From Scripture to the streets of Jos, women bear the heaviest burden of Nigeria’s insurgency as grief, fear, and unanswered questions linger after the latest wave of violence
“In the course of time, Cain brought some of the fruits of the soil as an offering to the Lord… but Abel brought fat portions from some of the firstborn of his flock… and while they were in the field, Cain attacked his brother Abel and killed him.” (Genesis 4:3–8)
The ancient story of blood crying out from the ground feels hauntingly present in Nigeria today. The land of Jos, once known for its serenity and cultural harmony, has again become a field where innocent blood speaks louder than words. Last Sunday’s violent attacks have left behind not just ashes and silence, but voices, broken, trembling, and soaked in grief, especially the voices of women.
One video, now widely circulated, captures the raw essence of this tragedy. A woman, her wrapper soaked with dust, collapsed on the ground, wailing uncontrollably. Around her, sympathizers tried in vain to console her, but her cries pierced deeper than any comfort could reach. Her entire family, she reportedly lamented, had been wiped out. Her voice rose and fell like a dirge: a mother, a wife, a daughter, now stripped of all anchors.
Her grief is not an isolated echo. Across affected communities in Plateau State, women have become the living archives of loss. Another woman, barely able to speak through tears, recounted how she fled into the bush with her children as gunshots rang through the night. She returned at dawn to find her home burnt and her husband missing. “I don’t know where to start again,” she whispered, her eyes hollow with shock.
In yet another account, an elderly widow described how she watched from hiding as her only son, her last surviving child, was attacked. “God, why?” she cried repeatedly, her frail body shaking under the weight of unspeakable sorrow. For many of these women, survival has become both a blessing and a burden, because it means living with memories they cannot erase.
The recurring violence, often attributed to armed groups including Fulani herdsmen, bandits, and other militias, continues to deepen Nigeria’s security crisis. While narratives around the conflict vary, what remains undeniable is the human cost, and it is women and children who bear its deepest scars.
“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” (Matthew 5:4) Yet, in Jos, comfort seems distant. The mourning is relentless, the wounds still fresh, and the fear unyielding. Communities now live with a constant sense of vulnerability, unsure of when or where the next attack might come.
Civil society voices and religious leaders have condemned the violence in strong terms. Reverend Gideon Para-Mallam, a known peace advocate, described the killings as “a moral failure of the nation,” urging both government and citizens to rise above ethnic and religious divisions. Similarly, activist Aisha Yesufu decried the continued bloodshed, stating, “A nation that fails to protect its citizens is failing at its most basic responsibility.”
Women’s groups across the country have also begun to raise their voices, demanding justice and protection. They are not just mourning, they are calling for change. “We are tired of burying our loved ones,” said a community women’s leader in Plateau. “We want to live. We want our children to grow without fear.”
The Bible reminds us in Psalm 82:3–4: “Defend the weak and the fatherless; uphold the cause of the poor and the oppressed. Rescue the weak and the needy; deliver them from the hand of the wicked.” These words now sound less like scripture and more like an urgent national assignment.
Yet, questions remain. Why do these attacks persist despite repeated assurances from authorities? Why do communities remain exposed? And how long will women continue to carry the burden of a crisis they did not create?
Security experts argue that beyond military responses, there is a need for holistic solutions, addressing land disputes, strengthening intelligence gathering, promoting dialogue, and ensuring justice for victims. Without accountability, they warn, cycles of violence will only deepen.
There is also a growing call for humanitarian support. Many displaced children and women now live in overcrowded camps, with limited access to food, healthcare, and psychological care. Trauma, often unseen, continues to spread quietly among survivors.
“Biko Aram”, an expression of a desperate plea, now resonates deeply across affected communities. It is a cry for help, for intervention, for mercy. It is the language of a people pushed to the edge.
As Nigeria grapples with its complex security challenges, the stories from Jos serve as a painful reminder: behind every statistic is a face, a name, a family torn apart. And behind many of those faces are children, women, mourning, enduring, and hoping against hope.
Until lasting solutions are found, the ground will continue to cry. And like Abel’s blood, those cries will not be silenced.
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