north-east

When Mariam* first started thinking of deserting Boko Haram’s settlement at Sambisa Forest, where she had been living for a decade, she was not entirely sure that it was the best idea. She still believed in the cause, for starters. But there was the matter of her body starting to fail her. 

Her husband had just died of HIV/AIDS, and she had unfortunately contracted the disease from him before he passed. Although the doctor in the forest tried to provide her with medication, it was not consistent. In addition, she had kids she feared infecting. Then, she started to hear that access to antiretroviral drugs was free in Maiduguri, the Borno State capital in northeastern Nigeria. So, she began to tinker with the idea, for the first time, of leaving the group behind. 

The group was all she had known for the past decade. She had even been prepared, at some point, to give her life for the cause by volunteering for a suicide bombing. She had been approved for it and had begun to undergo training and preparations when she realised she was pregnant. Her husband, previously supportive of what they collectively thought of as her noble martyrdom, then decided she could not blow herself up while carrying their child. She was heavily disappointed. That’s how far she was willing to go for the Boko Haram cause.

And so to leave it all behind seemed impossible. 

She had joined when the group first declared war on the Nigerian state over a decade ago, leaving state-controlled territories for the Sambisa Forest. They sought to establish what they believed to be an Islamic state, declaring formal education, democracy, and elections forbidden. Their campaign has killed over 35,000 people violently, displaced over two million others, and caused over 25,000 others to go missing. Mariam had been attending their sermons right from the early, non-violent days. 

Eventually, after nearly a decade, she left with her children in 2017. Since coming back to Maiduguri, she has had uninterrupted access to free medications for her condition, reducing her viral load and making her no longer infectious. And so, even though she considered the economic prospects and living conditions in Maiduguri to be worse than in Sambisa, she stayed because she could remain alive.

She keeps the truth of her condition from her children and everyone she knows. 

Earlier this year, however, the United States President Donald Trump announced the suspension of USAID, which was primarily responsible for the accessibility of antiretroviral drugs for people like Mariam. Without the USAID subsidy, the drugs are estimated to be unaffordably expensive for low-income earners like Mariam.

Word started to go around that the availability of the drugs would falter. When Mariam ran out of her six-month stash of medications, she returned to the Borno State Specialist Hospital to get a refill, as she has done for years now. There, she met a surprise that scared her. 

“They only gave me one small can of pills, not the usual two. They seemed to have changed the ratio. They didn’t say why, only that they had changed the ratio. The bottle will only last me three months,” she recounted.

It worried her. When she got home from the hospital, she poured the pills into a thin white plastic bag and hid it, as usual. That way, it is inconspicuous, and anyone who knew the kind of bottles the drugs came in would not be able to recognise hers. This is so that she would avoid stigma.

“Nobody knows I have HIV to date. Even my children. And they are HIV-free. I had them tested at the hospital. Even the eldest among them doesn’t know.”

Around the same time, NGO-run health facilities were also starting to shut down in many rural communities in Borno. For example, in Konduga, a primary healthcare centre run by Family Health International (FHI360) was shut down. The facility had been receiving hundreds of patients daily until its abrupt suspension, leaving many in need and others unemployed. 

For Mariam, this has made her begin to consider going back to the terror group, especially after she lost everything during the tragic Maiduguri floods last year. She and her children barely escaped with their lives. The flood had swept through Maiduguri and neighbouring areas, affecting over one million people in total. Her daughter had initially been swept away until a neighbour dove into the waves and rescued her.

“It was a young man who came to help. I was at the verge of diving into the water myself when he came and said not to worry, that he would get her back, and he did. We could not salvage anything else from the flood. We were displaced to the Bakassi IDP camp.” 

When Mariam ran out of the three-month stash and went back to the hospital for a refill, she was only handed a one-month stash this time. The two times she has gone back for more refills after she had exhausted each, she only received one month’s stash, further scaring her.

Though she is no longer as committed to the Boko Haram ideology as she used to be, the realisation that she and her children’s lives are not safe has made her seriously reconsider the prospect of returning

A medical doctor working in Borno State, who pleaded anonymity, confirmed that the drugs had become difficult to access after the USAID suspension. “Patients who showed up at the hospitals were being told that the drugs were not available,” the doctor told HumAngle. “But if you knew your way around and gave some pharmacists some money, they would then give you the drugs, but keep in mind that the drugs are meant to be free. The situation has mildly improved.”

The availability of healthcare among terror groups is traceable to many sources. They are notorious for abducting healthcare workers and forcing them to work for them. But they also took medical training very seriously during the early days when the group first started to tactically come together over a decade ago, according to a former member of the group. 

Now, as many people are coming back to state-controlled territories, the rewards for recidivism have reportedly become higher, as the groups struggle to maintain their followers. Mariam hears these whispers from many of her associates.

“In addition to the drugs they were giving me in Sambisa, they would also give me a litre of honey and some black seed,” she said, adding that the honey and black seed were to help build her immune system.

In northwestern Nigeria, children who escaped or were rescued from terror groups have reported similar experiences. Some boys told HumAngle in an investigation that they joined the groups for things like food and healthcare. They said these were some of the incentives that made staying easy, and why they were not so keen on returning to state-controlled territories.

