And he was as good as his word. A year later he abducted the Chibok schoolgirls. But that event, which was reported in the world’s media, only represents the sad climax of an incredible series of kidnappings. Several thousand women and girls are believed to be in the hands of the terrorists by now. While the West concentrates on the fate of the Chibok girls, it is largely ignored that their abduction is not the exception but the rule—as the sad fate of Patience indicates.
In conversation with Asabe I come to understand the principle of the radical Islamist campaign more and more clearly. The women and girls are the currency with which Shekau buys the loyalty of his followers. In a country in which many young men have no work and therefore cannot get married, the prospect of a bride as the spoils of war is highly enticing. It is seen as one of the main attractions of the sect, which—unlike ISIS—does not pay its fighters decent wages: Shekau baits the young men with, among other things, the promise of sex.
The sexual slavery that he imposes on these women is also a program of religious cleansing. For the soldiers, the forced “weddings” go hand in hand with the exhortation to produce offspring: Muslim offspring, of course. In the worldview of the Islamists the father is crucial, and all children produced from such unions are automatically considered to be Muslims. The woman who carries the pregnancy to term serves only as fertile ground in which the warrior’s seed can flourish. But in order to ensure a Muslim upbringing for her Boko Haram children, it is seen as desirable for her to learn the Qur’an before the “wedding” and convert to Islam.
“I’m almost sure that my pupils have all been forced into marriage by now, and that they will all have had babies,” the headmistress says sadly, with a note of frustration.
Asabe is under no illusions—and she won’t let me have any either: the long-term goal of Boko Haram, I understand, is nothing but the extermination of all Christians and infidels in the north of Nigeria. The kidnapped girls who have been forced into marriage also have the task of producing more Muslim children with their tormentors. In its boundless chauvinism the sect sees the girls’ bodies only as incubators for their own reproduction.
Kidnapped
The Boko Haram fighters were rampaging everywhere in the neighboring area. They had come in their dozens, and fallen on Gwoza like a swarm of plundering ants.
When they took me to the gate, I heard them shouting “Allahu Akbar”; shouts and shots reached me from the other huts. They were dragging out big sacks of millet and rice as well as other supplies of food, and bringing them to their motorbikes, three-wheelers and pickups parked on the main road. I saw the cattle being driven there from the other farms. Then came the women and children. They simply shot a lot of the men when they got in their way.
“Come on, tell us which houses the Christians live in,” said the two men who had grabbed me by the arms and were pulling me toward the vehicles. “Tell us where they’re hiding.”
“I don’t know.”
“We might let you go if you tell us.”
“But I really have no idea!” I insisted. They jabbed their rifle butts into my side. I bent double with pain. Of course I couldn’t help thinking of my baby. Should I tell them I was pregnant? But an inner voice persuaded me otherwise.
“You’ll regret it if you don’t help us,” they told me. “But it doesn’t matter. We’ll smoke you out somehow. No infidel will be left alive in Gwoza.”
Their words terrified me. What I would have given at that moment to warn Ishaku somehow, so that he wouldn’t come down from the mountain and run straight into their arms. Since he was a man, they would make short work of him. But there was nothing I could do.
They forced me onto the flatbed of a motorized three-wheeler. It was already crammed with other frightened women, Christians like me. I recognized one of them as my neighbor Jara. We stood closely together. We were guarded by a Boko Haram man with a Kalashnikov around his neck. Meanwhile the others loaded their loot onto the pickups: grain, goats and the straw that they had stripped from the roofs. They took everything that might be useful to them. And we were clearly part of their booty.
My heart thumped wildly when the engine started. The smell of petrol filled my nostrils. Was there any chance of fleeing? I wondered. Could I jump off the car? I took an uncertain step forward. But the guard immediately saw what I was planning.
“Hey, you,” he said to me, “don’t even think about it!” He tied my wrists together with a rope, and tied the other women up in a similar way. And finally he bound us all together so that none of us could move without taking the others with us.
So there we all stood with our hands bound, each of us more fearful than the other. “I’ve heard that they don’t hurt women,” Jara said, perhaps to reassure herself.
“Really? So where are they taking us?”
“They’re going to kill us. They kill all the Christians,” wept a young girl standing next to me.
“Nonsense! They could have killed us here,” I told her. I don’t know why I was so certain about it. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that I had already seen how few qualms the Boko Haram people had about committing murder if that was what they wanted to do. So if they didn’t, there must have been a reason for it. They had other plans for us.
“But what do they want from us?” the girl asked.
“I don’t know,” I shouted at her. Her questions were driving me crazy.
Our three-wheel truck rumbled through the streets of Gwoza. We desperately scanned our surroundings for any family members. Someone who might be able to stop us from being kidnapped. But there was no one who would have been capable of it. All the Christian residents of Gwoza who hadn’t been cut down by Boko Haram were in hiding somewhere.
We left the town in a column. We turned northward into the cross-country road, the A13, the main connecting route between Mubi in the south and Maiduguri in the north—the road that the inhabitants of the Gwoza district no longer dared to use because it was said to have fallen into the hands of the terrorists.
