Silent Courage Amid Gunfire: A 13-Year-Old’s harrowing Fight for Faith and Survival

 Silent Courage Amid Gunfire: A 13-Year-Old’s harrowing Fight for Faith and Survival

My name is Sukaina Yahaya. I am only 13 years old. That fateful evening of December 12th 2015, with a weight pressing down on my chest—anxiety, fear, and uncertainty that no child should carry. My mother had left for Hussainiyya, driven by urgent news, and I was left alone with the younger children. The house felt empty, yet loud with the constant crying of the little ones. I had worked tirelessly to prepare food, but no one could eat. Their tears echoed in the silent halls. Trying to be strong, I held them close, rocking their small bodies until their sobs softened into uneasy sleep.

As darkness wrapped around us, I crept from the room to say my prayers. The quiet was shattered by the sharp crack of gunshots tearing through the air. The chilling chants of “Allahu Akbar! Ya Mahdi!” rose up, both a call to faith and a harbinger of chaos. My hands trembled, knees weak, as I paused mid-prayer. My younger brothers, Baqir and Malam, startled awake, slipped out of their beds. My youngest brother, no older than four, made to follow. I reached for him, desperate to hold him back from the storm outside. “Aunty Sukaina, is it gunfire?” he asked in a small voice trembling with fear. “May Allah curse those who oppress us.” I could only nod and place him gently on the bed as I handed him over to a nearby girl.

In the dim light, I met Zainab, daughter of Muhammad Bello, tears streaking down her face. Her whispered prayer was a mournful, desperate cry: “Oh our leader…!” Memories of that name filled me with both hope and dread. I made my way outside to Sheikh Zakzaky’s residence, the epicenter of chaos. Bullets tore through the streets; people scattered, desperate to survive. Suddenly, a grenade exploded near two kiosks, flames erupting and swallowing everything in a hellish blaze. Smoke curled into the sky as we fought to control the fire. Some brothers shielded themselves behind whatever cover they could find, hurling stones at encroaching soldiers.

I became the lifeline, running between brothers with stones in hand, each one a weapon of defiance. I whispered prayers, tears blurring my vision. Bodies lay strewn across the ground—men and women alike—silent witnesses to the carnage. Each stone thrown was a prayer for survival, each fallen friend a fresh wound in my heart. I begged Allah to protect Sheikh Zakzaky’s home, to never let the soldiers tear through our sanctuary, at least while breath still filled our lungs.

Through the night, from 8 pm to 4 am, the relentless gunfire battered us. Fatigue and fear gnawed at our souls. Then, just as dawn’s first light whispered through the darkness, the call to Subhi prayer rang out from nearby mosques. Our spirits stirred with hope—but the harsh roar of reinforcements shattered it. Vehicles and motorcycles poured in, bringing new soldiers and fearsome tanks. Forced down by their gunfire, we lay low, hearts pounding like thunder in our chests. As the tanks drew near, the courage of youth surged—we rose, stones flying through the air.

“Please, don’t shoot; we are just girls,” one of us begged. Our voices lifted in a powerful chorus: “Allahu Akbar! Labbayk Ya Allah! Labbayk Ya Rasulillah! Labbayk Ya Ali!” The chanting was a force stronger than any bullet, shaking the soldiers’ resolve. They faltered, confused, retreating while carrying away their fallen.

From a distance, I saw a young brother locked in a deadly struggle with a soldier, bullets tearing through him until he collapsed. When the soldiers left, Sister Ruqayya and I braved the danger to rescue him, pulling him into a nearby house. But as we emerged, gunfire struck Ruqayya’s face. Another girl cried out in pain. My hands shook violently as stones dropped from my grip; I barely realized I had been hit until she told me. Blood poured, blinding and overwhelming. I tried to fight back but collapsed from loss of strength.

The soldiers descended on us, dragging our broken bodies across dirt and dead flesh. They ripped off my hijab, tore my clothes, and chained my hands behind me like a prisoner of war.

Inside the barracks, cruelty reached new depths. They molested us, starved us, and forbade prayer, spitting that because we were Shi’ites, we were not Muslims. My pleas to worship were met with slaps across my face and savage kicks to my chest. Hours blurred in a nightmare of pain and injustice.

Then others arrived, demanding we be handed over to die. Defiance roared inside me, and I screamed that they could not threaten us. In fury, they dragged us to a cold, dark swimming pool filled with shivering Muslim brothers, soaked and broken. The icy water bit into my skin, but even frozen and battered, my faith—and hope—blazed fiercely within.

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

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