“I collected the last batch exactly a week ago today,” Mariam said of her access to the drugs. “The flow has never stopped. They always give me on schedule; it is just that I now only get one-month refills.” 

“The life over there is way better,” she said of Sambisa. “If I were there, I would have received a lot of support, especially with my husband dead. Here, who will help me? Everyone is focused on themselves. There is peace of mind there.”

When asked how there could be peace of mind there, with the threat of military bombardment ever present, she said the military would not harm women and children, and so she still would have been safe. “They will only ‘rescue’ us and bring us back to Borno… Even recently, I said to myself that life over there would be better for me. There were so many things weighing down on me at that time. It was even before the flood.”

On whether her children’s lives would be better in Maiduguri, she said it would only be so if her children had access to formal education here, which they don’t. Now, they spend all their time either at home with her or roaming the streets.

When we first spoke in June 2023, she had told me that her children were opposed to the Nigerian army and would throw rocks at them on the road, chanting war songs. When I asked her if things had improved now, she said yes.

“They don’t do that anymore,” she laughed. “They have forgotten. They don’t even want to hear anything related to Boko Haram anymore.”

If she could make an appeal for help to the government, it would be for three things. “Healthcare, school for my children, and a means of livelihood.”

This work was produced as a result of a grant provided by the Wits Centre for Journalism’s African Investigative Journalism Conference.

*Mariam is a pseudonym used to protect her anonymity. 

A tragic event shook a compound on Polo Road in Maiduguri, the Borno State capital in northeastern Nigeria, this weekend when 11-year-old Mahmud was found dead after reportedly taking his own life. 

The incident has deeply saddened the local community and raised urgent questions about the unseen struggles young children face.

Mahmud was living with extended relatives because his mother passed away last year. His father, who works as a driver in Abuja, was away, meaning Mahmud was already dealing with the pain of loss and being separated from his immediate family.

The sad event, according to those familiar with the incident, happened right after a senior relative scolded Mahmud for not doing his laundry, a simple house chore. Moments later, younger children in the compound cried out, which drew the attention of neighbours.

Neighbours quickly rushed to the scene and found Mahmud hanging. They brought him down immediately and took him to a hospital, but tragically, he was confirmed dead.

Police Public Relations Officer, ASP Nahum Dasso-Kenneth, confirmed the incident to HumAngle, stating: “We received a report from one Muhammad Sheriff, who resides near Polo Road. At about 11:30 a.m., a boy named Mahmoud Adamu was found dead, apparently having hanged himself using an electric cable tied to a door.”

​Police visited the scene, viewed the boy’s body, and subsequently took him to the State Specialists Hospital, where his death was confirmed.

​”Though we are still investigating the circumstances that led to his death, the remains of the boy have been released to the family to be buried according to Islamic rites,” DSP Dasso added.

Sources familiar with the incident said Mahmud may have practicalised some of the uncensored movies kids are being exposed to these days. 

​“I helped bring down Mahmoud’s lifeless body,” said Usman Ali, a cap laundry attendant whose shop is adjacent to the deceased’s family home. “I found he was drenched in his own urine and faeces, which indicates he struggled in immense pain during the hanging before he died. This struggle suggests he was very much unsure of the dire consequences of the act before he committed it.” 

​”We must exercise extreme caution regarding the content our kids watch on TV and mobile phones, as some may venture into practising the misleading or dangerous behaviours they find online,” he said. 

Ahmed Shehu, a civil society actor and chief executive of Peace Ambassador Centre for Humanitarian and Empowerment (PACHE), opined that “when children live through the violence and horror of war, their minds are deeply damaged, pushing them toward self-harm and even acts like suicide.” 

He said children who witness constant fear, death, and loss deal with a crushed spirit, resulting in serious conditions like depression and PTSD. 

“When this pain becomes too much to handle, they often look for ways to cope – even if those ways are harmful. Self-harm or thinking about suicide can sadly become their desperate escape from overwhelming emotional distress, or a way to feel like they have some control over their suffering.

“We have a fundamental duty to offer strong mental health help and support right now. We must help these young people heal the deep scars of trauma to prevent them from taking such tragic, self-destructive paths,” he said.

Nigeria’s Stolen Classrooms | RSS.com

On The Crisis Room, we’re following insecurity trends across Nigeria.

Between 2014 and 2025, at least 1,880 students have been abducted across Nigeria.

It’s a staggering number on its own, but it becomes even heavier when you realise these are children whose dreams, confidence, and sense of safety have been repeatedly disrupted.

And this tragic pattern continues. Just this Monday, Nov. 17, in Kebbi State, terrorists abducted at least 25 students of the Government Girls’ Comprehensive Secondary School in Maga.

Today on The Crisis Room, we talk about the effect of this abduction on children.

