The sun rises like a ball of fire in the hazy morning sky. It’s 6 a.m. On the outskirts of Moundou in southern Chad—midway between Cameroon and the Central African Republic—Khadija and Habiba Sékou, up since dawn, are milking cows. Bent over the packed earth, the two Fulani women—members of a nomadic pastoralist people of the Sahel—press firmly on each udder, coaxing out warm milk. The yield is small. With forage increasingly scarce in this arid region, their livestock produces less than before—a hard loss for this transhumant community.

But they’re not facing it alone. Standing beside them is Catherine Djimet, a city councilor in Moundou, Chad’s second-largest city. Dressed in a flamboyant emerald robe and headscarf, she stands out among the pale, flowing veils of the Fulani women, her look accented by golden earrings.

She’s here to help them earn a living and pass along new techniques: how to pasteurize milk, preserve it, turn it into higher-value products like yogurt and powder, and sell it. “We’re starting to believe that it’s actually possible to make it,” said Sékou.

Only 32% of women can read and write

“I came here to strengthen the peace between us,” Djimet declared, her high-pitched voice breaking into laughter. It's a peace sorely tested by a deepening conflict between farmers and herders over the last two decades, fueled by climate change and poor governance.

With pastures and water sources dwindling in the north, herder communities are moving south—triggering a land grab for the fertile soil. “Our husbands, our brothers, our sons were killing each other,” she said. “But we women help one another; we visit each other. Now, they can see our sisterhood. Christian or Muslim—it doesn’t matter. We’re one.”

In a society where patriarchy still rules, Djimet is part of a quiet but determined movement of women working behind the scenes to build peace for the future. It’s an uphill climb: women are largely shut out of decision-making in Chad, either by tradition or lack of education. The disparities in schooling are stark: only 32% of women are literate compared to half of all men, according to 2021 UN Development Program (UNDP) data. In rural areas, where 80% of the population lives, that figure plunges to 14%.

The lack of education also blocks women from economic independence and amplifies the violence many face daily. In Chad, 60% of girls are married before age 18 and 35% before they turn 15, despite a 2015 law banning forced child marriages. Women in rural areas average 6.5 children and face one of the highest child mortality rates in the world. Female genital mutilation is widespread. According to the UNDP, one in five women reports physical abuse, and 12% are sexually assaulted each year.

'He broke his promise'

“The rape of underage girls is common here—ritual crimes, occult practices, superstitions,” said Weibigue Nathaniel Pircolossou, a traditional chief in the Bayaka region near Kélo, a city in southwestern Chad. “As for early marriage, it’s still happening. If a girl marries, she usually stops school—unless her family insists on her continuing. Once she’s married, she’s financially dependent on her husband. And if she wants to leave him, she can’t. She has no resources.”

Achta Abdoulaye, who lives in Kélo, knows that story all too well. “I was forced to marry at 13 to a man over 40. He promised my family I could keep studying, but he didn’t keep his word,” says the young mother of three, wrapped in deep red veils and sitting cross-legged on a mat under a mango tree. “I managed to get a divorce, and I started a women’s resource center to raise awareness about child marriage and sexual violence.” Many women come, she added, “crying their hearts out.”

Farther south in Doba, about 100 kilometers from the Central African Republic, a woman named Hélène has opened a small clinic for abuse survivors—dealing with everything from denial of resources and beatings to mutilations. Most cases are handled through mediation, though the most severe—like machete attacks—are sent to the police.

Mediation in action

To tackle these entrenched problems, CCFD-Terre Solidaire—one of France’s largest international solidarity groups that blends Catholic social teaching with a focus on justice, solidarity, and local empowerment—has partnered with local organizations to launch mediation training programs for women. The goal: improve communication, reduce violence, and resolve disputes peacefully.

“We go door-to-door in Doba to talk to young couples—especially men—using a list of at-risk households from the local chief,” explained Marthe Toukaro, head of the United Widows Cooperative. “We tell them: ‘You’re responsible for your household. If you hit your wife or withhold money, you’re failing your duties.’”

