In Borno, IDPs Confront New Difficulties after Escaping Boko Haram
Earlier this year, Ya Jalo Mustapha stayed with her two sons, Ali and Bor, in Njimiya, a village in Sambisa Forest, Borno State, North East Nigeria, an area under the governance of the Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP).
In Njimiya, as in other villages under its control, ISWAP’s authority is absolute — enforced through rules, fear, and constant surveillance.
One day, Ya Jalao’s sons went out and never returned. No one could say where they had gone or whether they were alive. In the weeks that followed, rumours spread that some men from nearby settlements had been seized by the military during raids.
Such disappearances are not uncommon in Borno State, where years of insurgency have blurred the lines between civilians and suspects. In one well-known case, 42 men from Gallari village were arrested by the military on suspicion of being Boko Haram members and detained for 12 years without trial; only three were recently released. Other times, the insurgents also abduct and forcibly recruit young men.
In October, five months after their disappearance, Ya Jalo’s daughters-in-law remarried Boko Haram terrorists.
Stranded with her four grandchildren, Ya Jalo knew she could not remain in Njimiya. Her eleven-year-old granddaughter, Magana, was next in line to be forced into marriage. “A suitor was already chosen for her,” Ya Jalo told HumAngle. “I was at the risk of losing her, too.”
Staying in the villages is rarely a sign of loyalty. For most families, it is because they risk execution if they flee, while staying at least allows them to eat from their farms.
Every day brought a deeper fear for Ya Jalo. She worried that her grandsons would slowly absorb the teachings of the insurgents. With no schooling except the sermons of Boko Haram, the risk of their indoctrination weighed heavily on her.
She kept her plan secret until the morning of her escape. That day, Ya Jalo informed neighbours that she was visiting a relative in a nearby settlement with her grandchildren. That began the three-day trek to Bama town. They travelled through bush paths, walking mostly at dawn and dusk until they reached the camp.
“The journey was full of risks and uncertainty,” she said. “Even the children don’t know where we’re heading.” They eventually arrived.
A different kind of struggle
For families fleeing Boko Haram-held villages, arriving at the Bama IDP Camp feels like stepping out of a nightmare. Many come with the hope that they are walking into safety, a place where food, shelter, and healing will finally be waiting.
But what they find is a different struggle altogether. The displacement camp has exceeded its capacity, with hundreds of people living there. In early 2025, the government relocated about 3,000 persons to Dar Jamal, a small fraction that barely reduced the camp’s congestion.
New arrivals, like Ya Jalo, often sleep in the open because no shelters are available. Since she was with children, Ya Jalo moved in with a relative who lives nearby.
At the camp, individuals are required to register with the State Emergency Management Agency (SEMA), which forwards the information to ZOA International. The organisation provides breakfast and lunch for five days and a cash token of ₦11,450 per person for three months.
However, there is no provision for education, healthcare, and psychosocial support.
Several others who are fleeing their homes for refuge at the camps are confronted with this reality. “We thought this would be a place to rest, but it is only another kind of struggle,” Hajja Kura lamented. She fled Zarmari in October, another Boko Haram stronghold, in early July to the Bama displacement camp.
The absence of proper shelter and long-term care leaves many returnees questioning whether their escape was worthwhile. Some, disillusioned, quietly return to their villages, where the danger of insurgents still lurks.
Children at risk
In Bama, Ya Jalo’s fears for her grandchildren continue in new ways. She often worries about how years of exposure to insurgent preaching may have shaped their minds.
“The children are like wet clay,” said Abba Kura, a community leader at Bama. “Whoever holds them first will shape them. In many of those villages, it was Boko Haram who held them first.”
The effect is visible across the camp. When HumAngle visited, ten-year-old Modu Abbaye recalled lessons he learned in the forest. “Boko Haram are kind,” he said. “They always preach to us not to cheat people, to be kind, and not to insult others.”
Even though the group killed his parents and his friend’s father, a schoolteacher, Modu still speaks of them with a child’s innocence. He has never attended a formal school and insists he never will because “it is forbidden”.
“I don’t want to go to school,” said Modu. He lives with a relative at the camp.
Due to the absence of structured education and psychological support at the camps, many children remain caught between conflicting identities, victims and vessels of the very ideology that uprooted them.
“Children growing up in displacement camps or conflict zones suffer disrupted education, delayed development, and persistent anxiety. They often struggle to imagine futures beyond survival,” said Mohammad Usman Bunu, an educator at Future Prowess School for displaced and vulnerable children in Maiduguri.
For Ya Jalo, that future feels uncertain too. As she watches her grandchildren adjust to life outside of their hometown, she is haunted by the same questions: what kind of lives will they build without their fathers and mothers, and will they ever know peace again? Her thoughts often drift to Ali and Bor, the sons who vanished months earlier.
“I also came here to wait for news of my sons,” she said. “I feel closer to them in Bama. I believe they are with the military, and one day I will be reunited with them.”
In Borno’s camps, stories like hers echo everywhere. Families are displaced, divided, and still holding on to hope that the war has not taken everything from them.
