For years, the hills and valleys of Plateau State have echoed not only with gunfire but with the quiet anguish of those left behind. Entire villages have vanished—replaced by memories, makeshift shelters, and the unspoken grief of survival.
In the shadows of Nigeria’s humanitarian crises, thousands of displaced women and girls across Plateau fight a silent war against hunger, trauma, and abandonment. With no official camps, no clear data, and little sustained aid, they exist in scattered obscurity—renting cramped rooms, seeking refuge in churches and schools, surviving on the goodwill of strangers.
Behind every statistic lies a name, a face, a story of loss and resilience. This is the hidden toll of neglect—a crisis that deepens each year while the world looks away.
Lives in Limbo
For over two decades, violent attacks across Plateau have uprooted more than a hundred communities, forcing tens of thousands of women and children to flee. Unlike other conflict zones, Plateau has no government-run internally displaced persons (IDP) camps. Survivors find brief refuge in schools or churches before moving into relatives’ homes or rented rooms in nearby towns.
Because of this fluid displacement, there is no reliable data. Estimates vary:
- In June 2025, the International Organization for Migration (IOM) reported that attacks in Bassa and Riyom affected 1,203 people from 373 households, including 672 children and 345 women.
- The Plateau State Peace Building Agency counted over 31,000 displaced households across five LGAs—Barkin Ladi, Bassa, Bokkos, Mangu, and Riyom.
- Amnesty International documented 38 attacks between 2023 and 2025, displacing 65,000 people.
- Bishop Ayuba Matawal, Chairman of the Bokkos IDP Committee, estimated over 40,000 displaced persons in Bokkos alone.
None of these figures are disaggregated by gender or age—an omission that cripples planning and aid.
Stories from the Shadows
In Barkin Ladi, 29-year-old Nandi Geoffrey still remembers the night her world burned. On Christmas Eve 2023, her newly dedicated home in Darwat was set ablaze. Her father-in-law was killed; her mother-in-law died days later from shock.
“We ran with only the clothes on our bodies,” she said softly in her dimly lit room in Gangare. “A Fulani family hid us for hours and gave me clothes for my baby who was vomiting.”
Months later, Nandi and other women risked returning home to mine tin for survival.
“Those who displaced us chased us again. They beat one woman mercilessly,” she wept.
Nearby, Nanlop Mandik, 23, lives with her husband and four children in a cracked room. She fled Manjahota while two months pregnant and later underwent a caesarean section.
“My BP is always high because of stress,” she said.
In Bokkos, Patience Sunday, pregnant and displaced from Minjing in May 2025, struggles daily.
“I’m always hungry and uncomfortable. I need help,” she said.
Sarah Hassan, who fled Margif, gave birth a month later.
“A concerned resident took us in because the cold was too much,” she recalled.
Others, like Josephine Julius from Hokk, suffer chronic illness without treatment.
“I have constant headaches and stomach pain but no money for the hospital,” she said.
Many others echo the same refrain: no blankets, no food, no safety.
Lost Childhoods
Displacement has shattered more than homes—it has stolen education.
Ngunret Mimang, 15, once a student at Government Secondary School, Kopmur, fled Mushere after attacks.
“I wish my family could be together again,” she whispered.
Favour Ishaku, from Mbor, dreams of returning to school.
“Some girls were sent away to continue their education, but I’m still waiting for my mother’s promise,” she said.
These voices mirror a generation slipping into illiteracy—a generation growing up on survival, not learning.
Mothers in Unsafe Spaces
Bishop Matawal of Bokkos IDP Committee said nearly 200 women gave birth in the 13 informal camps once operated there.
“Now, women still give birth in unsafe conditions. There’s no special government programme targeting them,” he lamented.
Government emergency responses, he added, are often swift but short-lived:
“Between government and NGOs, NGOs do more for the IDPs.”
Broken Promises and Shrinking Aid
Despite countless pledges, official support remains meagre.
A ₦10 billion resettlement fund announced in 2018 was never released. The 2024 Renewed Hope Agriculture Empowerment Project covered just 300 IDPs in Bassa—“grossly inadequate,” residents said.
At the state level, SEMA’s 2025 budget shows ₦248 million allocated to IDPs, but only ₦56.9 million released by August.
“Budgets are just records,” admitted SEMA’s Chuwang Sha. “Implementation is zero.”
Sha added that SEMA has no data on pregnant or breastfeeding women.
“Government’s efforts have been inadequate. We’ve not been mobilised enough to handle emergencies,” he said.
Rights on Paper, Suffering in Practice
Nigeria’s Constitution, the African Charter, and UN Principles on Internal Displacement all guarantee IDPs’ rights to dignity, health, and security—rights that mean little in Plateau.
Kiyenpiya Mafuyai of the National Human Rights Commission noted:
“The lack of access to proper antenatal and postnatal care violates their right to health and breaches international humanitarian standards.”
The Nigerian Red Cross, working with the State Primary Healthcare Board, provides emergency referrals, but resources are stretched thin.
“Pregnant women and lactating mothers need more support,” said NRC spokesperson Mafeng Mark.
Meanwhile, Operation Rainbow admits that limited space prevents segregation of women and nursing mothers in camps—another breach of humanitarian law.
Security Efforts, Lingering Gaps
Governor Caleb Mutfwang has earned praise for visiting IDPs and deploying mobile police squadrons in Gashish and Bassa. He also established a Resettlement Committee (2024) and a Fact-Finding Committee on Safe Returns (2025).
“Their reports will not gather dust,” he promised.
Yet weak inter-agency coordination persists. Police spokesperson Alfred Alabo claimed officers protect displaced persons, but camp visits in Bokkos showed otherwise.
Operation Rainbow’s Gender Desk Officer, Linda Peter, admitted that sexual-violence referrals are “informal.” The Gender and Equal Opportunities Commission’s Nene Dung confirmed, “We have not received any official reports from any security agencies.”
Former camp resident Precious Ngulukun recalled:
“We used to see two or three policemen. Later, they stopped coming. We were left on our own.”
Community Compassion as the Last Refuge
In the vacuum of state action, communities carry the burden.
Displaced families rely on relatives for rent. Women like Nanlop brew kunu to survive.
“Sometimes we just drink it ourselves because people have no money to buy,” she said.
Teachers like Shetu Monday in Barkin Ladi organise informal lessons for displaced children.
“Many girls who drop out because of insecurity become pregnant,” she warned.
Churches and civil society groups, especially faith-based organisations, remain the only consistent support.
“These acts of solidarity sustain families but cannot replace a coordinated state response,” said Dr. Raymond Juryit, Executive Secretary of the State Primary Healthcare Board.
Unkept Promises, Unending Pain
Since 2018, successive federal and state governments have repeated vows to rebuild Plateau’s shattered communities—none fulfilled.
Nigeria’s 2025 Humanitarian Needs and Response Plan is only 16% funded, leaving agencies overstretched.
In one camp in Qua’an Pan, six women gave birth, one with twins—all “in very poor sanitary conditions,” said SEMA’s Sha.
“Some of us used rags for baby napkins,” Nandi said. “I sleep anywhere I find space.”
A Call for Action
Nigeria ratified the African Union Kampala Convention in 2012, binding it to protect and assist IDPs. Yet for displaced women and girls in Plateau, those commitments remain hollow words.
Until security and humanitarian responses match the scale of the crisis, the mothers, widows, and daughters of Plateau will continue to bear the heaviest burden of a violence they did nothing to provoke.
Their courage is immense—but compassion alone cannot rebuild their lives.
Source Marie-Therese Nanlong
