Displaced Families Struggle to Survive as Humanitarian Aid Dries Up in Northern Nigeria

A large farm stretches across the uneven terrain of Bauchi State in northeastern Nigeria, where even motorcycles struggle to navigate the rugged countryside. The land is parched, and the air carries a sense of endurance—of people surviving, not living. This place, Gonar Abacha, is no longer just a farmland; it is a refuge and a wound. 

Now known as Garin Shuwa, it serves as a displacement camp, named after the Shuwa Arab community, which makes up most of its residents. Sitting at the foot of Bauchi’s rocky hills, the camp sprawls in fragile huts made of sticks and thatch, where displaced families live with little support, waiting for help that feels farther away each day.

This is where Imam Abdulkarim, a middle-aged man, and his family found shelter after Boko Haram terrorists forced them to flee their home in Kachan Shuwa, a village in Marte Local Government Area of Borno State, about eight years ago.

Before arriving here, they had tasted the ups and downs of life in an internally displaced persons (IDPs) camp in Maiduguri, the Borno State capital. The overcrowding and hardships eventually compelled Abdulkarim and his family to seek an alternative. With the support of the country’s former First Lady, Maryam Abacha, they were offered this land as a temporary, unofficial residence. That was how they came to settle in Garin Shuwa and began farming on borrowed land.

“We are between 600 and 700 people, and you can find many different stories, but we were all affected by Boko Haram violence,” he told HumAngle. “Among us there are widows, orphans, and those who have lost their relatives. It’s a large community of victims, but we are now surviving as a big family here.”

But there is a problem.

There is no school for the children at Garin Shuwa. No clinic, market, or even a small centre for basic relief. A mosque built recently through community donations is the only structure with a semblance of permanence.

Abdulkarim has learned not to expect too much.

“School is not our biggest problem,” he said. “We have a small madrasa (school) where children recite the Qur’an. What we need, what we truly need, is clean water and a clinic. Just a place to take our sick ones without watching them die slowly.”

“If a woman wants to give birth, she must travel to the town. But the road… even motorcycle riders fear it,” he added. According to Abdulkarim, several women have died due to this. Their babies did not survive. And for years, nothing has changed.

The road from Gonar Abacha to Bauchi town stretches barely 15 kilometres, yet the journey can take over an hour. During the rainy season, it dissolves into mud, swallowing bikes and bodies alike. Women in labour sometimes begin the journey with prayer, knowing the odds stacked against them.

And yet, they stay. Not out of love for this place, but because they have nowhere else to go.

A few metres from where we stood with Abdulkarim, a group of women gathered around a well, lowering water into its shadowy mouth. The well is deep, painfully so, but they are exhausting their energy to fetch the water because they have nowhere else to go.

Fatima Ibrahim, a young widow whose husband was killed by Boko Haram terrorists, wiped the sweat from her brow and spoke without lifting her gaze. “This is all we have,” she said. “This single well serves the whole camp: for drinking, cooking, washing, even bathing.”

She said it gets worse when the dry season comes. The well runs empty, and then they need to start walking again, like before, searching for water like refugees in their refuge.

Two boreholes were once dug in the camp by a local politician and a government agency, “but all of them have stopped working,” Abdulkarim said, showing the location of abandoned taps that had long not been used.

Different location, same problem

Bauchi is not alone in this quiet devastation. Hundreds of kilometres away, the story is the same as that of Katsina State in northwestern Nigeria. 

Many women gathered around the house of Dahiru Mangal, a Nigerian businessman and founder of Max Air, a local airline. They are not city beggars by origin. They are displaced women, survivors of attacks too terrifying to forget, from villages devastated by terrorist attacks: Batsari, Faskari, Dandume, Jibia, and many more. Violence chased them away from their homes, but hunger kept them on the streets.

“I never imagined my children would sleep like this,” says Rabi Ado, a mother of four from Faskari who fled home with her family. Despite her younger age, Rabi’s face shows every sign of hardship: hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, and cracked skin.

In the night, Rabi and many other displaced families sleep under the open sky, spreading their mats on bare ground, with only thin wrappers to shield them from the cold night. 

“We ran from the terrorists,” she said. “They came in the night, shot our neighbours, and burnt our house. We walked for days and then got into a car. When we got here, we had nothing.”

Behind Mangal’s compound, a local philanthropy serves food to the displaced. It is a slight relief, given in dignity, but never enough. “It’s first come, first served,” said Hauwa, a young woman who arrived with her grandmother. “Sometimes we get food, sometimes we don’t. And we have to look for something.”.

Aside from begging, some women turn to petty trading, selling second-hand items to make ends meet. It is a small market of old goods, clothes, utensils, mats, shoes, and everyday items that they could never afford to buy new.

Children, especially young girls, join their mothers on the streets, and others go alone. They beg from shop owners and passing motorists, often returning with just enough for a sachet of water. The boys beg, too; others run errands, or sift through rubbish bins in search of scraps of food.

