A Night of Horror: Surviving the Massacre in Zaria

 A Night of Horror: Surviving the Massacre in Zaria

By Nuriyya M. Abdullahi

I was just 16 years old when my life changed forever. My family and I were living in Kaduna at the time, preparing to attend the flag-hoisting ceremony in Zaria to celebrate the Prophet’s birthday. But as we were about to leave, we received troubling news: soldiers had been deployed to Hussainiyya, the religious center in Zaria. Despite the warnings, we decided to go ahead with our plans.  

When we arrived in Zaria, the road to Hussainiyya was blocked. My mother suggested we go to Gyallesu instead, and that’s where we found ourselves. There, we met an elder sister whose son had been martyred earlier that day. The news left us shocked and confused. Why had the violence started? We entered Sheikh Zakzaky’s residence, where we joined others in prayer, seeking solace and strength.  

The situation grew more tense. Some of us wanted to confront the soldiers at Hussainiyya, but Malam Hamza Yawuri, the leader of the volunteer unit, advised against it, saying efforts were being made to resolve the standoff. Later that evening, word spread that soldiers were heading to Gyallesu. My father instructed us to cook food for the volunteers while we anxiously discussed the earlier killings in Gabari, a village on the outskirts of Zaria.  

We were about to sleep when my mother asked us to take food to the sisters braving the cold outside. As we stepped out, we heard brothers chanting *Allahu Akbar*—God is Great. It was then we realized the soldiers had already attacked Gyallesu. We dropped the food and rushed forward, only to find shops on fire and the area under heavy shelling. Wounded people were being evacuated, and I met a female paramedic who handed me bandages to help dress the injured.  

The chaos escalated. Three of us—me, Nusaiba Abubakar Abdullahi from Sokoto, and Fidda Mukhtar Sahabi—were taking cover when Nusaiba decided to move forward. She was shot in the head and martyred instantly. Moments later, I was hit in the leg. I was taken to a volunteer house for first aid, but my leg bled profusely through the night. Others around me were vomiting blood, a sign that the soldiers had used poisonous bullets.  

By morning, the violence had worsened. Sheikh Turi visited us and declared, “We will go out and never surrender. If they kill us, let them live in the world till eternity!” He left, and I later learned he too was martyred.  

Later, we heard soldiers breaking through the final gate. Sheikh Mukhtar Sahabi urged us, “What is the point of our existence without our leader? Let’s confront them!” Armed with stones, we moved forward, but the soldiers unleashed smoke grenades, making it impossible to see. We were forced to retreat, and Sheikh Mukhtar led a group forward. I never saw him again.  

Back at the house, the situation became unbearable. Soldiers set fire to the building, forcing us onto the veranda. Brother Yaya Abbas was shot in the stomach but could only manage a faint smile as I passed him. The drips used to treat the wounded began to melt, burning those they were meant to save. Mustapha Nasidi from Potiskum desperately cut them down, urging us to remain steadfast.  

The soldiers scaled the walls and began shooting anyone still alive. Smoke filled the air, and there was no escape. I saw Sidi Mustapha fall, but I didn’t know where he was hit. To survive, I lay down and pretended to be dead. When I raised my head for air, a soldier saw me and ordered me to come out.  

An elderly man beside me refused to surrender, saying, “If they shoot you, I’ll stay even if I burn.” I stepped out, and the soldiers immediately began beating me with batons, mocking our faith and chaining me tightly. They threatened to cut my legs if I faltered. I was taken to a detention area, where they brought in Awwal K. Mashi, who had also been severely beaten.  

The soldiers demanded we renounce our faith, but I refused. “Unless you do something worse than death,” I told them, “I will never abandon Shi’a.” They mocked us, calling us non-Muslims, and one even boasted about killing Sheikh Turi.  

The suffering continued. A young boy and girl, both bleeding from gunshot wounds, begged for water, but the soldiers taunted them, saying, “You’ll get water from Hussain and Mahdi.” The boy died before we were taken to the barracks.  

