Saturday Noon to Sunday Dawn: The Genocide We Survived in Zaria
We were deep in prayer inside the Hussainiyya complex, hearts bowed in quiet devotion, when a shrill whistle sliced through the air — twice — like a dagger to the soul. The sound was alien, cold, and ominous. Trembling, we stepped outside and froze: truckloads of soldiers surrounded the grounds, their boots thudding like thunder. Another whistle shrieked, and they leapt from the vehicles, rifles gleaming under the sun.
Panic surged through me. I darted back inside, voice breaking as I cried out to the brothers:
“Soldiers! They’re blowing whistles — armed to the teeth — and the trucks are already fleeing!”
A few brave brothers went forward, their voices steady despite the fear clawing at all of us. They pleaded for answers. The soldiers sneered — said they were searching for a missing helmet. The brothers begged them to turn back; it couldn’t be here. The lie twisted again — now they claimed it was a passing-out parade, and they’d been sent to manage it.
But the Hussainiyya was miles from any barracks. Parades had never brought soldiers before. “Please, go back,” the brothers urged. The troops feigned retreat toward the railway junction, and some of our men, still hoping for peace, followed them to the polo pitch. But the soldiers circled back — like predators scenting prey.
The confrontation flared again, voices raw with fear and disbelief. Then — in an instant — hell erupted. The soldiers dropped into firing positions and unleashed a storm of bullets. The air split with gunfire, the ground trembled beneath the blast. We cried out in defiance, our voices trembling but unbroken:
“Labbayk Ya Rasulillah! Labbayk Ya Ali!”
Tears streamed down faces; our chants rose like fragile shields against the rain of death.
The massacre began that Saturday around 12:30 p.m. — and it did not end until Sunday’s dawn. Explosions tore through the Hussainiyya, shattering our sanctuary into rubble and smoke. The air thickened with screams, dust, and the bitter stench of gunpowder. When silence fell, it was only to make room for horror. Soldiers invaded the ruins, boots crunching over broken lives. They shot the fallen — whether lifeless corpses or those still gasping for breath — men, women, and children alike.
We fled to a neighboring building, hearts pounding, bodies trembling. A soldier smashed the door open, eyes blazing like a demon’s, and sprayed bullets wildly. Pain seared through me — I had been hit. Fire spread through my flesh as I collapsed to the cold floor, blood pooling beneath me, every breath a sob of agony. He loomed over me, rifle poised for the final shot — when another soldier barked, “Leave her!”
Through the haze of pain, his words struck like venom:
“Shia isn’t Islam — it’s apostasy! Killing them earns us paradise!”
He swore by Allah that divine reward awaited their slaughter.
Nearby, innocent children — tiny souls with wide, terrified eyes — had crammed into a room near the main door, clinging to one another in silence. A soldier kicked the door open, raised his gun, and before their screams could rise, mowed them down.
Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un.
(Sobbing uncontrollably.) Those precious babies — slaughtered like lambs. Their blood soaked the floor; their mothers’ wails pierced the heavens. I carry their echoes still, etched in my soul.
They dragged the survivors — those of us who still breathed — to the barracks. It was a march of humiliation and pain. There, torture became our world. They forced us face-down on the scorching tarred road, the sun baking our wounds as they jeered:
“Shia is no religion — it’s a filthy deviation!”
They boasted that Allah would reward them for every life extinguished. They ripped away our belongings, tore our hijabs from our heads, exposing us to mockery. Then they blindfolded us, snapping photos as we wept, their laughter echoing like a curse.
Sleep was forbidden that night. They beat us whenever silence dared to fall. When dawn came, they shoved us into a truck like cattle — then hurled tear gas inside. We choked and coughed, lungs burning, eyes streaming in helpless torment. The wounded lay beside us, moaning in pain, the dying whispering prayers.
I could no longer stand; blood pooled around my legs. Pregnant sisters bled from bullet wounds, their faces pale with horror for the unborn they would never hold.
Days blurred in Kaduna’s detention hell — starved of food, of medicine, of mercy. We became ghosts of the women we once were.
And then — somehow — they released us.
We stepped back into a world forever changed, carrying the silence of the dead within us.
Culled from the book "Survivors of the December 2015 Massacre of Shiites in Nigeria: The Unsilenced Voices".
Grab your copy of "Survivors of the December 2015 Massacre of Shiites in Nigeria: The Unsilenced Voices" @ https://selar.com/837l71
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