By Nana Zulu

Article courtesy of Diaspora media

The Resources Were Always There, The Question Is Who Controls Them

African feminist movements have spent decades doing something harder: building durable, community-rooted resistance in contexts where backlash was never subtle to begin with. Funded in significant part by conservative forces in the US and Europe, the global anti-rights movement has found fertile ground across the continent, but it has also met its match. From Nigeria to Kenya to South Africa, feminist collectives have developed organising models that are decentralised by necessity, intersectional by instinct, and fluent in the specific terrain they’re working within.

Before the term feminist organising existed in global philanthropic vocabulary, African women were already doing it. They were meeting in community spaces, pooling personal resources, showing up door to door, and holding each other through crisis. This is not a romanticised history. It is the material foundation on which every movement I know was built.

African feminist organising is rooted in Ubuntu: community, solidarity, and mutual support. These values did not arrive with Western institutions or NGO frameworks. They predate them. What modern philanthropy often calls innovative or community-led are principles that African feminist movements have practiced for generations, long before they were legible to funders.

So when I am asked whether the global feminist funding landscape has meaningfully shifted, my honest answer is: not enough. Not nearly enough.

Rebrand is not the same as redistribution

Gender justice has been folded into philanthropic language. It appears in mission statements, in strategy documents, in the names of funds. But language is not money, and visibility is not power. When budget cycles tighten, gender justice and feminist organising are consistently the first areas cut. They remain at the periphery of global philanthropic priorities, even as they are placed at the centre of the branding.

We have also seen what happens when major donors enter “wait and see” mode. Movements do not get to wait and see. Communities in crisis need interventions now. The restrategising of philanthropic institutions or donor paralysis does not pause the violence, the displacement, or the economic precarity that African feminist organisers are responding to every single day.

There is also the subtler pressure: the ask to “wash down” feminist language. To make it more palatable. To strip away the political edge. But that edge is not rhetorical excess. It is the thing that makes structural transformation possible. Remove it, and you are left with programming that addresses symptoms while leaving systems intact.

Discard the assumptions. Start with the people.

If philanthropic institutions genuinely want to learn from African movements, the first requirement is simple and also radical: discard all assumptions. The image of African feminist organising that circulates in global spaces is largely constructed from media, from online information, from secondhand narratives. It does not reflect the lived experience, the indigenous knowledge, or the actual sophistication of movements on the ground.

This is why documentation matters. We need to resource the capturing and sharing of African feminist knowledge, frameworks, and models on our own terms, not as input for external research agendas, but as a body of knowledge that stands in its own right and informs how global collaboration happens.

African feminist philanthropy, for instance, was self-resourced long before named donors arrived. Communities created collective care systems, tontines, rotating funds, communal labor arrangements. These are not informal workarounds. They are sophisticated models for resourcing solidarity and collective care. When the NGOisation of civil society arrived, it pulled many movements away from these practices, orienting them instead toward grant cycles and donor timelines. We lost something important in that shift, and we should name it.

Communities know what they need. Fund accordingly.

One of the things I am rarely asked, but believe is central to this conversation, is this: what do communities already know they need? Because the knowledge is there. It exists on the ground, in feminist networks across the continent, in the organisers who have been navigating these systems for decades. The role of philanthropy is not to define the agenda. It is to resource it.

That means moving away from project-specific, top-down programming and toward core flexible funding. It means trusting movements to make decisions about their own resources. And it means going further: investing in models that allow movements to generate their own income, to own assets, to build financial independence that does not collapse every time a donor restrategises.

Gender lens investing is one avenue. If feminist movements were given core support that they could invest, with returns that flow back into the movement, they would no longer be wholly dependent on the cycles and priorities of external donors. They could build the long-term infrastructure needed not just to survive, but to proactively counter the anti-rights, anti-gender organising that is also being resourced and coordinated globally.

This is not a radical ask. It is a practical one. The resources exist. The question has never been whether there is enough money. The question is who controls it, who it flows to, and on whose terms.

African feminist movements have answered that question with their bodies, their voices, and their decades of unrelenting work. They have built the frameworks, trained the leaders, shifted the laws, and held the line when institutions faltered. They have done this, largely, on a fraction of what is spent on a single global conference. The least we can do is ensure that the women who have always sustained their communities – economically, socially, politically – are the ones who determine what support looks like and how it lands.