The biggest problem is that these families have never witnessed government support, especially with the continued humanitarian aid cuts. 

They have become invisible in the very state that promised them refuge. There is no shelter, no IDP camp registration, and no aid agency monitoring their condition. The streets are both their home and their shame.

“Even if someone wants to help,” said Talatu Habibu, an elderly woman, “they don’t know we are here. We are not on any list. No government official has come. We are not counted among the displaced.”

Katsina State authorities occasionally promise interventions, such as cash support, resettlement plans, and empowerment programs, but they rarely reach those sleeping under the open skies. And when aid comes, it is often through personal charities, not accountability systems.

“There are many like us,” Talatu told HumAngle. “We are multiplying. When more villages are attacked, they come here too. This place is turning into another camp, but no one calls it one.”

Several women interviewed said several people have come promising support, but they don’t see it. “They come and tell us that they are from the government or Abuja, ask us about how we live, promise support, go, and never come back,” Talatu explained.

The IDPs have learned not to trust the government, local NGOs, or people who appear as philanthropists, even journalists. 

“They were told that when journalists interview them, they get money when the story gets published,” said Aminu, a local fixer for HumAngle. This climate of abandonment and broken promises has silenced many women who refused to speak to the press. “They are tired,” Aminu explained. “And I don’t blame them.”

‘We are all back to square one’

Lack of support defines the two IDP camps in Bauchi, Katsina, and several other communities in the country. In Gonar Abacha, Abdulkarim recalls when USAID, working through a local NGO, used to conduct medical outreach to their camp. “Nurses used to come, check women, and give them medicine,” he said. “The last time was, I think, some months ago. They said they would come back again, but they never did.”

There are over 60,000 documented IDPs in Bauchi. Many have received some support from the State Emergency Management Agency (SEMA) and the North-East Development Commission (NEDC), but others remain completely unaided. Abdulhamid Sulaiman, the deputy chairman of the Bauchi IDP communities, explained the situation.

“For those within the IDP communities, they have gotten some support that includes foodstuffs, but the main support we receive from NGOs has been stopped,” he said.

The suspension of USAID-supported programmes has deepened the humanitarian crisis across the Northeast. Several local NGOs, previously dependent on USAID funding, have ceased operations. “We used to get small grants to train women on hygiene, to teach children how to read,” said Aliya Muhammad, formerly with a Bauchi-based NGO. “Now we are all back to square one.”

Humanitarian bodies working in northeastern Nigeria confirm that USAID’s pullback has negatively affected the delivery of essential services. According to surveys in the region, most local organisations relied heavily on USAID, and its withdrawal has crippled their ability to function.

A staff member of SEMA in Bauchi, who pleaded anonymity because he was not authorised to speak, told HumAngle that there is a huge crisis in the activities of SEMA, making it difficult to achieve its plans, especially in the areas of WASH.

“The issue is, SEMA doesn’t rely on any local or foreign NGO for funding. The real problem is that some of the activities that SEMA covers are supported by local NGOs, which rely on donors. As they stop working, the problem increases for us, and it’s difficult or even impossible to solve all of them,” he said.

In Katsina, the situation is even more dire.

Over 250,000 IDPs are spread throughout the state. While those in Bauchi get some support, they don’t even think of getting any in Katsina. “If you are not in an official camp,” said Jamilu Muhammad, a volunteer aid worker in Katsina, “you don’t get counted. And if you’re not counted, you don’t get help.”

In this informal camp, children are the worst hit. The thought of taking them to school sounds like a privilege. “Some of our children used to go to school back in the village,” said Aisha, a mother holding an underweight baby. “But now, they need food first. Survival comes before anything.”

While street begging in northern Nigeria has long been associated with Almajiri boys in Qur’anic schools, a troubling trend is emerging in Katsina: the rising number of girl beggars. Unlike their male counterparts, these girls are not in any structured learning environment. They have no mentors, no protection, and no sense of direction.

HumAngle met girls between the ages of six and ten, wandering markets, mosques, and public spaces with begging bowls in hand. They are visibly malnourished, uneducated, and unguarded. Their parents, displaced by terrorist violence in places like Kankara and Jibia, are too overwhelmed to offer more than basic survival.

The girls said they are the daughters of the IDPs who fled their homes in places like Kankara and Jibia in Katsina State due to terrorist violence. With no schools to attend and no safe spaces to grow, they are forced to contribute to their families’ survival through street begging.

This growing population of girl beggars presents alarming risks. Beyond the obvious deprivation, they face threats of abuse, harassment, and trafficking. Their visibility in public spaces without guardianship or protection leaves them particularly vulnerable to gender-based violence.

As the international community scales back aid and state capacity remains stretched, girls in IDP families are becoming invisible casualties of a system that overlooks their specific needs. “Without urgent intervention, a generation of girls is at risk of growing up in trauma and perpetual poverty,” an aid worker who simply identified as Aliya said.