LAGOS – In a country where the deafen-ing silence of those in power has become almost as brutal as the bullets that displace thousands, the growing human-itarian crisis in Nigeria’s Inter-nally Displaced Persons (IDP) camps is a festering wound on the conscience of the nation. Behind the barbed wires and makeshift tarpaulins of Nigeria’s many IDP camps are not just sta-tistics. They are humans, moth-ers who buried their children with their bare hands, children who cannot remember what it means to play outside safely, and men who once farmed fertile lands now drenched in the blood of their neighbours. The humanitarian crisis has reached catastrophic levels, yet it remains largely invisible in political conversations. If the displaced don’t exist in govern-ment policy or funding priorities, how can they exist in the eyes of international donors like the UN, USAID, or Médecins Sans Fron-tières? According to recent figures from humanitarian organisa-tions, Nigeria is home to over 3.5 million internally displaced persons. The majority of them are vic-tims of violent conflicts, from Boko Haram insurgency in the northeast to banditry and farm-er-herder clashes in the north-west and north-central regions. The victims come from plac-es like Benue, Plateau, Zamfara, Borno, and Kaduna, the entire communities have been wiped out or overrun by attackers. Their homes torched, their lands seized, their loved ones either dead, missing, or held in captivity. What remains for these survi-vors is life in IDP camps, which are themselves becoming increas-ingly unsafe and uninhabitable. At first glance, many IDP camps look like barely functional refugee stations. But beneath the surface lies a different story; one of abandonment, chronic under-funding, and recurring trauma. In Benue State, for instance, the Daudu and Abegene camps shelter tens of thousands who have been displaced some years ago, still sleep on mats, use plas-tic sheets for privacy, and depend on erratic donations to survive. Recently, torrential rains washed away food supplies, and a snakebite epidemic hit one of the camps, leaving at least seven children dead. Worse still, these camps are not spared the violence that orig-inally forced people into them. Bandits and terrorists have in recent times launched attacks in-side IDP camps, killing displaced persons in their so-called safe spaces. In April 2023, suspected herders attacked the Mgban IDP camp in Makurdi LGA, Benue State, killing over 30 people, most-ly women and children in a single night. Thirty-six-year-old Sarah Yakubu fled her home in Logo, Benue State, after armed men stormed her village, killing her husband and setting their com-pound ablaze. Now living in a crowded IDP camp in Daudu with her four children, Sarah has not received any aid from the govern-ment in months. “We queue for food that never comes,” she says. “Sometimes NGOs bring rice and oil, but what about clean water? What about education for our children? What about our future?” Like Sarah, many displaced women in the camps are vulner-able to sexual exploitation. With-out jobs, homes, or security, some are forced into transactional sex just to feed their children. “I know of girls as young as 13 being pregnant here,” says a camp volunteer in Borno who asked not to be named. “Many men, including some of those working with camp authorities, take advantage of them. No one talks about it. The government does not care.” Despite the crisis engulfing Nigeria’s IDPs, most political ac-tors have remained disturbingly silent. Across senatorial constitu-encies where displacement is rife, lawmakers often focus on re-elections, infrastructure rib-bon-cuttings, and party politics while those who elected them rot in tents. If there was ever a time for sen-ators to take local ownership of the IDP problem, it is now. Every senatorial zone where citizens have been displaced should have a dedicated IDP support plan not just on paper, but in budgetary implementation. Rather than travel abroad for medical checkups and con-ferences, our legislators should walk through the camp gates in Daudu, Bakassi, or Gwoza and see the consequence of failed governance with their own eyes. This is the question on every displaced person’s lips: when can we go back? The truth is brutal; for many, there may be no home to return to. Villages have been destroyed. Farmlands are now occupied by unknown persons. Livelihoods are gone. Security is nowhere near guaranteed. “Going home means choosing between death and starvation,” says Abdul, a 44-year-old farmer from Guma LGA. “Even if we return, who will protect us? The same government that didn’t pro-tect us the first time?” His concerns are valid. Several displaced persons who attempt-ed to return home were killed in ambushes. Others arrived to find their homes occupied or turned into grazing fields. To understand the magnitude of what’s unfolding, we must re-visit what defines a humanitari-an crisis. This is a situation where a large group of people faces ex-treme suffering, displacement, or danger due to conflict or disas-ters. It often results in massive human rights abuses, trauma, and infrastructure collapse. In Nigeria’s case, the IDP cri-sis fits every characteristic, mass displacement, profound human suffering, rights violations, and destroyed social systems yet re-ceives a fraction of the attention, funding, and policy action it des-perately needs. The solutions are not easy but they are possible, and they are urgent. Every senator and represen-tative from conflict zones must begin to treat IDPs as priority constituency matters. Monthly constituency projects should in-clude provision of healthcare, sanitation, and mobile schooling in IDP camps. There should be skill acqui-sition programmes and mental health support to help people re-integrate with dignity. Advocacy must begin now for secure return plans, land recovery, and justice for those affected. At the national level, the Nige-rian government must establish and implement a comprehensive IDP reintegration and protection policy. This includes mapping safe return areas, providing adequate security, and offering compensation for displaced peo-ple who may never recover their ancestral lands. Without domestic acknowledg-ment, global aid remains mini-mal. Nigeria must engage inter-national humanitarian agencies and partners with honesty, trans-parency, and accountability. The world cannot help a country that denies its own wounds. Displacement is not just a northeast problem or a farming community issue. It is a national wound. With the growing inse-curity in the north-central and northwest, more and more com-munities are being emptied by the day. Today it’s Benue. Tomor-row, it could be somewhere else. The question remains: how many more people must be killed or displaced before this crisis gets the attention it deserves? To be displaced in Nigeria is to be invisible, unheard, and un-cared for. It is to live in limbo sus-pended between yesterday’s trau-ma and tomorrow’s uncertainty. For the thousands of families who now call IDP camps home, life is not just about survival. It is about reclaiming dignity. Until the Nigerian government from local councils to the Na-tional Assembly begins to treat displacement as a crisis, not an inconvenience, the suffering will continue. And so will the killings. Because what truly kills peo-ple in Nigeria is not just the gun. It is neglect. Caption: IDP camps in Benue, Plateau, Borno etc.