Are men actually listening? “Not long ago, I visited a family with three kids. The father was gone all the time, spending their money on booze and girlfriends,” Toukaro recalled. “I listened to both sides. Then I told the husband: ‘Your girlfriends are just using you. Your wife needs money to send the kids to school. Their future depends on you.’ And to the wife: ‘You need to welcome him back or he’ll keep turning to those women.’” She smiled. “Since then, things have calmed down.”

‘Mediation is midwifery’

With this training, women are using their conflict-resolution skills to serve their communities. “Women play a key role—they’re close to both men and children,” said Abderrahmane Ali Gossoumian, national coordinator for the Peace and Reconciliation Monitoring Committee, a CCFD partner. In societies torn by deadly farmer-herder clashes, women understand that peace is in everyone’s best interest.

“Farmers are getting shot in their fields. Even in the hospital, some are attacked in their beds. Sometimes we can’t even retrieve their bodies,” said retired midwife Géraldine Bemjarr. Herders, too, fall victim to farmer reprisals. “Every day, our children’s blood is spilled,” added Toukaro. “As women, we all carry the same pain. We said: this has to stop.”

Together, they founded a united widows’ cooperative to care for their orphaned children. “At first, it was just Christian women,” said Bemjarr, dressed in a green and blue gown printed with medallions reading “Saint Augustine, pray for us.” “But then we reached out to our Muslim sisters—the wives of Fulani herders.”

We meet the group one morning in a sun-scorched clearing near Doba, seated on woven mats under a mango tree in bloom. About 50 women in vibrant dresses greet us with youyous (ululations), singing and dancing in a mix of Arabic and Mongo, the local language.

“Before I learned mediation, I’d respond to conflict with anger,” recalled Maimonna Amma, 30, a mother of six whose face is decorated with floral tattoos. “Now, if an angry farmer shows up, I offer him water and try to calm him… Then I send my husband to talk about possible compensation.” “The women talk to each other first, then to their husbands,” confirmed Bénédicte, head of the mediators in Kélo. “Mediation is like midwifery. We don’t take sides—we help both parties bring a solution into the world.”

'We must train our daughters early'

For Achta Abd El Karim, a nomadic herder and mediator, the solution lies in women’s economic independence—a view reinforced during a trip to meet fellow peacebuilders in the Central African Republic.

It’s also the guiding philosophy of Djimet. In a country where 95% of women work in “vulnerable” jobs, according to a 2022 World Bank report, she founded a training center to teach out-of-school girls basic trades and small-business skills.

“During school breaks, girls would vanish. They were either married off or put to work in the home,” said the former school principal. In the courtyard, she watches over 20 women transforming milk, peanuts, sesame, and shea into value-added products. “I wanted them to gain financial independence—enough to pay for their kids’ education. Because education is the key to peace and progress for the next generation.”

Already, the impact is visible. In Moundou, Khadija and Habiba Sékou—both illiterate—now advocate for sending their young daughters to school, even if it means milking cows at dawn. They’re adamantly opposed to child marriage, convinced by Djimet’s message.

In Kélo, Hawa Saleh, 32, a mother of eight, including one daughter, is firm: “My husband won’t let our daughter go study in Abéché like our sons. If he keeps saying no, I’ll leave him and go with her myself.” She’s defiant: “Education and mediation make us stronger as women. We won’t be around forever. We need to train our girls from the youngest age.”

At the national level, despite official policies aimed at gender equality, progress is slow. And for many women—still illiterate—laws meant to protect them remain unknown.

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A young and rapidly growing population

Chad’s population was estimated at nearly 19 million in 2023. Almost half of the population is under the age of 14. Just 2.5% are over age 65. Life expectancy at birth was only 53 years in 2022, up from 38 in 1960. Population density in 2020 was just 13 people per square kilometer. The population is unevenly spread: fewer than one inhabitant per square kilometer in the desert north, while half the country’s people live in the fertile southern zone, which makes up just one-fifth of Chad’s territory.