The backlash is not a surprise. It is a predictable response to progress. When feminist movements win – when they shift policy, change norms, and mobilise constituencies – those who benefit from the status quo organise to reverse those gains. What is new is the scale, the coordination, and the resourcing of that counter-movement. What is required, then, is an equally coordinated, equally resourced response which is proactive.

This means governments, multilateral institutions, and private philanthropies must be willing to ask an uncomfortable question: are we funding feminism, or are we funding the appearance of feminism? Core, long-term, flexible support to African feminist organisations is not simply the right thing to do. It is the strategically intelligent thing to do for anyone who claims to care about democracy, health, economic development, or peace.

African feminist movements are not waiting to be saved. They are already doing the work. The world’s task is not to lead, but to listen – and then to resource, with trust and without condition, the movements that have always known what freedom requires.

The resources were always there. Now the power must follow.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

This article was first published in Diaspora Africa 

Nana Zulu is the interim CEO at the African Women’s Development Fund.

By Hala Alkarib

Article first published in the Guardian 

Since April 2023, Sudan’s women and girls have been subjected to systematic rape and sexual torture. Specialised support and justice for them is key to the country’s recovery and future

In a village in South Darfur, I met a young girl about my daughter’s age – six or seven years old – who touched my hand and said: “I was taken by the Janjaweed.” This was more than 20 years ago, during the first Darfur crisis, and at the time, that was the term women and girls used as we struggled to articulate the scale of violence against civilians, especially sexual violence.

I saw my daughter in that little girl, and I saw myself in her mother. It was my first encounter with conflict-related sexual violence (CRSV) in Sudan.

In the years since, I’ve seen how successive regimes and insurgents in Sudan deliberately utilise sexual violence to sustain their grip on power. Perpetrators use it to seize land, force displacement, extract resources, loot communities, silence women and communities, and strip women of their agency. I’ve also seen that it can happen to anyone, depending on their proximity to those in power.

In Darfur and South Kordofan, generations of women have endured repeated waves of CRSV for more than 25 years because of ongoing insurgencies. Since April 2023, the Rapid Support Forces (RSF) and its allies have carried out one of the most widespread and coordinated assaults in Sudan’s recent history, committing sexual violence and other war crimes against women and communities in Khartoum, Gezira, and the towns and villages of the northern Blue Nile, White Nile and North Kordofan regions – areas that, until then, had not experienced such systematic CRSV in recent history.

I will never forget the schoolteacher who negotiated with seven RSF men to rape her instead of gang-raping her 14-year-old daughter, or the countless families who lost fathers and brothers, shot dead while the women and children in their households were gang-raped. One mother had lost her husband and was fleeing eastern Gezira on foot with her three daughters after they were gang-raped. One of her sons later found a lorry to carry them. On the journey, she mistook the blood coming from her 18-year-old daughter for menstrual bleeding, only to discover that her daughter had cut her vein. The young woman did not survive the journey.

I will also never forget the young bride who threw herself into the Nile or the 21-year-old woman whose family, after her rape became known, took her out of the hospital in shame and then hid her away, where she bled to death. Hundreds of women and children were kept on farms in northern Khartoum and in Omdurman city, and endured months of captivity as sexual slaves, with horrific encounters. The suffering and the torture do not end as the power relations turn; sexual violence against women and girls continues to exist in the Sudan Armed Forces’ territories.

Numerous victims who suffered violence from the RSF while trying to survive also faced blame and shame from their communities, as well as further criminalisation by the police and military intelligence.

In 2025, the Strategic Initiative for Women in the Horn of Africa (SIHA), the organisation I work for, documented the cases of more than 850 women accused of collaboration with the RSF who were subjected to detention and long-term imprisonment; those women frequently experienced sexual violence during their time in detention.

My organisation, in partnership with grassroots lawyers, spent more than six months securing the release of four women who were held on suspicion of collaboration, without being charged, for more than a year. They say they endured sexual violence and torture while awaiting trial.

Fractured judicial and health systems, marked by limited capacity and inadequate legal, medical and mental health support, leaves hundreds of Sudanese women and children without access to justice or essential care and highly vulnerable to repeated cycles of violence.

To understand the cycles of sexual violence in Sudan, we must examine the legacies of the Sudanese state and how they shape views of women’s bodies, as well as the agency and voice of communities more broadly. CRSV in Sudan is rooted in the state’s violent and discriminatory character, which deepens collective trauma through anger, militarism and retaliation. The persistence of CRSV is further sustained by the unchecked flow of arms into a country that has long neglected demobilisation and security sector reform.

