A Morning of Celebration, a Night of Terror: The Day I Lost My Daughter

 A Morning of Celebration, a Night of Terror: The Day I Lost My Daughter

By Fatima Yahaya Magume

The morning of Saturday was supposed to be one of peace and celebration. We gathered at the Hussainiyya for a flag-hoisting ceremony to mark the holy birth month of the Prophet Muhammad (SAWA). As organizers, we were busy with the final preparations, ready to replace the Ashura flag with that of the Maulud.

The peace was shattered by the wail of a siren.

We hurried outside to find armed soldiers surrounding the building. When some of our men asked why they had come, the answer was absurd: they were looking for a lost beret. The lie hung in the air, thin and unconvincing. We knew then that something was terribly wrong.

After a tense retreat, the shooting began.

We scrambled inside, the air cracking with gunfire. Almost immediately, we started bringing in the wounded and the dead. Through the chaos, we saw soldiers dragging away the bodies of those they had just killed. Their numbers swelled, and they laid siege to the Hussainiyya, their relentless shooting only subsiding as midnight approached.

Then, a voice boomed from a loudspeaker, ordering everyone out, threatening to break in. We were in the middle of prayers. We turned off the lights, hoping for mercy, for reason. Instead, they flooded the building with a powerful searchlight. They knew we were unarmed, yet they launched grenades at us.

The main gate shattered. They stormed in with full force, firing without discrimination at those deep in prayer and those already lying injured on the floor. They showed no mercy, executing the wounded at point-blank range.

As dawn broke, they brought in petrol. They set our sanctuary ablaze, intent on burning it all to the ground. The air filled with the cries of children—young students who attended Islamic lessons here on weekends. They were traumatized, hungry, and terrified, forced to watch as their friends were killed before their eyes. I managed to hide a group of them in a nearby part of the complex, but the soldiers torched that building, too. Their pity for children was nonexistent.

We escaped the inferno only to be waylaid. They ordered us to remove our hijabs. I refused, explaining it was our religious dress. My defiance enraged them. They beat me savagely; the blow from an axe handle on my back is a pain I will never forget. They chained us, dragged us along the ground, and threw us into a military truck like cargo, piled atop children and corpses.

The barracks offered no respite, only deeper circles of hell. A female soldier slapped me repeatedly; another beat me until my vision failed. They then threw us into a filthy, unused swimming pool. There, we found at least thirty young Almajiri children who told us they had been arrested while sleeping.

I do not believe one human being can do to another what they did to us. They demonized us with abusive words, falsely accusing us of blocking their convoy. It was a lie. We were praying in our place of worship.

I survived this ordeal. But I did not escape whole.

The soldiers killed my daughter.

May Allah bear witness to what was done to us, and may He grant us justice.

Culled from the book "Survivors of the December 2015 Massacre of Shiites in Nigeria: The Unsilenced Voices". 

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A Nightmare in Gyallesu, Zaria: How I Survived the Army's Attack

 A Nightmare in Gyallesu, Zaria: How I Survived the Army's Attack

By Nasiru Abdulmalik

"They said, 'Make sure you kill them all.' I was shot, surrounded by fire, and trapped with the dead. This is the moment I chose to climb, to limp through a nightmare, and fight for my life. My name is Nasiru Abdulmalik, and this is my story of survival in the Gyallesu attack.

Read my full, harrowing account of endurance, loss, and the slim chance of escape. Share to let the world know what happened.

My name is Nasiru Abdulmalik, from Saminaka in Kaduna State. What I witnessed in the Gyallesu area of Zaria in December 2015 was not just an attack; it was a descent into hell.

It began on the night of December 12th. We had just arrived in the area when the soldiers came. The night erupted with gunfire, a relentless barrage that lasted until dawn. As a First Aid volunteer, my duty was to the wounded. We scrambled in the darkness, evacuating victims to a temporary medics centre, desperately bandaging wounds and trying to stem the bleeding.

The next morning, after dawn prayers, I stepped outside. The soldiers had been reinforced and were everywhere. Near the second transformer, close to Sheikh Zakzaky's residence, a bullet found me. I was carried to Sheikh Maina’s house, which had become a makeshift clinic for the wounded. The cold was biting, so I was moved to a passageway where it was warmer. It was a small mercy, soon to be drowned in horror.

From our refuge, we heard the world outside disintegrate. The shelling was constant. Then, the sounds grew closer. They entered the very house we were in. We listened, frozen in terror, as they moved from room to room. The sound of gunshots was followed by an eerie silence. They were executing the critically wounded, even shooting those who were already dead. Then came the smell of petrol and the roar of flames as they set the bodies ablaze. We heard their footsteps above us, burning everything of value. One voice, chillingly clear, cut through the chaos: “There are lots of people out there who are not dead! So make sure you kill them all.” We prayed in silence, hidden in the dark, and by some miracle, they passed us by.

By Monday morning, I knew I had to try to escape. I told the others—the wounded and the whole—that I was leaving. I crept out, tiptoeing through a landscape of death, my feet navigating a grisly path between charred corpses. Nearing the gate, I saw the shadow of a soldier and retreated. My only way out was over a wall. Agony shot through my wounded body as I limped, climbed, and fell to the other side.