Hosts: Salma

Guests: Hauwa Shaffii Nuhu and Professor Auwal Inuwa

Audio producer: Anthony Asemota

Executive producer: Ahmad Salkida

Boko Haram attacked Civilian Joint Task Force (CJTF) members in the Warabe community in Gwoza Local Government Area, Borno State, North East Nigeria, on Thursday, Nov. 20, at about 10:00 am, killing eight people and leaving three others missing, according to a CJTF member in Warabe. 

“All the members killed are part of the CJTF, except for one,” a local told HumAngle..

Warabe has no permanent military presence, and the CJTF serve as the community’s frontline defence as the Boko Haram crisis continues to endure almost a decade after it started. They had gone out earlier in the day to collect firewood when Boko Haram attacked them.

According to locals, the group arrived on five motorcycles, with about 20 fighters armed with machine guns, while several others advanced on foot. The hunters engaged them in a gunfight, but the militants overpowered them after their ammunition ran out.

After killing the CJTF members, they took their weapons and used the victims’ mobile phones to lure other hunters, pretending to request help. By the time reinforcements arrived, Boko Haram had already withdrawn with the stolen weapons.

Three hunters remain missing and are believed to have been taken. The nearest military base is located in Pulka, approximately 7 kilometres from Warabe, while Gwoza town is situated roughly 15 kilometres away. Residents say the absence of soldiers in Warabe leaves them exposed during such attacks.

HumAngle reported in 2024 how youths in Warabe, with only seven pump-action rifles among them, defended their community when the first attack came, showing a history of resilience despite being under-armed.

The terrain around the town plays a huge role in why attacks persist. The Mandara Mountains stretch across Gwoza and serve as a natural hideout for fighters who move in and out of Nigeria through rugged footpaths that link the area to Cameroon. These mountain corridors give Boko Haram a strategic advantage, allowing them to launch quick raids on villages and vanish before security forces arrive.

Nigeria remains one of the most dangerous countries in the world for students.

Being a student in Nigeria is like life on the shifting sand. One of the victims of the famous Chibok abduction of 2014, Amina Ali, still recalls that shift: “One minute we were students, the next we were running, unsure of where safety was. What stays with me most is the fear in everyone’s eyes … that feeling that life had just taken a turn I could never prepare for.”

A decade after Amina and 275 other schoolgirls were abducted from their hostels in the country’s North East, sparking the global #BringBackOurGirls campaign, the violence that began as an extremist campaign against Western education has transformed into a multi-million-naira kidnapping industry affecting both public and private schools.

This tragic pattern repeated itself in Kebbi State on Monday, Nov. 17, where terrorists abducted at least 25 students of Government Girls’ Comprehensive Secondary School in Maga, Danko/Wasagu Local Government Area. The school’s Security Master, Hassan Yakubu, and Aliyu Shehu, a night watchguard, were killed in the attack. One of the students escaped during the abduction. 

The Chief of Army Staff has since directed troops to intensify rescue efforts — a move that highlights, yet again, how overstretched security forces currently are in responding to the surge in school-targeted abductions and other forms of criminality.

But even as the search continues, the wider picture remains grim. A HumAngle review of verified media reports and investigations by human rights organisations shows that at least 1,880 students have been abducted or killed across Nigeria between 2014 and 2025.

These attacks have devastated communities across the country, especially in the North, and symbolise the collapse of security in spaces that should nurture the country’s future. From the ideological terror of Boko Haram in Yobe and Borno to the ransom-driven criminality of terrorist groups in Zamfara, Kaduna, and Niger, schools have become soft targets in a nation that has failed to learn from each tragedy.

The forgotten beginning 

Yet before the Chibok abduction shocked the world, there was Buni Yadi — a quiet town in Yobe State that witnessed one of the most gruesome assaults on education in Nigeria’s recent history. On the night of February 25, 2014, Boko Haram stormed the Federal Government College, Buni Yadi, killing 29 male students as they slept.

HumAngle’s earlier reporting reconstructed the night through survivor accounts: dormitories set ablaze, gunmen shouting “Allahu Akbar”, and teenagers trapped in locked hostels consumed by fire and bullets. 

It was a deliberate massacre — not for ransom, not for negotiation — but to send a message that “Western education is forbidden”. The world barely noticed. Two months later, Boko Haram struck again, this time abducting 276 schoolgirls from Chibok.

Buni Yadi, therefore, stands as the forgotten beginning of Nigeria’s school-terror era — an early signal of what would follow when ideological war met state neglect. One of the boys who survived, Mohammed Ibrahim, would eventually graduate from Abubakar Tafawa Balewa University in Bauchi State. His journey underscores how survival is not an end but the start of a long struggle to reclaim education and self. Mohammed did not have an easy time going back to school after his experience of the massacre. 

“Honestly, after the incidents, I hated school,” he said. “Many things contributed to the attack. Firstly, there was a lack of security. Before the incident, there was no single security personnel in the area; they said they would provide, but none were around. They took away the ones operating in the area; people were saying that it means there was no safety since they took away the security personnel in the area.”

From ideology to industry

Six years after the Buni Yadi and Chibok incident, armed groups and terrorists in Nigeria’s North West realised that abducting students brought instant ransom, political leverage, and media attention. What began as religious fundamentalism had by then morphed into an extortionist criminal enterprise.

