Over 50 ghost villages, thousands displaced, and the guilty silence of an absent state

The terror unleashed by Boko Haram is no longer a distant threat. In the Mayo-Tsanaga department of Cameroon’s Far North Region, it has become a daily reality. Originating in Nigeria’s Borno State in the early 2000s, the Islamist sect crossed the border in 2014. Mount Gossi in the village of Tourou, just 35 kilometers from Mokolo, became the first Cameroonian locality to bear its wrath.

Since then, hundreds of Boko Haram fighters have entrenched themselves on the slopes of Mount Gossi, and their attacks have only intensified. They burn, kill, loot, and abduct. No corner of life in Mayo-Tsanaga is spared: fields, markets, places of worship, gendarmerie outposts, schools, health centers—all have been targeted. As the years pass, the victims pile up, villages empty, and once-thriving lands lie abandoned. Nearly 13 years after the first strikes, no lasting solution has emerged. The silence from the state endures. Mayo-Tsanaga is withering. And no one seems to care.

The devastation spans from Mokolo to Koza, extending to Mayo-Moskota. More than 50 villages have been entirely or partially deserted by their inhabitants, including Gossi, Tourou, Vizik, Ldamang, Magoumaz, Ldubam, Dinglding, Chougoulé, Oupai, Houdahai, Vouzoud, Ldama, Ziver Montagne, Houva, Gouzda Wayam, Tchébé-Tchébé, Koza, Locktcha, Toufou, Guedjele-Guibedrom, Zelevet, Krawa-Mafa, Ldaoutsaf, Merekouet, Dzamadzaf, Hitéré, Bavangola, Vreket, and Gouzou-dou.

In May 2022, Mahadek Nicolo Nouhou, Mokolo’s fifth deputy mayor, delivered a grim assessment to the Minister of Public Health, Manaouda Malachie, during the Fraternal Encounters of Mayo-Tsanaga held in Tourou and Mokolo: ten villages completely deserted, two occupied by Boko Haram, and seven others regularly targeted. The terrorists have made Gossi, Toufou 1, Toufou 2, Roum, and Hitawa their near-permanent strongholds, forcing residents to flee. Since then, the situation has only worsened.

“We are abandoned to our fate, left to wonder why our leaders and government remain silent in the face of our suffering. Do we, the sons and daughters of Mayo-Tsanaga, not count among Cameroon’s true citizens?” the people of Tourou ask.

For over a decade, residents have lived in absolute fear. By night, men flee to the mountains, sharing caves with snakes and scorpions. By day, they return to tend their fields, markets, and homes. The terror of Boko Haram’s night raids forces families into this cycle of flight and return, with no end in sight.

When attacks strike, the Cameroonian military’s response is woefully inadequate. During the June 18, 2026 assault on Ldamang and Ldubam at 2 AM—where villagers were wounded and kidnapped—only two soldiers were present. How can two lightly armed troops face heavily armed terrorists? Civilian vigilante groups, armed with machetes and sticks, are left to fend for themselves against assault rifles and rocket-propelled grenades.

The local elite’s silence is complicity in its purest form. Mayo-Tsanaga is home to high-ranking administrators and influential figures who could amplify the people’s cries. They appear at campaign rallies, deliver speeches, and make promises—always empty ones—exploiting the community’s vulnerability for political gain. But when Tourou burns, when Koza counts its dead, these same elites fall silent. Theirs is not an oversight; it is a calculated political choice.

Ministers have visited the region, held meetings, and made declarations. Yet the promises vanish as quickly as they are made. The attacks persist. