When the Boko Haram insurgency began, my world changed overnight. The sound of gunfire and bomb blasts became part of daily life. Many of my colleagues fled, and some were silenced forever. But I made a choice to stay.
My family begged me to quit saying, “Bashir, your life is more important than the news!” But deep inside, I knew the truth: If we all keep quiet, who will tell the world what is really happening here?
I faced fear every single day. I carry my recorder and notebook like a weapon, though they were powerless against bullets. Once, while travelling to Bama to interview survivors, our bus was stopped by armed men. My heart nearly stopped. I hid my recorder inside a loaf of bread and pretended I was only visiting relatives. By Allah’s mercy, they let us go. That night, I cried quietly, not from weakness, but from the heavy burden of carrying so many untold stories.
Sometimes editors rejected my reports, saying they were “too risky” or “too political.” But I found ways. I smuggled my stories out, shared them with international agencies, and made sure the world could not ignore us.
The cost was high. I lost friends, neighbours, and even my own house was burned down. But the stories I told became powerful weapons, exposing corruption, giving survivors a voice, and showing the world the suffering of my people.
I was never given medals or wealth, but the smiles of displaced children were enough. In the IDP camps, they would run to me shouting: “Mallam! Write our story again!” And I would kneel down, open my notebook, and write.
Journalism during war taught me something: it is not about fame or headlines. It is about refusing to be silenced. It is about carrying people’s pain and choosing courage over fear.
Even now, I continue, because I believe with all my heart that even if only one person reads or listens, then the truth has not died.
As narrated by: Bashir Bukar (Maiduguri, Nigeria).
This snippet is published as part of a series, The Day Boko Haram Attacked.
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