I moved like a ghost through abandoned compounds until I found a house to hide in. I broke a window to get into a room that felt like a disused chicken coop, then squeezed myself under a cupboard. Later, I spotted another survivor hiding outside and brought him in. Our sanctuary was short-lived. We heard shooting, and then saw smoke. They were setting Sheikh Maina’s house on fire.

On Tuesday, the soldiers found our hiding place. A kick shattered the door, and we were dragged out. A bayonet was plunged into my head; blood poured down my face. They told me to cover it with a rug. After robbing us of our money and phones, they marched us to our leader’s residence. Later, they took us to their barracks and down into an underground cell—a place of torture with a staircase leading into darkness. They tied our hands behind our backs with our own belts.

I was too weak to walk. When one soldier threatened to leave me, another simply threw me over his shoulder and dumped me into a detention room. We were chained, packed in with other abducted brothers, sisters, and even children. That night, we were forced to lie face down. There was no food, no water. The only responses to pleas or movement were the crack of a belt or the weight of a boot.

In the morning, they ordered us to stand. Among us was a man, also tied, who was riddled with gunshot wounds. His suffering was immense, his body writhing in a futile battle against death. By dawn, he was gone.

His death seemed to stir a single conscience—a female soldier who demanded the wounded be taken to a hospital. Her insistence was our salvation. The wounded were separated, and we were finally taken to an army hospital. The sight was harrowing: men and women with shattered limbs, their bodies broken. Finally, that evening, we were transferred to the ABU Teaching Hospital in Shika.

There, for the first time, we were given proper medical treatment. There, for the first time, we were given food. The nightmare was over, but the memory of what we survived in Gyallesu is a scar that will never fade.

Culled from the book "Survivors of the December 2015 Massacre of Shiites in Nigeria: The Unsilenced Voices". 

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The Night the Soldiers Came: A Survivor’s Account

 The Night the Soldiers Came: 

A Survivor’s Account

By Hajiya Ramatu Abdullahi

The siege began in the afternoon, a slow, tightening noose around our Hussainiyya Islamic centre along Sokoto road, Sabon gari, Zaria. And by 8 p.m., in Gyellesu neighborhood the silence shattered into the crackle of gunfire. They had surrounded us, and the shelling began. The world narrowed to those four blocked streets leading to our leader, Sheikh Zakzaky’s residence, and the desperate task of evacuating the wounded.

We were a chain of frantic hands and whispered prayers, pulling injured women to safety. By 2 a.m., we had lost count of the dead and dying. We worked in a daze, each moment expecting it would be our turn to be carried away. Among the first to be martyred was Malam Hamza Yawuri, the commander of our volunteers—a loss that struck us to our core.

Through frantic phone calls, we learned the outside world was protesting, but in Zaria, we were trapped in a private war. The Nigerian army treated our community like a film-set battlefield, their shelling an unrelenting storm that lasted through the night.

Dawn offered no respite. After the Subhi prayers, the assault intensified. During the night, their shots came from the Kongo road, slowed only by the barricades we had built. In the darkness, we smashed the bulbs when the power returned, hoping to hide from their sights. But they had powerful lights that turned night into day. They set kiosks ablaze, using the flames to target us from a distance.

By first light, they had crossed our final defenses. We had no weapons but our faith. Our only defense was the Takbir—"Allahu Akbar"—and the futile, brave hail of stones thrown by our youth. They kept killing, pushing relentlessly toward the Sheikh’s home. They blew the gate open and advanced in three directions. The air itself was on fire with the explosions of what I later learned were rocket-propelled grenades. Survival felt less like a choice and more like a random twist of fate.

The Bullet That Found Me

My own moment came near the Sheikh's residence. I had taken cover behind our parked car, a flimsy shield I hoped would protect us. Two young girls were just in front of me. When they fell, I thought they were ducking for cover. It was only when I moved to help one that I realized the truth—they were already gone, lifeless from the soldiers' bullets.

As I tried to drag one girl toward a nearby house, a searing pain shot through me. A bullet had found its mark. I managed to get us both inside, where two wounded men soon joined us.

I was about to go back for the second girl when I saw my elder sister stumble into the house. She had been with me behind the car. Now, she collapsed, blood pouring from four bullet wounds in her back. As I struggled to lift her, the soldiers found our shelter.

I couldn’t carry her. She was too heavy. We women tried together, but our strength was no match for the terror. I could only drag her into a bedroom as the soldiers entered the main room.

Hiding, I watched a scene from a nightmare. A soldier stood over the wounded—the two men and the other women. One by one, he shot them where they lay. The gunshots were methodical, final. When he finally left, I rushed out to find them still, lying in a silent, spreading pool of blood.

A Premeditated Massacre

They call this a roadblock incident. I call it a premeditated massacre.

If a road was blocked, why was the punishment a genocide kilometres away? Why target the Sheikh’s home and every remote place associated with our Movement? Why kill everyone in sight?

The blockade was an excuse, a flimsy alibi for a plan already written. They came with an ulterior motive, and they were looking for a reason.

My message to this government is simple: you can shoot us, but you cannot shoot our faith. You can massacre our bodies, but you will never wipe our spirit from existence.

Culled from the book "Survivors of the December 2015 Massacre of Shiites in Nigeria: The Unsilenced Voices". 

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