We drove beneath the extensive mountain range and passed the village of Warable. Then we reached Pulka, where the mountains flattened out on our right. The column of terror drove confidently into the village. In Pulka the roads were eerily empty. No one dared to come out of their houses.
At the crossroads we turned east. My heart almost stopped: this was the way to my parents’ house. Where were they taking us? Were we on the way to my old home of Ngoshe? At first I didn’t know whether to think that was good or bad. In Ngoshe someone might be able to help me, I thought. Then I became terrified: it would be a death sentence for my family if the terrorists had chosen Ngoshe as their new base.
“Dear God, let it be somewhere else!” I prayed.
We actually drove past the road that led to my home village and continued on toward the east. The road led through fields that were unusually green at that time of year. The millet stalks were already very tall. But here and there a tree loomed above the plants. Soon, I thought, we should reach the river that formed the border with the neighboring country of Cameroon. It was only a few miles away from Ngoshe toward the east.
We passed through Ashigashiya, a sleepy border town. I knew it from before, as I had been there a few times. My family had relatives here. My father’s oldest brother, Uncle Amadou, lived in Ashigashiya with his family, but we weren’t in contact with him very much.
The little towns seemed different. I was struck at first by the fact that black flags flew on several of the roofs, a sign that the inhabitants sympathized with Boko Haram. For heaven’s sake, I thought: so they publicly supported the terrorists. Did the Muslim inhabitants of the town do that of their own free will? Or had they been forced? Was it a way of protecting themselves against attacks? But it wasn’t easy to grasp what was happening here just by looking. Perhaps everyone who had stayed had switched sides and now belonged to Boko Haram.
Just before the end of the village we turned into the entrance to a
house built of wood and stone. It might have been the mayor’s house, or an administrative building that had something to do with the nearby border. In the courtyard there was a loud hubbub in the gathering darkness. Men in military uniforms and with Islamic caps on their heads were busy shooing civilians into the house.
“Get out!” the man who had been guarding us during the journey commanded. But he made no sign of untying us. “Get out! Nearly done!” he repeated.
We struggled down from the bed of the truck. “Right, now in there,” he said and pointed to the house into which the other prisoners were disappearing too.
“What are we doing here?” a woman asked.
No one replied.
“At least untie us, or we won’t be able to move!”
The man did just that. Then he shoved us roughly inside the building. We stumbled into a room that was already full of people: a few men and lots of women and children, none of whom seemed to have realized that they had become the booty of the terrorists. They looked completely scared and confused. Guards carrying machetes and Kalashnikovs stood at the door and the windows. The atmosphere was oppressive, the air stale. And of course we were terribly afraid of what would happen next. Perhaps the uncertainty was the worst.
“Maybe they do want to shoot us,” I whispered to Jara, who was crouching nearby.
She too was uncertain now, but she clung to her hope. “I think they have other plans for us.”
It was slowly growing dark outside. In the courtyard I heard the Boko Haram people’s evening prayer. What a strange god they were praying to, I thought. What god demands of his congregation that they kill other people or take them prisoner? Was it the same god that our Muslim neighbors prayed to? They had never behaved like that to us, and never mentioned that anyone demanded they do so. Although I didn’t know much about these matters, I suspected that these men were making a terrible mistake. Someone must have poisoned their thoughts. Perhaps they had been put under a spell. That happens relatively often here.
How were things at home? Had Ishaku, Lara and the children come back from the mountains? I should have warned them somehow. I felt terribly guilty, but I couldn’t think of a way to do it. “At least see to it that they noticed early enough and stayed up there,” I prayed to my God. “Protect my husband, please don’t let me be a widow again.” In spite of the wretched situation in which I found myself, that was my biggest fear: that my husband would be stolen from me again. Particularly now that I hoped to bring his child into the world. I didn’t want it growing up without the protection of a father.
We sat there in the room for a long time and waited, but nothing happened. Some of the other prisoners sat dozing. I leaned back to back with one of the women who had come with me from Gwoza. I didn’t know her, but the fact that we came from the same town somehow gave us a bond here, far from home.
I don’t know how long we spent sitting on the floor. Eventually the smell of cooked meat reached me from outside. I heard the clatter of plates and voices. Our kidnappers were clearly having their dinner. I felt hungry too, and thirsty. But of course in our prison we got nothing. It was as if we didn’t even exist for these men. After a while I almost believed they’d forgotten us.
That might even have been the best thing: if they just forgot us and went on another raid the next morning, so that we could escape in the meantime. Amid those nonsensical hopes I eventually fell into exhausted sleep.
I woke when the cocks in the village started crowing. It was still dark. At first I didn’t know where I was: as I did every morning, I felt the impulse to go out and fetch water from the well. But then, in the gloom, I became aware of all the bodies around me. I saw the shadowy faces of the people and heard their breathing. Some slept, others stared into the distance. After that night the bodies and the air smelled very strongly in the room. Some of us had probably relieved ourselves on the spot, because there was nothing else to be done.