At the barracks, we were treated inhumanly. They transferred us multiple times, throwing injured and chained people out of vehicles. On Tuesday, a soldier gloated that our brothers were protesting in Kaduna and vowed to kill them all. I reminded him of the Day of Judgment, and he fell silent, visibly shaken.  

Later, Sheikh Zakzaky’s daughter, Suhaila, was brought in. She recounted how soldiers had stormed their home, killing her brothers and burning her aunt, Goggo Kaura, alive. She described the Sheikh’s wife, Zeenat Ibrahim, slapping a soldier who tried to attack her before being shot herself. Suhaila herself had been beaten mercilessly. She shared her father’s final words: “If we are martyred, tell the others to continue our cause without surrender.”  

The soldiers photographed us without hijabs, adding insult to injury. Days later, they took us to the hospital, where Red Cross volunteers provided comfort and care. I called my mother, relieved to learn she had survived.  

Recovering from the ordeal, I now call on my brothers and sisters, especially the youth, to stand firm in our faith. The massacre was meant to crush us, but it only strengthened our resolve. We will not retreat or surrender. We pray for the courage, resistance, and perseverance to continue our noble cause.  

This is my story, and I, Nuriyya M. Abdullahi, affirm that we will never give in to oppression.

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

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"We Buried 347 in the Dark": Shocking Admission from El-Rufai's Government

 "We Buried 347 in the Dark": Shocking Admission from El-Rufai's Government

In a stark admission, the Kaduna State Government has confessed to orchestrating the secret mass burial of hundreds of victims killed in a single weekend in December 2015. The victims were members of the Islamic Movement in Nigeria, who died during a military operation in Zaria.

This confession came from the Secretary to the State Government (SSG), Alhaji Balarabe Abbas, while testifying before a Judicial Commission of Inquiry. His statement directly contradicted the Nigerian Army's vehement denial that any mass graves existed from the Zaria incident. In fact, the Army's representative, then-Colonel AK Ibrahim, had sworn under oath that the military did not kill anyone.

Alhaji Balarabe, who was reappointed as SSG, provided chilling details. He stated that the state government supervised the nighttime burial of at least 347 corpses in a single mass grave in Mando, on the outskirts of Kaduna—roughly 100 kilometers from where the killings occurred.

The operation lasted over six hours. The bodies, both men and women, were buried together without the traditional Islamic funeral rites. No effort was made to identify the victims or locate their families. The secret, hurried nature of the burial suggests a clear attempt to conceal the scale of the tragedy.

Before the Commission, Alhaji Balarabe outlined the government's actions in his own words:

"We were informed of possible fatalities after a night of clashes. The Governor directed me to assemble a team to assess the situation in Zaria. Given the state law requiring burial within 24 hours, we had to decide what to do with the bodies... We coordinated with the Army. The corpses—191 from the Army Depot and 156 from the ABU Teaching Hospital—were transported with military assistance. Our Director of Interfaith worked with Army officers on the ground. They counted each body during the burial. The total was 347."

This testimony paints a grim picture of a covert operation to dispose of the dead, starkly at odds with the official narrative presented for years.

Ten years after the massacre, I returned to the Mando cemetery. The mass grave remains starkly visible, a raw scar on the land. When the pit began to cave in—presumably under the weight of the 347 bodies within—it was filled with distinctive red sand. Now, while wild grasses whisper across the rest of the site, this patch of earth refuses life; not a single blade sprouts upon it.

These photographs were taken on Saturday, December 13th, 2025. I was guided by a witness who stood there before the bodies were laid to rest. Standing before that barren ground, we agreed: this grave must be marked. Without a marker, in another ten years, visitors may struggle to find the truth that this earth will not let grow.

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

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The Day Soldiers Killed Five of My Nieces

 The Day Soldiers Killed Five of My Nieces

By Abdullahi Muhammad

I’m from Gwagwalada in Abuja. That Saturday morning, I left for work to supervise some labourers. My brothers had all gone to the National Mosque for the annual anniversary of Sheikh Usman Bin Fodio. When I returned home later, I found them hurriedly packing their things.

