Shot at Seventeen: My Harrowing Experience with Soldiers in Zaria

By Fatima Halilu

I was 17 years old and in my final year of secondary school when I was shot in Gyallesu, Zaria, on December 12, 2015. I was hit twice—once in the foot and once in the shoulder. They also aimed at my head. The scars remain. Soldiers shot me and took me to their barracks in Basawa. 

That day, my mother called to check on me. I told her I was home, but she urgently asked me to go to the Sheikh’s house because it was under attack and soldiers were killing people. I went with my friend Momi. As soon as we arrived, we saw soldiers shooting at everyone. We ran to a house where our brothers cooked and started preparing food. As we ate, gunfire grew closer. One brother warned the soldiers had almost reached the Sheikh’s house. Everyone rushed to the door, including us.

Outside, we found our brothers taking cover on the ground. We encouraged them, hoping soldiers might spare women if we confronted them. But as soon as we stepped out, soldiers shot two sisters dead—one in the chest, another in the head. We carried them back inside. Seconds after stepping out, I was shot in the shoulder and fell. I helped a wounded brother until some sisters arrived. Then a bullet shattered my leg. 

As we tried to return inside, soldiers caught us and ordered us to surrender. They arrested us, searched the sisters, tore off hijabs, tied our hands behind our backs, and threw us in their vehicle heading to Basawa barracks. We were locked in a dark room with men and women crammed together. One brother suggested sisters stay behind the brothers for cover since many had torn clothes and no hijabs. Some brothers gave their clothes to the sisters to protect them from the cold.

The soldiers ignored our injuries and gave no medical help. Food arrived only in the morning—biscuits and lemon drink, then rice and water. Later, the soldiers brought out the women, moved us to a different room, gave us water, and recorded our names. They then took us to a police station in Kaduna. 

The police released us days later, apologizing for what happened. They did not abuse us, though they were firm. I overheard a soldier say, “It’s a shame we were sent to kill women and children. Most are under 20. This wasn’t a war we should fight. We were lied to, told we’d fight heavily armed enemies.” I recognize him because he and another soldier often visited us, bringing supplies and showing sympathy.

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

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 Bullet in the Shoulder: My Desperate Escape from the Hussainiyya Killing Fields

By Aliyu Muhammad Gummi

​I am a 36-year-old NCE holder and trader in Zaria. I witnessed the massacre that unfolded on December 12, 2015.

​Around noon, I learned of the growing standoff at Hussainiyya in the Tudun Wada area, where soldiers had been deployed. Advised to rush there, I rode my motorcycle and immediately encountered battle-geared soldiers near PZ. I saw volunteers occupying the Hussainiyya gates while brothers attempted to speak with a senior army officer. I was informed that soldiers had already opened fire and killed people prior to my arrival.

​I watched as determined brothers lay on the road to prevent military vehicles from reaching the compound. At this point, I noticed soldiers were actively videotaping the scene. I immediately sensed a conspiracy—a deceptive military tactic to create a false record to justify their actions. My premonition was instantly confirmed when the camera crew left, and nonstop, indiscriminate gunfire erupted.

​We swiftly evacuated Sheikh Zakzaky’s sons, Sayyid Ali and Sayyid Humaid, to prevent a repeat of the Quds Day tragedy. Remaining on the road, I was forced to lie flat as high-caliber weapons fired for over thirty minutes. It became clear the military invasion was premeditated, as soldiers quickly moved into the polo pitch and toward Hussainiyya, disproving any claim that the attack was merely a response to a blocked convoy.

​From behind a makeshift pavilion, I watched in horror as soldiers executed the brothers and sisters who had lain on the road. I witnessed the murder of Fatima, a young sister and daughter of Alhaji Uncle, who was shot down. Her father rushed to save her but was also shot dead. The soldiers ensured each victim was followed up with a final bullet to the head or chest. The atrocities continued as army vehicles brutally ran over the bodies scattered across the road.

​When soldiers finally spotted me, I ran into the railway station under fire. I stumbled, and a bullet struck my shoulder. Though bleeding severely, I managed to disappear into the station, where hidden brothers aided my escape on a commercial bike and a tricycle, detouring through the city.

​Despite my injury, I pleaded to be taken to the Sheikh’s Gyallesu residence, fearing for his safety, but volunteers insisted on medical care. I was taken to the few remaining medics, received first aid, and was sheltered overnight. The next morning, news arrived that soldiers were searching houses for survivors. Advised to flee Zaria immediately, I traveled to Gusau for surgery.

​On the journey, I saw military checkpoints, tanks, and soldiers shooting our brothers at a checkpoint in Randar Kano. I safely reached Gusau, where a senior movement member ensured I received the necessary surgery. May Allah protect our leader and grant our martyrs peace. Ameen.

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

Saturday Noon to Sunday Dawn: The Genocide We Survived in Zaria

 Saturday Noon to Sunday Dawn: The Genocide We Survived in Zaria

By Rabi’atu Muhammad

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". 

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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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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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