For more than 1,000 days, sexual violence didn’t stop, nor did anyone address it. Although the UK, EU and US have sanctioned a number of actors involved in Sudan’s war, none appear to have been specifically sanctioned or publicly held accountable for their role in perpetrating CRSV. At the same time, inadequate funding and support for women and communities affected by CRSV continues to deepen the crisis. This situation exacerbates the suffering of the survivors and their communities across Sudan and further demoralises Sudanese people as the violence continues.

Healing for survivors and communities is therefore deeply connected, and the fight against sexual violence must become central to the broader struggle for peace, justice and a new vision of sovereignty.

* All information regarding cases is based on SIHA’s database; specific locations are not mentioned to protect survivors’ privacy.

This articles was published by Guardian

Hala Alkarib is the director of the Strategic Initiative for Women in the Horn of Africa (SIHA). She works with women and communities affected by war, religious militancy and humanitarian crises in Sudan, South Sudan and the Horn of Africa

By Dr. Isatou Touray

In July 2024, The Gambia came closer than any country in the world to reversing a ban on female genital mutilation. A practice that had been criminalised for nearly a decade was on the verge of becoming legal again.

Then feminist organisers stopped it.

After months of sustained organising, community mobilisation and public campaigning, the National Assembly voted 34 to 19 to reject a bill that would have repealed the country’s 2015 ban on FGM. It was a major victory, not only for Gambian women and girls, but for feminist movements across the continent.

The fact that the vote happened at all should alarm us. Just months earlier, in March 2024, 42 members of the same Parliament had voted to advance the repeal bill. Its supporters argued that FGM is Islamic and the ban was a Western imposition – that Gambians, up to 96% of whom are practising Muslims, should be free to practise their faith as they see fit. These false arguments – there is no requirement for FGM in Islamic law – were not new, but they were better coordinated and more politically embedded than before. At a moment when anti-rights forces are better funded, better organised and more confident, The Gambia offers something the feminist movement badly needs: a documented win, and a template worth studying. It is a rare case of a movement turning a political crisis into momentum. But it is also a reminder that ‘winning’ in legislation does not automatically deliver change.

In August 2025, a one-month-old baby girl, Sarjo Conteh, was rushed to a hospital in Banjul. She had been cut. By the time doctors reached her, she had bled to death. The Gambian authorities confirmed that her injuries were the result of FGM. Conteh’s death was not an isolated incident. Activists on the ground have for years reported that the 2015 ban has not ended FGM, but pushed it underground, and led to girls being cut younger than ever. Many families believe that infants as young as a few days old will heal faster from the cutting, meaning evidence will be harder to detect.

Recently, activist Dr Leyla Hussein wrote about this tragedy with the clarity and fury it deserved. She named what so many institutions still refuse to: that FGM is sexual violence, that it is child abuse, and that the world’s reluctance to say so plainly is inseparable from the fact that the children being harmed are overwhelmingly Black and Brown girls. She asked why, if this violence were happening to white children, there would be any hesitation at all in calling it assault. There would not be.

Hussein also wrote about the particular cruelty of normalisation: the way survivors are taught to question the legitimacy of their own pain when the world has minimised it first. That is the atmosphere in which Sarjo Conteh died. That is the atmosphere in which three women were recently acquitted in connection with her death. And that is why the legislative fight in The Gambia, as hard-won as it was, cannot be the end of the story. Even now, the people who tried to roll back this right are petitioning the Supreme Court, claiming that the ban violates their right to religious and cultural freedom. This is a story about a victory. But it is also a story about the fragility of that victory, and about what enforcement, long-term cultural change and sustained feminist organising actually require.

How we got here

The 2015 ban was introduced under former president Yahya Jammeh. It was imperfect legislation, lacking a serious enforcement strategy, and many Gambians associated it with Jammeh’s dictatorship rather than with the rights it was designed to protect. For years, FGM continued largely unabated.Then, in August 2023, three women were convicted under the law for performing FGM on eight girls under the age of five, one of whom was just four months old.

