•“We use rags for baby napkins”
By Marie-Therese Nanlong
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 and makeshift shelters. 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 report exposes the hidden toll of neglect — a system that promises protection but delivers little, and a crisis that deepens each year while the world looks away. It is a chronicle of strength amid state failure, and a call to confront the injustice of a people left to rebuild their lives alone.
Jos – For more than two decades, waves of violent attacks across Plateau State have uprooted over a hundred communities, forcing tens of thousands of women and children into desperate survival outside their ancestral homes. Their stories reveal a deepening humanitarian crisis, one worsened by broken promises and dwindling aid that push survivors further into poverty and despair.
Unlike other conflict-torn regions, Plateau has no centralised government-run camps for internally displaced persons (IDPs). Survivors find brief shelter in public schools, and worship places before leaving for relatives’ homes or renting small rooms in safer towns. Because of this fluid pattern, there is no reliable data on IDPs. Public estimates vary widely, but all agree that the numbers are in thousands.
In June 2025, the International Organization for Migration reported that “a series of attacks by armed bandits in Bassa and Riyom LGAs affected 1,203 individuals from 373 households, including 672 children and 345 women.”
The Plateau State Peace Building Agency later disclosed that “over 31,000 households have been displaced across Barkin Ladi, Bassa, Bokkos, Mangu and Riyom LGAs,” while many ancestral lands remain occupied by armed groups.
Amnesty International’s May 2025 report chronicled 38 attacks in Plateau State, displacing 65,000 people in two years. Bishop Ayuba Matawal, Chairman of the Bokkos IDP Committee, estimates over 40,000 displaced persons in Bokkos alone. The Stefanos Foundation lists 27,927 IDPs across 13 communities in Bokkos LGA. Yet none of these figures are disaggregated by gender or age, making effective planning almost impossible.
Lives on hold
In Barkin Ladi and Bokkos, survivors now live in cramped rooms rented with the help of relatives. There is no official support, only goodwill from churches, non-governmental organisations, and people of goodwill. Some IDPs, weary of interviews and unfulfilled promises, bristle at being called “displaced.” “We want security to enable us return home, not endless promises,” one woman said curtly.
For 29-year-old Nandi Geoffrey, Christmas Eve 2023 became a night of horror. Her newly dedicated home in Darwat, Barkin Ladi, was torched; her father-in-law was killed; her mother-in-law later died from shock. “We ran with only the clothes on our bodies,” Nandi recalled in her dimly lit room in Gangare, Barkin Ladi. “A Fulani family hid us for some hours and gave me clothes for the baby who was stooling and vomiting.” Months later, she and other displaced women risked returning home to mine tin for survival. “Those who displaced us chased us again,” she wept. “They beat one woman mercilessly.”
Across town, Nanlop Mandik, 23, lives with her husband and four children in a cracked single room. She fled Manjahota while two months pregnant and later underwent a caesarean section. “My BP is always high because of stress,” she added.
In Bokkos, pregnant Patience Sunday, displaced from Minjing in May 2025, summed up her ordeal: “I’m always hungry and uncomfortable. I need help.” A pastor arranged her antenatal care.
Sarah Hassan, who fled Margif and gave birth a month later, said, “A concerned resident took us in because the cold was too much.”
Josephine Julius from Hokk battles chronic illness but cannot afford hospital bills. “I suffer constant headaches and stomach pain but there’s no money for treatment,” she said. Others like Dorcas Joshua and Janet Mark lamented, “We don’t have blankets; our babies are coughing.”
Lost childhoods
Beyond hunger and illness, many children’s education has been destroyed. Ngunret Mimang, 15, once attended Government Secondary School, Kopmur, but fled Mushere to live with relatives in Jos. “I wish my family could be together again,” she said softly. 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 to enroll me in a new school,” she murmured. These young voices unveil the silent collapse of education among displaced families, a collapse that risks breeding a new cycle of poverty and vulnerability.
Fragile camps, scant care
The temporary shelters for the displaced lack proper facilities for women. Bishop Matawal noted; “When we had 13 camps, almost 200 women gave birth. Now, women still give birth in unsafe conditions. There’s no special government programme targeting them.” He added that while government’s initial emergency responses were swift, “follow-up intervention is very, very slow. Between government and NGOs, NGOs do more for the IDPs.”
Aid gaps and government failure
Despite repeated federal pledges, tangible support remains scarce. A ¦ 10 billion resettlement fund announced in 2018 was never released. In August 2024, the Federal Government launched the Renewed Hope Agriculture Empowerment Project for just 300 IDPs in Bassa, an effort residents called “grossly inadequate.”
Agro-Rangers of the Nigeria Security and Civil Defence Corps now guard some farmlands, while NEMA and the Plateau State Emergency Management Agency (SEMA) conduct periodic impact assessments. But even officials admit that funding shortfalls cripple response.
A senior NEMA officer lamented, “Widespread emergencies and limited funds hinder us from doing what we should for the IDPs.” At State level, SEMA’s budget tells the same story, of ¦ 248 million earmarked for IDPs in 2025, only ¦ 56.9 million had been released by August. “Budgets are just records,” said SEMA’s Chuwang Sha. “Implementation is zero.”
