The Silence of the Land: A Survivor's Account of the Bokkos Bloodshed

 

In the quiet expanse of Plateau State’s Bokkos Local Government Area, life has always revolved around the rhythm of farming. Families, like Uren’s, survive by cultivating the fertile land with potatoes, maize, and the fruits of nature’s unpredictable bounty. Yet, for this small community in Daffo, survival is not just about planting seeds. It is about holding onto life amidst the recurring tide of violence that has turned their homes into battlegrounds.

Uren, a 17-year-old student in SS3 at GSS Manguna, recounts the harrowing experience that struck her village one fateful Wednesday morning. “On the weekend, we had our yearly festival,” she says, her voice shaking with memories. “People came, not because things were perfect, but because the festival reminded us of our strength. It reminded us that we’re still here.” However, for Uren, that strength was tested when death arrived on her doorstep in the form of ruthless invaders, leaving her family and community scarred and shaken.

The events unfolded swiftly, but their consequences have left an indelible mark. Uren describes the morning when fear crept into her bones, not because of an unseen enemy, but because she felt something sinister was coming. Her literature teacher had once made her feel the weight of Oswald’s Nightfall in Soweto, a poem about violence and fear, but Uren could not have known that the words would take on such a grim reality.

In the quiet hours before dawn, Uren’s family had set out to work the land, a normal day by all standards. But as they labored to clear the soil for the next planting season, something felt wrong. The familiar sound of motorbikes revving in the distance suddenly pierced the morning air, followed by the sharp crack of gunfire. The attackers, on motorcycles, circled the farm and brought with them terror. Armed not only with guns, but with knives and a barbaric resolve, they moved in like wolves hunting their prey.

Uren’s parents, aware of the gravity of the situation, tried to protect their children. Her mother, terrified, whispered only one word: “Home.” But Uren’s father, knowing the danger, held her back and pushed his family into a narrow hole in the ground – a place of refuge that offered no certainty of survival. It was here that Uren witnessed the slaughter of her loved ones. From the small crack in the earth, she saw her father, her brother, and her mother surrounded by the attackers. Blood flowed, screams filled the air, and the attackers, chanting “God is great” in their native tongue, slaughtered without mercy.

As the raiders moved on, leaving destruction in their wake, Uren’s world shattered. Her father died from his injuries before dawn, and her two younger sisters, left behind in their home, were also killed. The bloodshed seemed endless, and Uren, barely able to comprehend the horror, passed out from the shock.

When she regained consciousness, she learned the full extent of the devastation. Her family was gone, and the pain she felt was something she had never known before. In an area already rife with conflict, where the sound of gunshots and the arrival of raiders is an all-too-common occurrence, this attack marked a devastating shift for Uren and her surviving siblings.

In her account, Uren reflects on the broader situation in Plateau State. She speaks of the mounting violence that has plagued the region: Jos, Riyom, Bassa, and countless other towns have all been targets of a seemingly unstoppable wave of violence. The attackers, often identified by their language and their method of operation, are believed to have ties to larger militant groups, though their true identities remain murky.

But Uren’s story is not just about pain. It is also a stark reminder of the systemic failure that allows such violence to continue unchecked. The people of Bokkos, like many others in Plateau, are caught between two horrors: the brutality of the attackers and the impotence of the state to protect them. Uren raises an important question: How long must a community live in fear before they are forced to take matters into their own hands?

“How long do you stay law-abiding while the law does not see your blood as worth avenging?” Uren asks. “How long do you bow to a system that rewards those who live outside it?”

Her story, like so many others, speaks to the larger crisis in Nigeria – a crisis where communities, once bound by tradition and the pursuit of peace, are now forced to reckon with violence on a scale unimaginable to those who once only knew the safety of the land.

Now, as Uren and her surviving siblings try to rebuild their lives, the memories of what they lost will never fade. For them, the land that once offered nourishment and hope has become a reminder of the tragedy that tore through their world. The invaders may have come for their lives, but in doing so, they awakened a new kind of resolve in Uren. A resolve borne of survival, not out of vengeance, but out of necessity.

As the community reels from this latest attack, one thing is clear: the scars of violence, once inflicted, are not easily healed. And as Uren’s story attests, memory—when soaked in blood—never forgets.

*written by Uren, a 17-year-old student in SS3 at GSS Manguna