Forgotten Futures: The Plight of Taraba’s Children in IDP Camps

...We’ve been here for over five years and counting. Our children have never seen the inside of a classroom. 

By Emmanuel Kwada

As dawn breaks over the rolling hills of southern Taraba, 14-year-old Terseer Mtomga from Tor-Musa village in Wukari Local Government Area squats beside a pot of boiling yam in a makeshift IDP camp in Jootar, Benue State.

Internally Displaced Persons (IDPs) Line Up for Food Distribution

His calloused hands, hardened from fetching firewood and hawking firelighters, tell a story of survival. His sharp eyes, shadowed by sorrow, reflect a fading dream of becoming a doctor—a dream eroded by the harsh realities of displacement.

Terseer should be in school, but he isn’t. Alongside hundreds of other children in neglected IDP camps, his childhood has been consumed by the ethnic conflicts that have uprooted thousands in southern Taraba.

While Governor Dr. Agbu Kefas champions a free education policy to secure the state’s future, a generation of displaced children remains trapped in a cycle of trauma, ignorance, and despair.

We’ve been here for over five years and counting

“We’ve been here for over five years and counting,” says Peter Achibo, leader of an IDP community from Wukari. “Our children have never seen the inside of a classroom.

“They don’t know the sound of a bell, the feel of chalk, or the joy of morning assembly.”

The IDPs, primarily Tiv families displaced from villages in Wukari, Donga, Takum, and Ibi, face an uncertain future.

Their ancestral homes have been overrun, some turned into grazing fields, while others, like parts of Chonku ward, are embroiled in new tensions over government plans for a military barracks. For the Tiv, it feels like a systematic erasure of their territory and identity.

They don’t know the sound of a bell, the feel of chalk, or the joy of morning assembly

Joy Mfena, a students’ activist who recently led a fact-finding mission to camps in Ibi and Wukari, describes the situation as “heartbreaking.” “These children are growing up with visions of blood and bullets,” she says.

“They’ve seen mutilated bodies of relatives left to rot in bushes. They’re angry, traumatized, and disconnected from hope. Education is the only ladder to pull them out of this pit.” Yet, that ladder remains out of reach.

IDPs

Despite Taraba’s commendable free education initiative, which has boosted enrollments and included plans for learning materials and school uniforms, these benefits bypass the children in IDP camps.

“The policy is beautiful,” says Ioryina Sewuese, an educationist and community volunteer. “But what’s the plan for the displaced? If they can’t attend school in their communities, should they remain lost to the system?”

Chief Joseph Saater Undu, President of the Tiv Youth Organization (TYO), Abuja Chapter, issued a stark warning at a recent youth roundtable in Abuja. “The continuous stay of our children in IDP camps for over a decade is a time bomb for our society,” he said.

But what’s the plan for the displaced? If they can’t attend school in their communities, should they remain lost to the system?

“This generation is young, energetic, and angry. Like a dying horse, their brutal kick awaits us all. They’re patiently waiting for an opportunity to take vengeance.”

His voice trembled as he painted a grim future: “These are children whose visions are clouded by blood and mutilated bodies. Many are orphans, lonely, and uneducated. If nothing is done urgently, they’ll become a nuclear bomb that will send us all to our graves.”

A corps member posing with the children

The Tiv-Jukun and Tiv-Fulani conflicts, simmering since 1991, have deepened mistrust and stalled reconciliation. The failure of traditional leaders, political actors, and federal authorities to address core grievances has left communities in limbo.

Against this backdrop, Governor Kefas’s education and development agenda faces a critical question: Can Taraba thrive while part of its population burns in silence?

These are children whose visions are clouded by blood and mutilated bodies

Yakubu Samaila Esq., a human rights lawyer, demands urgent action. “Free education must extend to the camps through mobile classrooms, trained volunteer teachers, and mental health support,” he argues. “This isn’t just a moral duty—it’s a national security necessity.”

In the camps, laughter is scarce, and futures are fading. As Terseer stirs his pot, his younger sister, Doolumun, mimics a teacher with a broken slate and a stick. Her “students,” fellow displaced children, sit on the bare ground, hungry for food and knowledge alike.

This isn’t just a moral duty—it’s a national security necessity

These children ask for little: a chance to learn, to grow, to heal, and perhaps to forgive. Yet, as Governor Kefas approaches his second anniversary on May 29, 2025, without addressing the plight of displaced people in his home Local Government and zone, the world watches. Will the remaining two years of his tenure bring hope to Taraba’s forgotten children, or will their wasted dreams ignite a dangerous future.

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