Those convictions – the first for perpetrators of FGM in a Gambian court – were a breakthrough. Although the law states offenders can be imprisoned for up to three years, the women were issued fines of 15,000 dalasis – equivalent to up to half a year’s income for women in rural areas of the country – or one-year prison sentences if they were unable to pay. Amid national outrage, a prominent imam paid the women’s fines, lawmakers began to talk openly about repealing the ban, and, in February 2024, a private member’s bill was introduced in the National Assembly to do exactly that – arguing that it was ‘anti-Islamic’.

I want to be direct about this framing, because it is used to silence us – and we should not let it. The Quran does not mention FGM. There is no authentic hadith that promotes it. FGM predates Islam, is practised by communities of multiple faiths, and is opposed by Muslim scholars across the world. Associating FGM with Islam is not theology. It is politics. And its political purpose is to put the practice beyond critique.

The organising that turned it around

When the bill to repeal the ban was introduced, the Gambian government said very little, with the main opposition parties saying even less. Civil society did not wait for either.

GAMCOTRAP, which has spent three decades working community by community across this country, mobilised immediately. We were joined by organisations across the Network Against Gender-Based Violence, which became the coordination spine of the campaign. Together, activists ran events across the country. We ran radio programmes, put up billboards, and called legislators directly. We brought survivors to testify at the National Assembly, gathered evidence on death rates and health consequences, and put it in front of anyone who would look at it.

We also took the religious argument seriously, rather than dismissing it. Activists and lawyers facilitated a fact-finding mission to Al-Azhar University in Egypt, one of the most respected institutions in Islamic scholarship. The findings were clear: FGM is not required by Islam. That evidence was placed before lawmakers, and it mattered. At the international level, I took this fight to the UN Human Rights Council. I met with the UN Special Rapporteur on Violence against Women and Girls, with UNFPA, WHO and state delegations, urging them all to use their mandates. I also warned them of something the global conversation tends to underestimate: if The Gambia had fallen, girls from neighbouring countries where FGM is banned could have been transferred across the border to be cut.

None of this was without cost. Activists faced harassment, particularly online. Speaking out against the repeal made people targets. Some survivors who were prepared to testify chose silence because the atmosphere had become too threatening. I want that recorded. The victory was real, and so was the price paid to achieve it.

What the movement needs now

The organisations that held the line in The Gambia need continued, sustained resourcing, not project funding tied to deliverables and donor reporting cycles. They need core funding that allows movements to respond to a political crisis in real time, coordinate across networks, and sustain community engagement over the years that real norm change requires. The fight against FGM is not the responsibility of women alone. It never was. It requires men, religious leaders, community elders, young people and lawmakers who are willing to be on the right side of this, even when it is uncomfortable. In The Gambia, we have seen what happens when enough of them are brought into the work. We have also seen what happens when they stand aside. I have spent decades on this. I will spend whatever decades remain on it. But two years on from July 2024, I want to be clear about what that moment meant, and what it did not. It meant that a specific, coordinated rollback was defeated. It meant that activists who risked a great deal showed it was possible to turn a political crisis into momentum. It did not mean that the work is done, or that the protections are secure, or that the next attempt will not come. We stood on the right side of history. Now we have to make sure we stay there.

Dr. Isatou Touray is the Executive Director of GAMCOTRAP (The Gambia Committee on Traditional Practices Affecting the Health of Women and Children) and a former Vice President of The Gambia. A survivor of FGM, she has led community-based advocacy against the practice for over three decades, reaching more than 1,000 communities across the country. This reflection article was first published by Open Democracy. 

The African Charter on Human and Peoples’ Rights – a binding treaty between the member states of the African Union which guarantees individual and collective rights – was born from a radical dream in 1981 as a continent emerging from the scars of colonialism  built its own architecture of hope. It was a promise of radical interdependence, a commitment to a world where the rights of one were the security of all.

But today, a look at our landscape one can’t help but see how this key pillar of our social-political existence is being systematically dismantled, brick by digital brick, by a coordinated transnational machinery of hate.

We are navigating the internal and external storms in our feminist advocacy every single day as we hold onto the remains of the African Charter. In high-level meetings, we talk about mechanisms and sterile frameworks. We use the language of the boardroom. But behind that legalese are real human lives caught in a pincer movement between rising state-sanctioned authoritarianism and what we have come to call the Algorithm of Violence. This isn’t some abstract theory. It is a reality that exists in the terrifying distance between the ink on a human rights treaty and the lived experience of a person simply trying to walk down a street in Lagos or Banjul.

Read more HERE

This article was first published by African Feminisms a pan-African feminists digital platform and collaborative writing project between African  authors/writers .

