Scars of War (II): The Young Lives Torn Apart by Boko Haram

When Boko Haram stormed Bama town in Borno, northeastern Nigeria, on Sept. 2, 2014, seven-year-old Rahama Haruna Maibale and five-year-old Mustapha Bukar were living there with their families. The terror group overran the town, forcing out soldiers and embarking on a house-to-house search for civil servants and those who opposed them.

Mustapha’s father, a tax collector, was one of their targets. When the terrorists knocked on his door, he stepped out—only to be shot dead. His wife was murdered moments later, her only ‘crime’ being her loyalty to her husband. At that moment, Mustapha’s 15-year-old sister grabbed their toddler brother, took Mustapha’s hand, and fled Bama on foot, trekking 26 miles to Konduga for safety.

When Mustapha and his siblings arrived in Konduga, they met hundreds of others seeking refuge away from Bama; his relatives from Maiduguri took them with them.

Rahama’s family tried to escape, but they were not fast enough. As they stepped outside, soldiers directed residents towards the barracks for safety. They followed the crowd, but Rahama’s older brother was separated from them in the chaos. He was never seen again.

At first, they found shelter, but when the soldiers fled, abandoning their posts, they were left defenceless. After a month, their food supply ran out. By then, Rahama’s mother had heard harrowing stories—women and girls being forcibly married off, subjected to unspeakable abuse. She decided they had to escape.

“We were told not to carry anything so Boko Haram wouldn’t suspect us,” Rahama recalled. “We followed a woman who knew a village along the Bama-Konduga road. When they stopped us, we said we were visiting relatives. That’s how we made it to Konduga on foot.”

A journey of horror

Rahama witnessed horrors few could fathom. She saw people shot dead in the streets, bombs ripping through her town, and soldiers stripping off their uniforms as they fled alongside civilians. She lost two brothers, trekked over 40 kilometres in two days, and waded through a river thick with bodies and stained with blood.

As Rahama crossed, the water crept up to her neck, and she screamed in terror until a man they met helped her to safety. Boko Haram seized her home, and everywhere she turned, she saw smoke rising from burning houses. Her mother, consumed by fear, suffered repeated panic attacks.

Rahama still carries the trauma with her. Even years later, ordinary sights and sounds—smoke rising from a fire, the crack of a pot lid falling, the scent of burning wood during harmattan—pull her back to that terrifying time.

The memories consumed her until she gradually interacted more with other children. Returning to school helped her feel safer, though she often felt detached in class and haunted by the past.

“I’ve started to feel a bit better now, but I still think about what happened,” she told HumAngle. “I wonder about the children who experienced so much but haven’t had a chance to even go to school. Many are left to sleep in shop awnings, fending for themselves. The scariest thing is that they may grow up to join Boko Haram.”

The past is never far away for Rahama, Mustapha, and several other children. “Up to today, if I see soldiers or guns or hear a gunshot or loud sounds, it reminds me of the ordeal,” Mustapha said. “During harmattan, when the hazy sky resembles smoke, it reminds me of what happened.”

Now a young man, Mustapha still carries the weight of those memories. The trauma lingers in unexpected ways. “A Civilian JTF fighter once told us to lie down and shoot at Boko Haram militants on motorcycles,” he recounted. “We did, and the others ran. He told us to run, too. Now, whenever I see the Civilian JTF on motorcycles, I go back to that moment.”

Over time, Mustapha’s emotional state has evolved. While still haunted by his memories, he has slowly started interacting with peers in his new environment. However, no structured psychological support has been provided to him to address his trauma. His coping mechanisms are largely self-developed, and moments of emotional distress remain frequent.

However, the fear of Boko Haram or any armed conflict still looms large in their lives. “The events of our lives are not something we will ever forget,” Mustapha said. Like Rahama, he feels a wave of fear whenever he sees a group of soldiers or people carrying knives or cutlasses, as it vividly brings back memories of his experiences with Boko Haram.

The emotional toll of war

Psychologists warn that children who witness extreme violence suffer lasting consequences. Clinical psychologist Longkat Enock Tetok told HumAngle that many develop post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), struggling with chronic fear, emotional numbness, and flashbacks.

“Losing a parent disrupts a child’s sense of security, often leading to anxiety or even thoughts of revenge,” he said. “Without intervention, they may struggle with relationships, self-worth, and trust for the rest of their lives.”

These children have endured multiple layers of trauma—primary, secondary, and tertiary. Primary trauma comes from directly witnessing or experiencing violence. It remains primary even when someone sees or hears evidence of the event. Tertiary trauma, on the other hand, affects those who learn about such incidents through news or narration, making conflict-related trauma a widespread, far-reaching consequence.

Many of these children have never received psychological support and now exhibit clear signs of PTSD. Like Rahama and Mustapha, each has their own triggers—certain sounds, sights, or even smells that send them back to the horrors they survived. Without intervention, they remain trapped in cycles of distress, unable to move forward.

Experts say timely intervention can help these children heal. They need mentors, psychiatrists, psychologists, and mental health professionals to guide them through recovery, often without the need for medication. Without such support, the consequences ripple outward, fueling substance abuse, crime, and moral decline, deepening the crisis.

Before the conflict, communities had strong social structures, with local leaders actively maintaining order. Many of these leaders are now displaced or disempowered, leaving communities fractured. Experts argue that restoring these local structures is key to rebuilding stability and ensuring children—and their communities—receive the support they so desperately need.