In December 2020, the first large-scale operation of this kind happened at Government Science Secondary School Kankara, where 344 boys were abducted from their school dormitories by terrorists. Within days, video footage surfaced showing the terrified boys surrounded by their abductors, who pledged allegiance to Boko Haram — a claim later linked to a loosely affiliated terrorist faction.

That single event inspired copycat kidnappings across the region: Jangebe (Zamfara, 2021), Kagara (Niger, 2021), Tegina (Niger, 2021), and Birnin Yauri (Kebbi, 2021).

In Birnin Yauri, the day began like any other exam morning. Rebecca James, one of the abducted students, said she was 30 minutes into writing her paper for the day, Financial Accounting, when the first sounds came — distant gunshots, shouts, and the sudden rush of feet. “I was confused because it sounded strange,” she recalled.

As the students scrambled for safety, Rebecca tried to find her sisters in the chaos, but a teacher ordered everyone back into the hall so they could be “in one place”. The gunshots, however, grew closer, and students hid in the side rooms until the main door was forced open. “They continued shooting guns — ceilings, everywhere — helter-skelter,” she said. The terrorists kicked down doors, dragged terrified students from hiding, and fired into windows, injuring at least one student in the leg before marching a group towards the gate and loading them into a white car. “Last last, we were kidnapped,” she summed up.

Unlike the ideological attacks of Boko Haram, many of these more recent operations are driven by ransom and carried out by local militia networks with deep knowledge of their terrain and communities. Yet for the children at the centre, the distinction between ideology and crass greed is irrelevant; in both cases, the classroom becomes a trap. And this trap is often sprung most brutally on girls.

Girls as primary targets

In school abduction incidents where gender data is available, girls accounted for nearly two-thirds of all abducted students. This imbalance stems mainly from the targeting of all-female schools — a pattern rooted in both ideological and exploitative motives. Key examples include:

• Chibok (2014) – 276 girls abducted by Boko Haram; 98 remain unaccounted for.
• Dapchi (2018) – 110 girls taken, Leah Sharibu remains in captivity.
• Jangebe (2021) – 279 girls kidnapped, later released after government negotiation.

For girls like Rebecca, gender was explicitly weaponised. During her captivity, she remembers being told that their abductors would hold onto the girls because they were “more important than the male” — more valuable for ransom and more painful for families to lose. “They were saying we are the female ones … they said that the female ones, if they stayed long in a place, parents will feel more,” she said. 

Rebecca and other girls were also forcefully married off during captivity. They suffered repeated sexual abuse that led to some of them, one as young as 14, getting pregnant and giving birth. Even after their release, the terror group reached out, wanting the babies returned to them.

In contrast, the Kankara and Birnin Yauri abductions targeted boys’ or mixed schools, indicating that while both genders are vulnerable, female students face compounded risks — sexual violence, forced marriage, and sex trafficking.

The gendered nature of these attacks has left deep scars on communities, where parents now weigh the risks of educating daughters against the supposed safety of keeping them at home. 

For some survivors, the experience has hardened their resolve to fight back through education itself. Rebecca, who was once an accounting student, has switched to the arts with a clear goal: “I changed … just to study law,” she explained, adding that it will enable her to defend the vulnerable, especially girls. 

Geographical spread and shifting threats

In 2014, attacks on schools were primarily confined to the North East — Borno and Yobe — under the shadow of Boko Haram. By 2020, they had shifted westward to the North West and North Central regions, reflecting the fragmentation of armed groups and the spread of insecurity.

This expansion reshaped the threat landscape:

• North East (Boko Haram and ISWAP): Attacks driven by ideology, targeting state education systems and female students.
• North West (terrorists and armed groups): Abductions motivated by ransom, tribal vendettas, and power projection.
• North Central, especially in Niger and Kaduna: Mixed motives — ransom, political signalling, and territorial assertion.

This diffusion of violence has complicated response strategies. Each zone now faces a different kind of threat, with varying ideological, economic, and criminal drivers — all converging on the same target: students. 

For many pupils in rural areas, this unpredictability shapes daily life, as rumours of an impending attack now spread as fast as exam timetables. 

“Anytime students hear about terrorists, they should not doubt whether they are coming or not,” Rebecca advised. “They should immediately leave such areas and go back to their homes for safety, not waiting until they see the terrorists  with their own eyes.”

The human cost

Every figure in the tally masks a story of trauma. Survivors of Buni Yadi, Chibok, Dapchi, Birnin Yauri, and Kuriga describe recurring nightmares, social stigma, and broken dreams. For some, school can no longer be taken for granted. 

“Education used to feel simple — just books, teachers, friends,” Amina said. “But, after the attack, I now see my future as something I must fight for … I want to prove that what happened will not destroy the dreams I still carry inside me.”

Rebecca echoes that determination, but channels it into a specific ambition. Her anger is directed at what she sees as terrorists who wield more firepower than the state. “These terrorists have guns more powerful than military personnel here in Nigeria, which makes it the government’s fault,” she said. Her response was to lean harder into school, not away from it: “The incident made me more eager to read and learn about my country.”

