Armed groups launched coordinated assaults on several communities in the Angwa Rukuba and Eto Baba areas, as well as student residential zones in the Gari Ya Waye community on the outskirts of Jos. The massacre claimed the lives of at least 26 people, including women and children, with many others remaining in critical condition. The attacks left a trail of death and terror in their wake. According to survivor testimonies, the onslaught was swift and ruthless. The assailants, arriving on motorcycles, opened fire indiscriminately on civilians and set numerous homes ablaze. After sowing terror, they retreated into the mountainous terrain, complicating immediate intervention by security forces. State Commissioner for Information, Joyce Lohya Ramnap, announced in a statement that the state government has imposed a 48-hour curfew to prevent further violence. While some local rumors initially suggested the involvement of Boko Haram, most sources on the ground identify the perpetrators as Fulani militias—paramilitary groups that have systematically targeted Christian farming communities for years.
This is not the first time Plateau State has become a theater for such massacres during religious holidays. Last year, during the same period, a similar attack resulted in 54 fatalities. The region is a flashpoint for chronic tensions between farming communities and herder groups; however, the systematic nature of these attacks suggests a strategy that transcends mere territorial disputes. Central Nigeria, where the Muslim-majority North meets the Christian South, has become the “fault line” of a multidimensional conflict. While disputes over land and water resources—exacerbated by climate change—play a fundamental role, religious identity has become the primary target. In this context, a Christian village is no longer just a settlement, but a symbolic target to be erased to alter the region’s demographic and religious balance. The words of local religious leaders reflect a desperation that goes beyond simple mourning. Monsignor Wilfred Anagbe, in a recent and scathing denunciation, did not mince words: “We are not facing random clashes, but a veritable genocide of Christians. There is an ongoing plan to eliminate our presence.”
According to the Bishop, the ultimate goal is not the theft of cattle or land, but the uprooting of Christian communities—a “cleansing” process aimed at expelling residents from their territories through terror.
One of the most tragic aspects emerging from the events in Jos is the void of intervention from the authorities. Despite the well-known pattern of these assaults—motorized commandos operating for hours—security forces almost always intervene only after the massacre is complete. This chronic delay is more than a logistical failure; it fuels a dangerous sense of impunity. Perpetrators are rarely identified, arrested, or prosecuted. This legal vacuum sends a devastating message: attacking Christian communities in Plateau carries no consequences. Without serious investigations, public trust in the State erodes, occasionally pushing communities toward the dangerous temptation of armed self-defense. The tragedy in Plateau State is unfolding in a country facing an unprecedented crisis where terrorism is intertwined with starvation. Food insecurity is becoming increasingly dire; it is estimated that 33 million people are currently threatened by hunger due to the abandonment of farmland caused by violence.
The massacres in Plateau do not just destroy lives; they strike at the economic heart of Nigeria. The region has historically been considered the “breadbasket” of the nation, but today, the fields have become war zones. The constant threat of attack prevents farmers from sowing and harvesting. Those who venture onto their land risk their lives, leading to the systematic abandonment of entire agricultural areas.
With millions at risk, food insecurity is no longer just a side effect, but a deliberate weapon of pressure. The destruction of crops and the theft of livestock aim to make these lands uninhabitable, forcing survivors to flee out of sheer exhaustion and hunger. Furthermore, the drastic reduction in local production has caused the price of basic goods to skyrocket, dragging even urban areas—far from the massacres—into a spiral of poverty that destabilizes the entire nation.
Despite churches becoming “soft targets,” the faith of the local population remains the sole pillar of resilience against institutional neglect. The Palm Sunday massacre underscores, once again, the failure of preventive measures in Nigeria’s ‘Middle Belt.’ Today, for the communities of Plateau, the priority is not only mourning but the demand for a constant state presence that guarantees the fundamental right to live and practice one’s faith on one’s own land, free from the threat of arms.
The repetitive nature of these massacres raises urgent questions about the capacity—or the will—of Nigerian authorities to protect their citizens. Without an effective security strategy that moves beyond emergency response, the risk is that these communities will be forced into a final exodus, making Plateau State the epicenter of a humanitarian crisis of no return.