An exciting opportunity has opened up at  African Women’s Development Fund. We are looking for a passionate, dynamic, values aligned individual who believes in the true value of effective and efficient financial management.

About the position

AWDF requires the services of a Finance Intern to support the work of the Finance Department. The intern will have the opportunity to learn as well as support the finance team to achieve its set objectives. We are looking for an intern who is dynamic, curious, innovative, conscientious, and believes in the true value of effective and efficient financial management. The Finance intern will report to the Finance Manager and will have responsibilities of supporting key financial management processes including planning, transaction processing and reporting and risk management. The Intern will be responsible for receiving, reviewing, recording, uploading, filing documents for processing documentation and any other duties assigned.

How to apply

Interested and qualified persons should please submit a cover letter and CV indicating previous experience and relevant field knowledge via email to consultants@awdf.org with “Finance Intern (Due Diligence Desk)” in the subject line.

The deadline for submission of proposals is Friday, 5th June 2026.

In line with AWDF’s mission, qualified and interested African women are encouraged to apply.

Find more details on this role in the Terms of Reference  HERE 

I stepped into the Women Deliver Conference in Naarm, Australia, carrying memories of Kigali. Three years earlier, at Women Deliver in Kigali, Rwanda, I had just begun my journey with the African Women’s Development Fund (AWDF) and was part of the team that contributed to the launch of our 10-year Strategic Framework, Lemlem. Three years later, we gathered again, carrying the same agenda, now sharpened by experience, to ensure that the voices of women, girls, and gender-diverse persons across the African continent continue to be heard. We came to stay connected to the needs of movements across the African continent and beyond, particularly for this conference, the Oceanic Pacific.  We came as change called us to Naarm.

The Weight of Three Years

But the three years between Kigali and Naarm have been heavy. We have witnessed the rupture of warfare in Sudan, mounting instability in the Democratic Republic of Congo, and ongoing genocides across the continent, the Middle East, and the Caucasus Region. Across the continent, there has been a rollback in rights and targeted attacks on LGBTQI+ persons in Uganda, Senegal, Burkina Faso, Ghana, Cote d’Ivoire, Nigeria, and many other countries. We have watched as women and girls in the Gambia fight for their bodily autonomy in the Supreme Court, as Female Genital Mutilation (FGM) supporters move to repeal hard-worn protections.  Three years ago, we celebrated two decades of the Maputo Protocol, and yet in those three years, that very Protocol has been systemically undermined, with opponents pushing for the enactment of the African Charter on Family, Sovereignty and Values. We have seen targeted funding cuts deliberately engineered to reduce investments in gender equality, SRHR, and HIV/AIDS programming, the very lifelines that have sustained movements for years. Only three years, and the rollback has been vast.

Yet We Arrived Defiant

When we arrived in Naarm, the space was alive. The conversations, the energy, and the people. It spoke to something deeper. A gathering intended for restoration, reconnection, and continuing conversations that disrupt while also sustaining movements. As I stepped into the Conference walls, I carried all that weight. I was tired from jet lag, but I stepped in with hope, because even as we battle the storms, we ourselves, collectively and in solidarity, are the storms that anti-rights forces fear.

Moving With the Moment: AWDF at the Women Deliver Conference 2026

Over the last three years, implementing Lemlem in a volatile landscape has required us to adapt and reframe our work in response to shifting contexts. Movement accompaniment remains critical as we resource partners navigating increased backlash. At the Women Deliver Conference, we carved out space to make that visible. We engaged with and brought African feminist partners into key conversations, creating room to reflect on where we have come from, where we stand, and where we are headed.

The conversations led by AWDF founding CEO Bisi Adeleye-Fayemi, outgoing CEO  Francoise Moudouthe, and Programmes Director Nana Zulu, mirrored the direction of travel we are seeing as a feminist fund that has been in existence for over 25 years.  Listening to the three in many ways was a mirror of the conditions that gave birth to AWDF: the defunding, the dismissal, and the deliberate shifting of goalposts for women’s rights and feminist movements across the continent, challenges that persist to this day.

Across the different spaces we navigated, those we shaped and those within the broader space, we responded to a singular question: How is AWDF responding in this moment? Our answer rests on three commitments.

Defending the hard-won gains of feminist movements, pushing back against the current backsliding, and sustaining the very architecture the movement needs to build from. 

