi arrived in Tapachula, she was arrested and detained at the migrant holding facility there. She recounted that:
“They held us there for three weeks. You couldn’t call anyone. Every day, we’d watch buses pull up, fill with people and disappear. We heard they were being deported to Guatemala.”
The migrants expressed concerns about forced disappearances during the arrest and deportation process. This haunting reality is exemplified by the testimony of Ngum: “We have never heard from one Cameroonian who was arrested at Tapachula.”
Community support: a mix of hospitality and hostility
During this journey, Cameroonian women migrants received significant support. Mutual aid constituted the first source of support among migrants, manifesting itself primarily in the sharing of personal resources, as recounted by Jama: “We shared everything, food, water, clothes. When one woman had something, she shared with those who had none.” Additionally, they provided emotional support to each other. Atemkeng recalled that “when someone broke down crying, feeling they couldn’t continue, we would encourage them. We became like sisters.” This extended to childcare, with Ngum recalling that “if a mother was exhausted, others took care of her children while she rested.”
They equally met with acts of kindness and solidarity from local residents and community groups. Perhaps the most immediate and essential form of support came in the provision of basic sustenance. Jama recounted a moment of profound relief in a small Mexican town:
“We were walking, hungry and thirsty. We saw a woman selling fruit by the roadside. We had very little money left. She … offered us mangoes, bananas, a large bottle of water, and refused to take any money.”
Beyond these fleeting encounters, some communities offered more sustained, albeit informal, shelter and respite. Mattha described how, in a rural village, “we were exhausted, with nowhere safe to sleep. A community group, seeing our distress, offered us a space and blankets to sleep.” Community members were also crucial sources of information about potential danger from criminal groups and corrupt officials. Pamela recounted how a local shopkeeper warned them “to be careful in the next town [as] gang members were there, demanding money from migrants.”
Finally, and perhaps most poignantly, some community members actively offered safety and protection. Mattha tearfully recalled how, when the migrant women were being harassed by some men in a town, “a group of women from the market came rushing out, shouting at them…. They chased the men away.” These acts of community kindness reflect local communities’ notions of hospitality and a moral obligation towards migrants.
However, initial community hospitality swiftly transformed into tension and hostility. Eposi described this shift:
“At first, when we arrived, the locals were so kind and welcoming, offering us food, water and even shelter. But as more migrants arrived, their attitude changed. Their initial warmth turned to cold stares and hostile remarks. It was as if their welcome had a limit, and we had reached it.”
Paul highlighted this solidarity ‘fatigue’ in the face of ever-growing migration numbers, noting that:
“Truly, Latin Americans have shown understanding and tolerance towards migrants, recognising the hardships they’re escaping. However, since the arrival of large migrant caravans, the initial generosity has started to fade in many communities.”
Adding to this complexity, Mattha observed that “there is a lot of racism particularly in Mexico towards black people. They treat us differently from migrants from other Latin American countries.”
Gender-sensitive safety strategies
The Cameroonian women migrants developed a range of gender-sensitive strategies to ensure their safety during these perilous journeys. Central to their concerns was access to essential information. As Pamela articulated:
“If we knew where the dangers truly were … real information about which paths to avoid, which towns are unsafe for women … that would be the first step to protecting ourselves.”
The women also voiced a strong need for safe spaces and shelters along the journey. According to Eposi, “women need a space to sleep in a place where you don’t fear, where there are other women, where the bathrooms are safe, and someone listens to your worries.” They emphasised the importance of accessible gender-based violence response mechanisms and sexual and reproductive healthcare. To this effect, Pamela stated that: “We need places where we can report abuse without being judged or arrested … and where women can get help with pregnancy.” Equally crucial, in their view, was the proactive engagement of local communities as protectors. Mattha’s recounting of the market women’s intervention perfectly illustrates this point: “When we saw those market women stand up for us … it gave us so much hope. If more communities could be like that, it would change everything.” Some suggested that governments with restrictive border policies should implement tailored passage for women migrants. Failure to provide humanitarian corridors or interventions often compels women to resort to smuggler-operated services, significantly increasing their risk of gender-based violence. As Elize says, when “they close the doors at the border … we are forced to take the paths controlled by men who see us as bodies to be used.”
The way forward
Cameroonian women using this route are subject to a number of interconnected risks, stemming from the physical environment, criminal activities, dangerous transportation and state policies that criminalise mobility. Their vulnerabilities to these risks are further heightened by their gender. Despite these challenges, these women have demonstrated remarkable resilience, leveraging mutual aid and community support to survive. Their experiences with local communities powerfully convey the potential of local community to create safer pathways, especially where formal State protection is lacking. However, the precarious and fluctuating nature of such ad hoc support systems – where initial acts of profound human kindness can coexist with, or transition into, resentment and racially charged hostility – demonstrates the enduring challenge of achieving sustained hospitality in the face of large-scale human displacement. The needs of these Cameroonian women migrants call for a fundamental shift in both policy and programmatic interventions, from generic approaches towards a gender-sensitive framework that recognises and actively mitigates the unique risks faced by women making dangerous journeys.
Ngang Fru Delvis
MSc Student
University of Oxford
frudelvisngang@gmail.com, ngang.frudelvis@qeh.ox.ac.uk
[1] ‘African asylum seekers afraid ahead of US election’, BBC News, 30th October 2024.
[3] While these methods offer certain methodological advantages, such as getting to hard-to-reach participants, they also introduce risks of selection bias, gatekeeping, and limited generalisability.
[4] ‘13 Cameroonians still missing after boat sinks off Antigua’, Africa News, 29th March 2023
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