Thirty-three-year-old Sarratou will never forget
the day when dozens of heavily armed men
ambushed her village in Nigeria's Borno State. It
was 10 o'clock in the morning and she was at
home with three of her four children. The
gunshots rang in their ears as they hastily
embarked on a 12-kilometre trip on foot towards
the Cameroon border.
At the time, her husband and their eldest son, 10-
year-old Ibrahim, were caring for their cattle on
the outskirts of the village. Although they tried to
flee, there was no escape. "My husband got too
tired. He was exhausted and could not continue
running," Sarratou says. "Boko Haram caught up
with them, and they cut the throat of my
husband, in front of our son."
Ibrahim fell down on his father's body and started
to cry. But he had little time to grieve. One of the
insurgents took out his machete and struck the
boy's skull. "After he cut me on the head, I
fainted," recalls Ibrahim. "I could not move. I later
dragged myself under a tree for shade. They came
back again, they lifted me, they thought I was
dead. They dug a hole and threw me in it and
covered me with sand."
Today, several months after the dramatic incident,
the large scar on his head is a painful reminder of
what the boy had to endure.
UNHCR/Walter Kigali
Young Ibrahim witnessed his father's killing as
insurgents attacked their village in north-eastern
Nigeria. Against all odds, the boy managed to
survive.
Two days after the attack, Ibrahim's grandmother
and sister, 13-year-old Larama, came back from
the border to look for him and his father – while
Sarratou, who felt depressed and anxious and
had stopped eating, was in hospital being treated
for hypertension. As they looked around the razed
village, Larama found her brother in the nearby
bush.
"I got tired, sat down under a tree and something
with flies caught my attention," Larama recalls,
her voice trembling. "It was a human being." She
remembers that only part of Ibrahim's head was
surfacing above the sand. "I was scared. I took
courage. I tried to talk to him but he was just
nodding. I asked if it was the boy, because 'boy'
is the nickname of my brother – we call him boy.
He nodded – it was him! There was this wound
on his head and bloodstains all over his face."
"I told them, 'He is not dead – he is alive!' "
Gathering her strength, she dug him out of the
sand and carried him on her back to the village.
"I was tired but I had to manage. When people
saw us, they asked where I was taking him. 'I am
taking him home,' I said. 'But he is dead already,
why are you carrying him?' they said. I told them,
'He is not dead – he is alive!' "
UNHCR/Hélène Caux
Ibrahim (right) stands with his mother and three
siblings in Minawao camp, Cameroon. "It is not
easy," his mother says. "The children without a
father, fetching water, preparing food.
It took four months and half for Ibrahim to
recover in a hospital in Koza, Cameroon. "The
doctors and nurses were nice to me and the food
good." Upon his release, the family moved to
Minawao camp, 90 kilometres from the border.
Opened in July 2013, it now hosts some 33,000
Nigerian refugees.
Many Nigerian villages along the border have
been attacked and burnt to the ground in recent
months. Several survivors said they knew some of
the attackers, that they were part of the village
communities and affiliated with insurgents prior
to the attacks. "But what could we do?" says one
refugee in Cameroon.
UNHCR/Hélène Caux
Ibrahim, 10, is a survivor. Insurgents slashed his
father's throat in front of him as they were trying
to escape an attack on their village.
At least 1.2 million people have been displaced
within north-eastern Nigeria since May 2013,
when a state of emergency was declared in
Adamawa, Borno and Yobe States. More than
100,000 have fled to Niger, while as many as
74,000 have sought refuge in Cameroon and at
least 18,000 in Chad. Deadly incursions into
Cameroon have also displaced some 96,000
people, according to authorities, including many
shepherds and farmers.
"We know that they kill the men, kidnap women
and children and steal cattle, so we decided to
leave our village and move away from the border
before it happens," says Oumanou, 40. Three
months ago he left his village with 20 other
families and trekked for several days to reach the
outskirts of Zamai village, where they built huts
made of straw and bamboo. "It is fine for now,"
he says, "but when the rainy season starts, the
water will go through and we'll be flooded."
UNHCR/Hélène Caux
Ibrahim and his sister, Larama, 13, chat in front
of their shelter in Minawao camp, Cameroon. "I
am the one who unburied him and carried him on
my back," says Larama.
Like Ibrahim and his family, everyone in Minawao
camp has a tale of exodus or violence to share.
Many fled in fear, while others survived physical
assaults or witnessed extreme violence on
families or friends. Some have been kidnapped.
"The need for psycho-social and mental health
support is huge," says Jodin Obaker, a
psychologist for the International Medical Corps,
which runs the health centre in Minawao.
However, such support remains limited in the
camp due to lack of funds and qualified staff, as
well as cultural caution about mental health
issues.
"Children are paying a heavy price," adds Obaker.
"Some withdraw completely, they keep everything
inside, they don't communicate anymore. They
are traumatized by what they went through."
UNHCR/Hélène Caux
Siblings Larama and Ibrahim share a bond that
goes beyond their family ties. She saved his life
after a brutal attack in north-eastern Nigeria.
Little by little, Ibrahim has been recovering. Even
though his mother says that he has changed a lot
– that he often looks sad and walks with a limp
– the boy has also started to smile again. He
goes to school, where he likes the English
classes, and he plays football with his big sister
and little brother. "And I have a best friend," he
says, proudly. But only time and care will tell how
fully the invisible scars, the souvenirs of the
attack he carries within him, will heal.
Some months after the attack Sarratou went back
to check on the family home in Borno. "Everything
is burned," she says with resignation. Some of
the villagers who escaped after her told her that
the insurgents came with jerry cans filled with
petrol and doused every house before setting
them on fire.
"There is nothing to come back to for us," she
laments. "Insurgents had also stolen our
livestock: seven cows and 13 goats. Here in
Cameroon, I have food and water for my children,
they can go to school, we have shelter, and we
feel safe. We will not go back to Nigeria so easily
like that. To me, this is home here in the camp. I
don't think of leaving this place as of now."
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