I asked where they were going. They told me soldiers had opened fire on our brothers at the Hussainiyya in Zaria and were still killing people. Without another word, I packed my own bag and left with them.

We reached Zaria by 11 p.m.—right in the middle of the siege. The military was shelling Hussainiyya and Gyallesu, so we couldn’t get through. We spent the night at the Islamic Centre in Danmagaji.

At dawn, after Subh prayers, we managed to sneak into Gyallesu. The martyrs had arrived before me; we’d taken different routes. I saw them standing at the gate of our leader’s residence, but I didn’t see Fatima.

When I asked where she was, someone said she was with some girls around the corner. What I didn’t know was that those girls had already been killed when they tried to enter that corner. Fatima was the only one left alive.

I called her phone. Her voice rang in my ear: “Big Daddy—where are you?” (That’s what they always called me.)

“I’m with Nusaiba. Where are you?”

“I’m surrounded by heaps of corpses. They were all shot. I’m lying among the dead right now, and the soldiers are only inches away. If I move, they’ll shoot me. Please forgive me. We’ll meet again in the House of Peace.”

She said if we called back and she didn’t answer, it would mean she’d been martyred.

That’s exactly what happened. We called again and again—no answer.

Earlier, back at the Islamic Centre, we’d heard their elder brother Mukhtar had been arrested. Nusaiba feared he’d been martyred. But Fatima insisted, “No, he’s alive. I’ll be the first to attain martyrdom.”

A’isha’s friend had dreamed A’isha was martyred; her husband Buhari replied that the dream might mean him instead. The way they spoke—it was as if they knew their time was near. And in a way, that was a small mercy. They died for a cause they believed in, at a time they were ready.

When we entered Gyallesu, Fatima was shaken by the gunfire coming from every direction. She said, “In the next three hours, I will join Imam Hussain (AS).”

She was, in fact, the first among them to be martyred.

We stayed at our leader’s house until the soldiers overpowered the brothers guarding it. I was with Nusaiba, Aisha, her husband Buhari Bello Jega, their little daughter Batool, and many others. I saw a brother get shot right in front of me. We carried him to a house where we kept the martyrs, but soldiers stormed in and shot him—and another wounded brother. By some miracle, the bullets missed me.

They caught me, beat me, and dragged me away. As I was pulled back, I saw Buhari lying dead in front of the Sheikh’s residence. Nusaiba and the others had managed to get inside.

The soldiers argued over whether to kill me. One aimed his gun, but another stopped him. Instead, they pushed me up onto a wall and told me to run.

Once I got away, I called Nusaiba. She whispered they were inside the Sheikh’s house, but they’d been shot. She’d been hit in the stomach. Aisha and little Batool were already gone.

I was trapped for hours before finally escaping late that evening.

Now, I want our brothers and sisters to understand: Our Leader never hid the truth from us. We knew about this conspiracy and how it would unfold. What happened has only strengthened our faith that we are on the right path.

Look at history: When Abu Labulh accused the Prophet of wanting to create a parallel government, it was the same accusation used against Imam Ali, Hasan, and Hussain. When Yazid took power, he said he would never allow a state within a state.

What happened to us is no different. Our brothers were massacred, and the authorities scrambled for excuses. First, they claimed an attempt on Buratai’s life—then they knew that made no sense. Then they said we blocked a road. But President Buhari himself finally said it: the government “cannot allow a state within a state.”

It’s the same old threat, the same old fear. Just as it was in the time of the Prophet.

So let us prepare ourselves. Let us do what is right, when it is right, and trust in divine help as believers before us have. Let us keep praying, keep raising our voices, until our Leader is freed.

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

Or simply contact +2348037023343 via WhatsApp to purchase the softcopy of the book.

Get your copy of "Survivors of the December 2015 Massacre of Shiites in Nigeria: The Unsilenced Voices" @ https://selar.com/837l71

And also via Amazon: https://a.co/d/g1fUUHm