Many who returned found their schools destroyed or abandoned. Some struggle with reintegration, unable to sit in classrooms without flashbacks. Others, particularly girls who bore children in captivity, face rejection from their families and communities.

Hafsat Bello, a counsellor working with young students in northern Nigeria, said: “The school, which was once seen as a means to a brighter future, is now viewed to be the most dangerous place for students. Children with dreams so beautiful now fear the very garden where their dreams would bloom. The biggest gap is that the Safe Schools Initiative is still largely theoretical in many communities. Policies exist on paper, but implementation is weak and inconsistent.”

In many of these communities, enrolment has dropped dramatically. UNICEF estimates that over 10.5 million Nigerian children are out of school, with the majority concentrated in the North, where insecurity is a leading driver. 

In 2014, the Safe Schools Initiative (SSI) was launched to prevent the collapse of schools. More than $20 million was pledged by donors and had all been received as of 2o20. The initiative was managed through the Nigeria Safe Schools Initiative Multi-Donor Trust Fund, which was overseen by the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP) for contributions, disbursements, and project implementation.

The funds were used for various projects, including the construction of fences, classrooms, and the provision of emergency communication tools. 

However, the implementation of these projects was uneven. While some urban and semi-urban schools benefited, many rural schools still lacked basic safety infrastructure, according to a 2021 report by the National Institute for Legislative and Democratic Studies (NILDS) and the Development Research and Projects Centre (dRPC). 

The report noted that many schools were still without perimeter fencing, trained guards, and emergency response systems. A steering committee, which included representatives from both donor organisations and the government, audited the SSI project to determine its efficacy. Although financial statements were made available, the NILDS-dRPC report revealed notable deficiencies in monitoring and accountability. The report shows that many projects did not undergo independent audits and that there was a lack of transparency regarding the allocation of funds at the state and local levels. 

“For this initiative to truly work, every school must have real physical protection, early-warning and rapid-alert systems, continuous emergency-response training, and a transparent accountability system that tracks how safety funds are used,” said Hafsat.

For Nura Suleiman, the Vice Principal (Academic) at Government Girls Secondary School (GGSS) Jangebe, Zamfara State, the scars of abduction and violence against schoolchildren are beyond emotional trauma, as it has dampened the morale of pupils towards education.

“From my experience, abduction and attacks affected students’ willingness to return to classrooms negatively,” Suleiman told HumAngle. “Especially in the rural northern communities where most of the students ran out of the school.”

The 2021 mass abduction of schoolgirls from Jangebe remains a haunting reminder of the vulnerability of Nigeria’s educational institutions. Despite the launch of the Safe Schools Initiative, Suleman believes the gaps remain vivid due to poor implementation.

“The practical steps which could make schools genuinely safer are to stop insurgency in the country by any means,” he said. “I mean either by fighting or negotiation.”

Suleiman emphasised that school safety encompasses more than just physical infrastructure. He explained that proper safety can only be achieved when students, teachers, and communities feel secure in their environment. 

The principal noted that his school has made efforts to boost students’ morale and encourage their return to the classrooms. In collaboration with the NEEM Foundation, a leading crisis response organisation working with individuals and communities affected by violence, GGSS Jangebe’s Guidance and Counselling department provides mental health support to students who have survived abduction. 

Yet the Jangebe experience also underscores a broader pattern: the support offered to survivors varies sharply from one case to another, leaving many children without the continuity of care they need.

Uneven support, unequal recovery

What happens after rescue reflects this inconsistency. For some, like Rebecca, there has been a rare attempt at comprehensive care.

On her return from captivity, she and other released students were taken to the hospital for medical treatment and meals, then eventually placed in placements in what she calls “the best and most expensive school in Nigeria”. She describes feeling “special every day because of what they have done for us,” noting that the authorities provide a pocketful of stuff and check in on their health.

Crucially, she says, they were encouraged to believe it was not too late to restart school after two lost years. Counsellors and guardians stressed that “age is just a number” and that education remained open to them if they chose it. She repeatedly cites the role of a mentor she calls ‘Brother Celine’, who helped them return to the classroom. “I cannot stop thanking the government for everything they have done for us,” she said.

Amina’s post-rescue experience tells a different story. For her, life after returning has been, in her words, “a mix of hope and struggle”. Some organisations offered counselling, tuition, or basic supplies, but she and many other Chibok survivors still feel like they are rebuilding essentially on their own: “The emotional healing, the financial challenges, the need for real protection — these things are still not fully met. We are grateful for any help, but there is still a long road ahead.” 

The contrast between these two trajectories — one shaped by sustained, structured support, the other by patchy assistance and lingering vulnerability — mirrors the broader inconsistency of Nigeria’s approach. Where you were abducted from, which government was in power, which NGO took an interest, and how much media attention your case drew can determine how fully you are allowed to rebuild your life.

Lessons from a decade of failure

The testimonies of survivors sharpen the picture that the statistics already suggest. 