He admitted the agency lacks data on pregnant or breastfeeding women and that available funds go mainly to “food items, buckets, blankets, mattresses and mats which are never enough.”
“Government’s efforts have been inadequate. We’ve not been mobilised enough to handle emergencies,” Sha added.
For displaced Simon Dauda from Kuzen, Gashish District, “Government keeps making promises. I was given a few roofing sheets and nails, nothing to rebuild with. You keep hearing about committees, but nothing changes.” Nandi echoed similar frustration, “We were told pregnant women would get special support. Some got small packs, but many of us got nothing. Till today, we haven’t heard from them again.”
Rights on paper, not in practice
Nigeria’s Constitution, the African Charter and UN Principles on Internal Displacement all guarantee IDPs’ rights to dignity, health, and security. Yet the conditions in Plateau defy these obligations.
Kiyenpiya Mafuyai of the National Human Rights Commission warned, “The lack of access to proper antenatal and postnatal care violates their right to health and breaches international humanitarian standards.”
The Nigerian Red Cross collaborates with the State Primary Healthcare Development Board to provide referrals and emergency care. “Pregnant women and lactating mothers need more support,” said NRC spokesperson Mafeng Mark. National policy explicitly guarantees displaced women privacy, dignity, and segregation from unrelated men, rights the camps routinely violate. Operation Rainbow, a State security outfit, admitted that “limited space prevents adequate segregation of women and nursing mothers.” Under the international Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination against Women (CEDAW), governments must ensure free services and adequate nutrition during pregnancy and lactation. Yet in Plateau, these rights remain largely theoretical.
Still, Governor Caleb Mutfwang has been praised for his personal engagement. His spokesperson Gyang Bere said, “He visited IDPs in several LGAs, engaged national security chiefs, and secured new police mobile squadrons in Gashish and Bassa.” In 2024 he set up a Resettlement Committee and, in May 2025, a Fact-Finding Committee on safe returns. The governor promised that their reports “will not be left to gather dust.”
Security efforts and lingering gaps
Despite the governor’s steps, weak inter-agency coordination undermines progress. Police Public Relations Officer Alfred Alabo said, “The Police ensure protection for displaced persons in camps. We assist women in labour to get to nearby health facilities, and we work with mobile clinics.” Yet visits to Bokkos camps revealed no police presence, only volunteers coordinating displaced families.
Operation Rainbow’s Coordinator Brig. Gen. Gakji Shipi (rtd) claimed the outfit had a “robust system” for gathering intelligence and referring sexual-violence cases.
But its Gender Desk Officer Linda Peter conceded the referrals were “informal” Nene Dung, from the State Gender and Equal Opportunities Commission confirmed the Commission had “not received any official reports from any security agencies.” Former camp resident Precious Ngulukun recalled, “When I was there, two or three policemen and some NSCDC men were seen around but later withdrawn. We were left on our own.” A local vigilante, Ephraim from Manguna, observed, “We only see security personnel when important visitors come. Afterwards, you find three or four men guarding hundreds of people.”
Community resilience
Amid institutional neglect, community compassion has become the real safety net. Relatives and friends help displaced families rent rooms. Nanlop now brews kunu for sale, “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. They’re vulnerable in these new environments,” she said.
Faith communities and NGOs also step in. The Nigerian Red Cross partners with the State Primary Healthcare Board to refer pregnant women to hospitals. Dr Raymond Juryit, the Board’s Executive Secretary, said care is largely provided “at the local government level.” Community development groups mobilise relief, while churches open doors to offer succour. These acts of solidarity sustain families but cannot replace a coherent, well-funded State response.
Broken promises, growing need
Over the years, federal and state promises have piled up without fulfillment. In 2018, then-Vice President Yemi Osinbajo announced ¦ 10 billion to support Plateau farmers and displaced communities, but never delivered.
In 2020, then-Minister of Humanitarian Affairs Sadiya Umar-Farouk pledged to help IDPs return home, another unkept vow. Successive leaders, including former Governor Simon Lalong, current Governor Caleb Mutfwang, and Minister of State for Defence Bello Matawalle, all repeated the same assurances. None materialised.
Meanwhile, Nigeria’s 2025 Humanitarian Needs and Response Plan remains only 16 percent funded. NEMA officials privately admit that “resources are dwindling.” Across Plateau, new waves of displacement continue. In Qua’an Pan, SEMA’s Sha confirmed that “six women gave birth in the camp, one had twins, all in very poor sanitary conditions.”
For women like Nandi, these statistics translate into daily suffering. “Some of us used rags for baby napkins,” she said. Patience Sunday added, “I sleep anywhere I find space. I’m always hungry. I have no money to buy food or baby things.”
A call for action
Nigeria ratified the African Union Kampala Convention in 2012, which obliges States to “provide necessary funds for protection and assistance to IDPs.” International Human Rights Law also requires governments to ensure access to food, water, healthcare, and shelter.
Yet in Plateau, displaced women and girls continue to live “abandoned by the system,” trapped in hardship and invisibility. Their courage and resilience remain unmatched, but compassion alone cannot rebuild their shattered lives.
Until security and humanitarian interventions match the scale of the crisis, the mothers, widows, and girls of Plateau will keep carrying the heaviest burden of a violence they did nothing to provoke.
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