1 min
This is the first time I am putting down words from my trembling personal experience with insecurity. My story, though stitched with trauma, is one I have managed to carry, yet I know many farmers who have faced experiences far worse and continue to endure them daily.
Working with smallholder farmers demands not just tenacity and passion, but a greater measure of resilience to remain on the field. For instance, you venture out to visit some farmers in remote villages, and in the next heartbeat, you find yourself in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by armed men whose only demands are your life or your means. No soul emerges from that kind of encounter without a trauma.
One particular chapter of trauma unfolded in 2019/2020. I was in Borno, helping communities to know the extent of their losses as a result of insurgency and develop a recovery plan. That time was spent sitting with farmers, listening to their near-death escapes, the heartbreak of losing loved ones, the complete loss of their livelihoods, and the courage it took to choose to start from scratch. It was an ocean of shared grief. Then, one of the days while working at a local school, a bomb ripped through the air some distance away. We stood fast, contained by the organizational policy that demanded evacuation only within the 1km radius. But the most gut-wrenching sadness was seeing the children on the playing field, undisturbed, continuing their football game as if the explosion were no more than a passing cloud. They had become used to it. That image, the normalization of terror, was too much for my own spirit to bear.
Besides, the most terrifying nights came during a visit to Monguno in Borno State. Most nights, it was either the deafening sound of several bomb blasts or the cry of babies, children or women echoing in the dark. Every night was a descent into a nightmare, waking up constantly to the sound of profound sadness. And yet, the greatest surprise and lesson was the farmers themselves. Every single day, I met them brimming with joy, their high spirits with an unwavering hope that things would be better, and soon. Years have passed, the memories still linger like smoke and unfortunately, the news has offered no comfort. How much longer must they dream for their peace to finally arrive?
As a nation, we must awaken and take a decisive, final stand to end insecurity in our communities. Because this cancer does not only compromise food security; it systematically destroys the hope and the faith of a generation.It plants a trauma that future generations will inherit, making it difficult for them to choose agriculture, to adopt new technologies, or to maintain their mental health without appropriate intervention. Our fields, our villages and our people must live in safety. It is the only true harvest that will deliver us to food security.
Yours-in-Service
Babatunde
One particular chapter of trauma unfolded in 2019/2020. I was in Borno, helping communities to know the extent of their losses as a result of insurgency and develop a recovery plan. That time was spent sitting with farmers, listening to their near-death escapes, the heartbreak of losing loved ones, the complete loss of their livelihoods, and the courage it took to choose to start from scratch. It was an ocean of shared grief. Then, one of the days while working at a local school, a bomb ripped through the air some distance away. We stood fast, contained by the organizational policy that demanded evacuation only within the 1km radius. But the most gut-wrenching sadness was seeing the children on the playing field, undisturbed, continuing their football game as if the explosion were no more than a passing cloud. They had become used to it. That image, the normalization of terror, was too much for my own spirit to bear.
Besides, the most terrifying nights came during a visit to Monguno in Borno State. Most nights, it was either the deafening sound of several bomb blasts or the cry of babies, children or women echoing in the dark. Every night was a descent into a nightmare, waking up constantly to the sound of profound sadness. And yet, the greatest surprise and lesson was the farmers themselves. Every single day, I met them brimming with joy, their high spirits with an unwavering hope that things would be better, and soon. Years have passed, the memories still linger like smoke and unfortunately, the news has offered no comfort. How much longer must they dream for their peace to finally arrive?
As a nation, we must awaken and take a decisive, final stand to end insecurity in our communities. Because this cancer does not only compromise food security; it systematically destroys the hope and the faith of a generation.It plants a trauma that future generations will inherit, making it difficult for them to choose agriculture, to adopt new technologies, or to maintain their mental health without appropriate intervention. Our fields, our villages and our people must live in safety. It is the only true harvest that will deliver us to food security.
Yours-in-Service
Babatunde
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