Amina: The Girl in the Grammar Class

Abigail Ekangouo Awanga, English language teacher, Yaoundé, Centre, Cameroon

I remember the morning when sunlight waves slipped through the cracked classroom windows and caught dust like tiny golden ropes. It was an ordinary Monday. My mixed-level, multilingual English classroom had learners from different backgrounds: some born here, some recently arrived, and a handful who carried the long journey of displacement with them. Among them was Amina*, a quiet young girl who had arrived a few months earlier. She spoke very little English when she first arrived, always kept to the back row, and was very reserved. We were working on a unit about personal stories using the simple past tense, sequencing words like ‘first’, ‘then’, and ‘finally.’ I had planned a speaking activity where students would tell a short story about an important day in their lives. My intention was to practise tenses and build confidence using pair work, prompts on the board, and some time to prepare. What I hadn’t planned for was how personal the classroom would become, or how the activity would transform into something much larger than a grammar exercise.

On the day, I grouped students so that stronger speakers could support struggling ones and Amina was paired with Musa, who spoke English fluently. As pairs took turns, I circulated, offering some correction and encouragement. Most stories were about small birthdays, and holiday trips, to name just a few. Then it was Amina’s turn. She stood slowly, gripping her notebook. Her voice was barely audible at first and she spoke with great caution. Her English was heavily influenced by her mother tongue, which made her struggle with the pronunciation of some English words. Musa began translating bits of her speech for the rest of the class, but I gently asked him to let her tell the story in her own words.

Amina began to talk about her village, the market where she used to help her mother, and the safe evening walks home. Then her words changed into bombs, a crowded bus, a night of running, and days living with relatives in a town she barely knew. She said, “We ran,” and her eyes looked somewhere far away. As she spoke on, typically noisy students suddenly fell silent. At first, I wanted to step in for language support, to supply vocabulary, and to nudge her toward better grammar use. Instead, I found myself listening. I did not correct her tenses. I let the rhythm of her story guide us. When she finished, there was a long pause. One of the younger boys, about 12 years old, started to clap. The whole class followed. Amina covered her face and cried. Then the girls around her stood up and gave her hugs in turns. Students came forward with small offerings: a pen, a pencil, and an unused exercise book. Amina refused at first, then accepted a classmate’s pen with a shy smile. The classroom felt heavy with something: it was an unspoken promise to look out for one another.

That day taught me many lessons that no textbook ever could. First, resilience in my classroom did not mean always being loud or dramatic. It was quiet endurance, the small acts that kept life going: showing up, bringing in homework despite no electricity at home, and sitting through a class that may have forced heavy memories into the light. Amina had survived things I could not imagine. Yet she came to class and tried. Her resilience showed in her willingness to share, not in a boastful way but as a deliberate opening of herself to others. It did not seem like drawing sympathy. It was just a human moment.

Second, I learnt that language learning is never separate from life. Grammar drills and vocabulary lists are important, but when learners bring the full weight of their experience into the classroom, our work shifts. We become witnesses, allies, and sometimes the first safe audience for a story that has nowhere else to be heard. After that day, I revised my lesson plans to allow more time for personal narratives. I started including prompts that let learners simply tell about their day, their dreams, and what they missed from home activities in a way that enabled them to practise English while talking about what mattered to them.

Third, I realized that community is the engine of learning. The spontaneous sharing of learning resources in class was not a neat program I had designed. It was an emergent act of solidarity. Students who had little still offered what they could: kindness, attention, and material help. This changed how I approached classroom management. Instead of insisting on strict individual learning or competition, I created more activities that encouraged collaboration through peer editing, group storytelling, and role plays where one student’s strength balanced another’s weakness. I saw vocabulary grow faster when words were tied to shared experiences and mutual support.

Fourth, I started connecting classroom safety with both practical and emotional components. Refugee learners often carry trauma that affects concentration, memory, and social interaction. I learned small routines to make the classroom predictable and safe: a simple start-of-class check-in where each student named one feeling, a “quiet corner” with soft paper and pencils for anyone who needed to write privately, and signal words or agreed gestures that meant “I need a break”. These low-cost measures helped students regulate emotions and stay engaged. They also signaled that I respected their inner lives.

Fifth, thanks to this experience, my role as a teacher expanded beyond instructor to advocate. After Amina’s story, I contacted the school counsellor to see what support could be offered. Sometimes the help was practical, such as arranging for textbooks or making a referral to a health clinic. Sometimes it was organizational, such as helping a family complete school registration or linking older learners with vocational training. I learned to keep a list of community resources and to share it discreetly with families who needed support. Advocacy did not always mean big speeches; often it meant gentle, steady work behind the scenes.

Finally, I learned the importance of humility. As teachers, we may feel the pressure to fix everything, to correct every mistake and to have all the answers. But there are moments when the kindest, most effective thing we can do is to listen. By letting Amina tell her story without interruption, I learned more about her needs and strengths than any worksheet could have ever revealed. That listening itself was a lesson plan.

In the weeks that followed, Amina’s participation grew. She volunteered to read short paragraphs, practised forms in writing, and even helped a newcomer find her seat. Her English improved, but more importantly, she began to look more comfortable in the world of the classroom. The students who had offered her a pen became her friends, and the classroom became a little more like home.

If there’s one takeaway I would share with other teachers working with refugee and displaced learners, it is this: honor the person behind the language. Create space for stories. Let grammar serve life, not the other way around. Pay attention to the small signs of resilience the students show. Though teaching in a multilingual, refugee-rich classroom could be considered challenging, it is also the most meaningful work I have done. On that ordinary Monday, a classroom exercise became a moment of healing and connection. I left school that day tired but full, knowing that teaching can be, at its best, an act of care as much as instruction. And Amina’s story stayed with me, a quiet reminder that behind every sentence a student speaks, there is a life lesson waiting to be learnt.

*Amina’s real name has been changed to protect privacy.

Abigail Ekangouo Awanga is an English language teacher in a state secondary school in Cameroon. She has been a teacher in the field for 18 years. She is the founder of English Language Teaching Women Cameroon, associate editor for Africa ELTA, events coordinator for IATEFL-GISIG and ELT consultant.