The Buni Yadi massacre, for example, was an early alarm that signalled a war on education, yet the failure to strengthen school protections afterwards allowed abductions to spread with little resistance. As the crisis deepened, a ransom economy took root. Kidnappings became a lucrative enterprise in which armed groups in Zamfara and Kaduna negotiated openly, collecting payments that financed further attacks and entrenched the cycle.

These dynamics have been worsened by persistent security gaps. Response times remain slow, intelligence sharing between states and federal forces is inconsistent, and rural policing is largely absent. Former hostages notice that their captors often carry superior firepower. “How will a terrorist have a more powerful gun and bullets than soldiers in the military?” Rebecca asked rhetorically—a question that has agitated many Nigerians.

At the policy level, the gaps are just as stark. Nigeria endorsed the Safe Schools Declaration in 2015, yet implementation in the states most affected remains minimal, leaving the lessons of Chibok and Birnin Yauri largely unheeded. 

Gender adds another layer of vulnerability: female students are singled out both ideologically and practically. Rebecca’s recollection that girls were kept because parents “feel more for females” exposes the calculated use of daughters as leverage. 

All of this feeds into a profound erosion of trust. Each attack deepens scepticism about the state’s ability—or willingness—to protect its citizens, weakening the community cooperation that early-warning signals depend on. 

Even where authorities appear to have learnt some operational lessons, such as closing schools pre-emptively when threats arise, the underlying issues of rural insecurity, corruption, and impunity remain largely untouched.

And the consequences of those unresolved failures are visible not only in testimonies and statistics, but also from above. Satellite imagery shows that these classrooms were stolen. It captures a timeline of destruction, militarisation, and neglect that follow these school attacks.

FGC Buni Yadi remains a shadow of its former self. In 2010, it appeared as a modest rural school; by March 2015, the satellite pass captured the aftermath of the massacre — burnt buildings and scorched earth where children once learned. Reconstruction began around late 2018, yet the compound stands today as a restored shell, a reminder that almost everything was set ablaze.

Although GGSS Chibok was not torched, it lost its educational purpose to humanitarian needs after the incident. Over the decade, the school became a shelter for survivors rather than students. The surrounding town is militarised with defensive trenches, and the school vicinity is filled with tents

A similar fate met GSC Kagara. Satellite views show the school ringed by trenches, turning an academic environment into a militarised space.

The warning visible at FGC Birnin Yauri remains unsettling. Unlike other locations where defences appeared after the tragedy, imagery shows this landscape was encircled by trenches long before the abduction. This proves, as reported, that the community lived under the threat well before the attack happened.

For LGEA Kuriga, the view from space captures the slow impact of neglect. There are no burnt structures, but the gradual decay of roofing sheets and fading paint testify to fear-induced neglect. GGSS Jangebe reflects the same pattern: from above, the compound looks orderly, yet ground-level footage — including scenes from a BBC Africa Eye documentary — shows shattered windows, damaged doors, and stripped classrooms. It appears intact only from a distance.

A few affected schools, such as Greenfield University, GSSS Kankara, and Dapchi, bear no visible scars from space. No scorched earth or defensive trenches. Their normal appearance is misleading, showing that the most profound scars of Nigeria’s mass school abductions often lie beyond what satellites can record.

A nation still unprepared

Despite years of promises, Nigeria remains reactive rather than proactive in matters of insecurity. Officials still rush to the scenes of abductions, issue statements of condemnation, and announce task forces — only for the cycle to repeat months later.

In communities like Buni Yadi, buildings have been reconstructed, but the psychological wounds remain. Survivors grow into adulthood carrying invisible wounds, while new students study under the same shadow of fear.

The Kuriga abduction of March 2024, in which 227 pupils were taken, shows that little has changed. Although 137 were eventually rescued, the incident underscores how unprotected rural schools remain — and how quickly armed groups can strike, even with military presence nearby. 

For survivors such as Mohammed Ibrahim, simply graduating from university is an act of quiet defiance. For Amina and Rebecca, returning to the classroom and choosing careers in law or public service is a way of pushing back against those who tried to silence them.

But their determination does not diminish the responsibility of the state; it underscores it. Amina offers a clear warning to those in power: “Do not wait until it happens again … protect those schools like your own children are inside them.”

She believes Nigeria has learnt “some lessons, but not enough”. Continued reports of attacks and abductions, like the recent incident in Kebbi, reinforce this for her. “Until schools in every region are safe, until security becomes a priority and not a reaction, the risks will continue,” she said.

Na’empere Daniel, who survived the Birnin Yauri abduction alongside Rebecca after years in captivity, has similar thoughts. “Sometimes, it feels like Nigeria hasn’t fully learned from what happened to us,” she said. “Our pain should have changed things, but many students are still living through the same fear. No one deserves to experience what we went through.”

The violence has evolved, but the state’s response has barely shifted. Until education is treated as a security priority rather than a social service, the classrooms of northern Nigeria will remain haunted by ghosts of unprotected children.

The question now is not whether it will happen again, but when and to whom it will happen. Survivors like Rebecca and Amina have done their part: they remember the gunshots in the exam hall, the fear in their classmates’ eyes, the long nights of captivity — and they have turned those memories into vocal demands for justice and protection.

