By Ted Ebute
Since the escalation of violent attacks by Fulani terrorists across parts of the Middle Belt in 2017–2018, communities in Idomaland have endured a steady trail of bloodshed, displacement, and destruction. From Agatu to Igama, Omusu to Otukpo, the pattern has been grimly consistent: villages are attacked, lives are lost, homes and livelihoods are destroyed—yet the response from Idoma political and traditional leadership has been largely muted, cautious, and, in many cases, disturbingly absent.
What is most troubling is not merely the scale of the tragedy, but the silence that has followed it. There is hardly any publicly available, comprehensive document issued by Idoma leaders or the Idoma Area Traditional Council that clearly identifies affected communities, names victims, or forcefully demands justice, accountability, and compensation for survivors. Where statements have been made, they have often appeared restrained—carefully worded to sound politically correct rather than morally urgent. Such responses, if they can be called responses at all, seem designed more to pacify victims and manage public anger than to confront a failing and compromised state security apparatus.
This troubling posture perhaps explains why Idomaland was conspicuously excluded from the recent visit of a United States congressional delegation to Benue State. International attention rarely goes to places whose leaders do not speak clearly, consistently, and courageously about their plight. Silence, whether intentional or strategic, has consequences.
History shows that those who are heard are those who speak. Bishop Wilfred Anagbe of Makurdi Diocese did not wait for an invitation before raising the alarm over the systematic killings of his people. He acted decisively, as a true shepherd who understands that leadership demands advocacy, sacrifice, and moral courage. By contrast, many Idoma leaders appear to be waiting for government recognition or invitation—ironically from a government that has repeatedly failed in its constitutional responsibility to protect lives and property.
More disturbing are allegations surrounding the conduct of the Och’Idoma during attacks on communities such as Otobi and parts of Apa earlier this year. Reports indicate that fleeing victims were allegedly denied refuge within the palace gates until public pressure and the intervention of courageous activists forced a reluctant change of stance. Whether by action or inaction, such moments have deepened public disillusionment and raised serious questions about leadership accountability in times of crisis.
To date, there appears to be no sustained or coordinated effort by Idoma political and traditional elites to place the security of Idomaland at the forefront of public discourse—locally, nationally, or internationally. Instead, many individuals whom the people look up to seem preoccupied with personal business interests and political calculations while the land continues to bleed.
The exclusion of Idomaland from the itinerary of the U.S. congressional delegation should therefore serve as a wake-up call. It is a powerful signal that silence marginalizes, and that communities without vocal advocates risk being forgotten—even in their suffering.
If political and traditional leaders have chosen silence for reasons best known to them, then the responsibility must shift to the people. Ordinary citizens, civil society actors, faith-based organizations, and community stakeholders must begin to organize independently—creating forums to document attacks, honour victims, articulate grievances, and propose practical solutions to the persistent insecurity threatening Idomaland.
Survival, dignity, and justice cannot be outsourced. A people who refuse to speak for themselves risk being erased from the conversation—and from history.
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