I began to panic: no, yesterday had not been a bad dream. I was in the middle of a nightmare. Perhaps it had only just begun. How long would we be crammed together in this stinking room?
Outside the call of the muezzin rang out, and we heard the men in the yard praying. Then all of a sudden the door burst open. They waved their Kalashnikovs and machetes. “Right, that’s enough lazing about,” they said. “Out you come!”
We looked at each other, confused. Were they letting us go?
“Right, come on! Hurry up!” they roared and pushed us toward the exit. If someone went on sitting on the floor or didn’t move quickly enough, they beat them. The children began to cry. I didn’t know what to make of this action. But anything was better than just staying in that room. So I allowed them to push me to the door.
I blinked when I stepped outside. The morning sun shone into my face. Feeling its warm beams on my skin gave me a curiously comforting feeling. They were like a sign from my God, saying to me: “Here I am! I haven’t abandoned you!” At least that was how it felt to me.
Then we were all standing in the yard, several dozen people. It was hard to believe that we had all fitted into that room. The fighters arrived in front of us with cheeky grins on their faces. They apparently enjoyed having so much power over us. Frightened, my fellow prisoners and I stared at the barrels of the rifles pointing at us. None of us knew what their plans were for us. But I could read it in the faces of the others: a lot of them thought they were going to shoot us down now. I pushed myself into the back row near the wall of the building. For some reason I thought it would be better if our tormentors didn’t have us right in their field of vision.
Most of them were very young, but there were some older men too. They all wore curious homemade uniforms, such as a pair of military trousers with a camouflage pattern, trainers and a T-shirt. Some of their outfits looked quite tattered. You could tell that some had recently led a different life: they were fatter, and wore superior clothing. Clearly they had only joined Boko Haram quite recently.
Then a middle-aged man with a black beard and a woollen cap came on to the scene. Their leader? He wore a strange expression on his face: half devilish, half stupid, full of contempt. Later I found out that I had probably met the supreme leader of Boko Haram.
But apart from his facial expression, nothing about him distinguished him much from the other men in the group. He too wore a random collection of military clothing. A machine gun dangled around his neck, along with several magazines of cartridges, which gave him a particularly warlike appearance. The others treated him like a tribal leader, with the greatest possible respect.
“We are the warriors of the true belief,” he said, staring at us. “The belief in the one true God, Allah.” He threw his arms into the sky, as if to draw strength from it. But then he suddenly spat: “Cursed be those of you who have betrayed and sold him!”
He looked grimly around. “The north of Nigeria has always been the land of Muslims. But then the white missionaries came to lead us astray. They planted their false beliefs in people’s heads. Many stayed on the right path. But some were too weak; you were too weak—you have denied the true god, because you hoped for advantages from that denial. You have allowed yourselves to be abused by the white people. And they had only one goal: to make Muslims slaves in our own country and drive us away from here. Shame on all those who helped them!”
The man had talked himself into a fury. Now he actually looked quite insane. I could clearly see that his own men were very afraid of him. Nonetheless they hung on his words, and seemed to be entirely under his spell.
“But let us turn the tables,” he roared. “We will win back our country for the Muslims to whom it really belongs. We will cleanse it and purify it of all infidel elements. The rule of the earthly powers over northern Nigeria is a thing of the past.”
The man took a deep breath. “My people and I will not rest before we have eradicated all godless people. We will have no pity on the traitors. But you have the choice. You can decide which side you want t
o stand on in this battle: on the side of the true believers or on the side of the traitors. We invite you to choose the right side.”
His eyes wandered over the group of prisoners and repeatedly settled on individuals. “Which of you is already Muslim, or wants to be Muslim?” he asked.
A quiet murmur ran through our rows. The man had not said what would happen to those who rejected his offer. Some immediately stepped forward and declared themselves to be Muslims. They had only been taken by mistake, as their neighbors did not know their true belief. Some also spoke of grudges or slander.
“I have felt connected to your struggle for a long time,” one prisoner claimed. “The north of Nigeria must become one hundred percent Muslim again. We must defend ourselves against immigration, and against the increasing influence of the Christians, who want to drive us from our home.”
“What is your name?” they asked him.
The man thought for a moment. “Mohammad,” he said at last.
“And where do you come from?”
He gave the name of his village: Gavva. It was right next to Ngoshe. Most of the people who lived there were Christians, so I was sure that he was lying. But no one checked whether his information was correct.
“Welcome to our ranks, Mohammad from Gavva,” said the chief of the troops who had spoken earlier, and beckoned “Mohammad” to him. Relieved, he switched to the side of the armed men, the “right” side. The men brought him soap and a bucket of water to wash himself, and some clean clothes. “You see? We didn’t give you empty promises,” the leader said to the other prisoners who had, like me, been watching the scene with keen attention. “Anyone who declares himself a member of the true faith will be welcomed by us as a brother. Everyone else will be our slaves. Because that is how Allah wills it.”
A Gift from Darkness Page 9