Whether Nigeria listens — and acts — will determine if the next generation can learn without fear, or if more of its classrooms will be stolen.

To make learning more resilient, Hafsat Bello, the counsellor who works with young students, stresses the need to adapt education to current realities. She highlights the importance of flexible learning models, noting that “in conflict zones, learning should not stop simply because the physical school is unsafe,” suggesting mobile classrooms, community hubs, radio lessons, or temporary safe spaces to keep children engaged.

Hafsat also underscores trauma-informed teaching, explaining that teachers need training to recognise signs of trauma and adjust their approach, because “a child who has witnessed violence will not learn the same way as a child who feels safe.” She emphasises that every school, particularly in high-risk areas, must have clear emergency response plans in addition to standard timetables.

Teachers themselves require protection and support, including emotional care, hazard allowances, and a sense of security, as their stability directly impacts students’ learning. She further calls for strong collaboration between schools, security agencies, and communities, stressing that education cannot operate in isolation and must be supported consistently, not only after attacks.

“Education must evolve to meet the reality of the children we serve. If we want to protect their futures, then resilience must be built into the system, not as an afterthought, but as a priority,” the counsellor added. 

The Nigerian Army’s statement that Brigadier General M Uba, the Brigade Commander 25 Task Force Brigade “successfully led troops back to base” after an ambush last Friday, Nov. 14, in the Damboa area of Borno State, northeastern Nigeria, has been challenged by an exclusive, verified image obtained by HumAngle. The image shows the senior officer alive but held by insurgents, contradicting the military’s official account.

The ambush by ISWAP fighters on a joint military and Civilian Joint Task Force (CJTF) convoy on Biu Road resulted in the deaths of several soldiers and CJTF members, with the general’s whereabouts initially reported as unknown. HumAngle’s early report cited sources on the ground who said the general was abducted during the attack. We later reported that he had escaped on foot and returned to base, after several security sources insisted on this.

The Nigerian Army also issued a statement denying the abduction, insisting the general had safely led his men back to base and that the incident was an ambush, causing casualties but no kidnapping. However, the military provided no evidence to back this claim at the time.

A verified image HumAngle has seen shows the commander in the custody of ISWAP insurgents, with a gunshot wound to the leg. Verification was carried out through detailed frame analysis, geolocation cross-checking, and confirmation from independent security sources familiar with the region and the incident. The image, shortly after the ambush, shows the general surrounded by armed fighters, appearing fatigued but alive. 

HumAngle, in line with our editorial policies, has made the editorial decision not to publish the picture. 

This new evidence directly challenges the army’s public statement, highlighting a significant discrepancy in the information being shared about frontline realities. The contradictory accounts raise concerns about communication gaps within the military and the potential consequences of misinformation for public trust and operational security.

The capture of a serving commander marks a rare and serious development in the ongoing conflict with insurgent groups in Nigeria’s Northeast. In recent months, ISWAP has intensified attacks around Damboa and the wider Borno region, escalating the dangers faced by both military personnel and civilians.

Security analysts who reviewed the image described the abduction as both an operational setback and a symbolic blow to Nigerian forces fighting the insurgency. Families of soldiers deployed in the area have expressed frustration and anxiety over the conflicting reports about their loved ones’ safety.

Efforts to secure fresh comments from the Nigerian Army have been ongoing, but as of publication, no new statement has been issued addressing the emerging evidence.

An attack from members of the Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP) occurred around 5 p.m. yesterday near Sabon Gari in Damboa Local Government Area, Borno State, northeastern Nigeria. The terrorists, concealed along the route, opened fire on a mixed convoy of soldiers and members of the Civilian Joint Task Force (CJTF), killing two soldiers and two CJTF personnel.

A CJTF member stationed in Nzula, close to the attack site, told HumAngle that the convoy was moving in the direction of Bongry when it was intercepted. “It was on the Biu Road,” he said, requesting anonymity for safety reasons. “The convoy consisted of the military and members of the CJTF.”

A resident of Damboa, familiar with the movement of the convoy, said it departed the town around 2 p.m. with two Hilux vehicles, two armoured personnel carriers, and several motorcycles. “The terrorists killed two soldiers and two CJTF,” he said. “They also took away some motorcycles. Reinforcement later left Damboa – two Hilux and two armoured vehicles – when the incident happened.”

However, the most alarming development is the disappearance of a Brigade Commander who was part of the operation. A senior CJTF member in Damboa, who witnessed the convoy’s departure, confirmed the situation. “We don’t know where he is at the moment. But he responds to WhatsApp messages.” 

The Commander was able to return on foot after missing for several hours in what is being described as an escape from the attackers. 

This is the first time since the start of Nigeria’s counterinsurgency campaign that a serving General directly engaged on the frontline went missing for a while in an ambush. The development raises concerns about the sophistication of recent ISWAP attacks and the increasing risks faced by senior officers deployed to volatile areas.

Damboa and surrounding communities have seen repeated insurgent attacks in recent months, including assaults on patrol teams, ambushes along rural roads, and raids on farming settlements. Residents say the attack underscores the persistent insecurity along major roads despite years of military presence.