Disrupting the very ecosystems and narratives that work against women, girls, and LBTQI+ persons and refusing to operate in frameworks that were never designed to allow us to thrive. 

Defining and articulating the feminist futures that we desire and refusing to wait for permission to experiment, build, and make them a reality. 

What this Moment Demands

Strengthening feminist ecosystems is critical. The attacks we face are not isolated; they are interconnected, coordinated assaults on our rights, resources, and our legitimacy to organise. Responding to them requires us to be deliberate in our collaboration across movements and regions. But collaboration cannot only mean gathering the usual voices, the ones we already agree with, those most likely to affirm our convictions. Transformation requires friction. It demands that we open our spaces widely and engage with the unlikely, with those who do not see what we see. At times, our collective spaces grow too familiar, too comfortable. Disruption requires bringing those whose presence could shift the terrain entirely. This is how we make the case beyond the choir, how we expand and thrive. The question is not whether we can afford discomfort in our expansion, but whether we can afford not to.

Centre the Most Impacted

Even as we expand, we must not lose our centre. Across numerous spaces, including the one convened by AWDF, one priority was repeatedly emphasised: the voices of the most impacted must come first. That means being intentional about ensuring that those most affected by crises, climate change, and inaccessible systems are never an afterthought. Their voices must shape the transformation we seek. On funding, what emerged was equally clear. Communities must be resourced with trust, as experts of their own contexts and needs. That calls on us, as funders and movements, to build funding models that actually fit the communities we serve. It also calls for courage: moving beyond the normative frameworks of what is considered fundable. Transformation does not happen within the boundaries of what is familiar. If we truly want change, we must fund the unconventional and back approaches that do not yet have a track record or measurable outcomes, because the systems they challenge were never designed to let them succeed.

A Call for Change 

As I reflect on the few days we gathered for the Women Deliver Conference, I carry this with me: funders must build flexibility into their models to account for the shifts that organisations and collectives on the frontlines face. Rigid frameworks cannot hold the weight of movements navigating conflict, shrinking civic space, political instability and chronic underfunding. They must also continue learning alongside women’s rights and feminist movements and build models that truly serve them. Feminist movements exist within spaces shaped by compounding crises. To resource feminist movements meaningfully means moving with them, adapting alongside them, and trusting them, because, in the end, they are the experts of their contexts and realities, even as those realities change. This is the work ahead. This is what solidarity demands. This is what change calls from us.

This reflection article was written by Chandapiwa Sisila. She  is the Programme Coordinator – Countering Backlash at the African Women’s Development Fund (AWDF). 

AWDF is thrilled to announce an exciting opportunity that has arisen in its team.

Are you experienced in providing administrative and programmatic support and contribute to an efficient operation of grantmaking work?

Are you experienced in working to support processes that ensure learning, monitoring and evaluation that informs grant making approaches?

Are you ready to work to support departmental conceptualisation of projects and reports

Then join our team as the next Programme Assistant – Resourcing (Bilingual) on a short term basis  from July 2026 to June 2027.

Job summary

The Programme Assistant, Resourcing is responsible for providing administrative and programmatic support, contributing to the efficient operation of AWDF’s resourcing work. The role will work in close collaboration with all the Programmes units, and collaborate more closely with the Programme Manager, Senior Programme Officers and the Programme Officer in the Resourcing Unit to support grant making processes, partner engagement and compliance. The Programme Assistant will also support processes that ensure learning, monitoring and evaluation, informs our grant making approaches and learning facilitates adaptation. The role functions will include budgeting/financial support, data gathering, programme administration and implementation of the resourcing/grant making guidelines and processes. The Programme Assistant will also support the departmental conceptualisation of projects and reporting to relevant stakeholders.

How to Apply:

Qualified and interested persons should send:

• A cover letter of not more than 2 pages via this link: https://awdf.simplicant.com/jobs/60910-programme-assistant-bilingual-short-term/detail to the Human Resources Manager explaining their interest and excitement in applying for the position to work for AWDF, highlighting their experience and competencies demonstrating the alignment to the role.
• A CV of not more than 3 pages outlining their educational qualifications and employment records with key achievements in relevant positions held.

Deadline :

Applications for the vacancy should reach AWDF no later than Thursday, 28th May 2026. Due to our limited capacity, only short-listed candidates will be contacted for additional information and interviews.

In line with AWDF’s Mission, qualified African women and gender-diverse persons are encouraged to apply.