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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