We were unable to obtain responses from the Nigerian military at the time of press. They had also not issued an official statement.

The echoes of gunfire still haunt Abdullahi Wakili. What he remembers most, however, is the silence that followed — the silence of neighbours fleeing through the night, of homes left smouldering, of fear settling over Lau like harmattan dust. 

“We were always expecting a crisis at any moment. We could not sleep with both eyes closed,” the 60-year-old resident said. 

Lau, a farming community in Taraba State, northeastern Nigeria, is home to the Yandang people who, for years, were caught in recurring clashes with nomadic herders. In July 2018, violence erupted again, claiming at least 73 lives on both sides. Dozens of houses were torched, farmlands were razed, and families were displaced from communities such as Katibu, Didango, Katara, Sabon Gida, Shomo Sarki, and Nanzo.

“It was the most devastating,” Abdullahi said. 

The crisis destroyed livelihoods built over generations. The fertile lands that once yielded yams and rice, supported fishing, and provided pasture for cattle, became battlefields.

Abdullahi, a Yandang indigene married to a Fulani woman, said the two groups had coexisted peacefully for decades before destruction of farms, cattle rustling, and revenge attacks tore them apart. “We used to share everything,” he said. “But the crisis turned us into enemies overnight.”

For generations, Taraba’s plains were a meeting point between settled farmers and herders moving south from the Sahel in search of pasture. These groups lived in relative harmony, guided by informal agreements that allowed seasonal grazing after harvest and mutual access to water. But as population pressures, desertification, and the expansion of farms increased competition for land, old alliances frayed. By the 1990s, the breakdown of traditional mediation systems and the influx of small arms turned ordinary disputes into recurring cycles of revenge. 

Political manipulation and the proliferation of small arms after decades of communal unrest in the region further deepened distrust. What were once local disputes over damaged crops or stolen cattle gradually escalated into organised violence involving armed individuals and retaliatory attacks.

By 2018, when violence returned to Lau, the conflict had become part of a larger regional crisis stretching across Adamawa, Benue, Plateau, and Nasarawa states.

A turning point

Five years later, in 2023, Search for Common Ground (SCFG), a non-profit founded in 1982, launched the second phase of its Contributing to the Mitigation of Conflict over Natural Resources project (COMITAS II), in collaboration with the European Union.

Running from January 2023 to July 2024, the initiative targeted conflict-affected communities in Taraba and Adamawa states. Its aim was simple yet ambitious: to rebuild trust, promote dialogue, and empower communities to prevent disputes before they turned violent.

COMITAS II also reached Taraba’s Lau and Zing local government areas, another hotspot where farming communities along the international cattle route to Cameroon had experienced repeated clashes.

Through stakeholder meetings, training sessions on early warning and conflict sensitivity, and community-produced radio dramas and jingles, the project re-ignited conversations about peace. Over 60 media practitioners and advocates were trained across 32 communities in both states, resulting in the de-escalation of several potential violent incidents through verified reporting and community dialogue in the past year.

Wesley Daniel, a community leader who is part of the initiative, said the tensions and attacks have reduced. “We now have structures that encourage people to talk instead of fight,” he noted.

Before, even a rumour could spark bloodshed. But now, trained youths use social media, radio, and town-hall discussions to dispel misinformation before tensions escalate.

Berry Cletus, a COMITAS II Media Fellow in Lau, remembered one incident where a rumour spread that a cow belonging to a herder had been stolen. “Instead of waiting for violence, trained youths acted fast. They verified the information, shared the truth on local radio, and linked both communities for dialogue,” Berry told HumAngle. 

To sustain this new culture of communication, SFCG established Community Security Architecture Dialogues (CSADs) at the local government level and Community Response Networks (CRNs) in villages. These structures identify warning signs early, mediate disputes, and link residents to security agencies.

In Zing, a potentially violent eviction attempt by locals was averted after intervention by the CRN. “Our awareness campaigns are restoring trust,” said Kauna Mathias David, a CSAD member. “Before, truck drivers feared using our roads because of theft. Now they travel freely.”

Progress and its fragility 

While peace is returning, it remains delicate. Decades of mistrust cannot vanish overnight. Violence still flares in other parts of Taraba and across the region.

Sustainability is also a concern. When the two-year COMITAS II project ended, communities like Lau and Zing struggled to keep peace activities running. 

Poor transport and communication sometimes delay reports of early warning signs, weakening response efforts. And although the project was formally handed over to the Taraba State Government, only Karim Lamido Local Government has replicated its peace structure. “Other councils are yet to follow,” lamented Wesley.

Still, the lessons are taking root. In Lau and Zing, residents who spoke to HumAngle said farmers and herders are discovering that peace is not the absence of conflict—it is the presence of dialogue, trust, and shared responsibility.

Mamuda Umar, a local herder, said people have realised that violence solves nothing. “We now prefer dialogue,” he said. “It’s not always easy, but it brings lasting peace.”

Mamuda survived one of the clashes in 2018. Photo: Shawanatu Ishaka/HumAngle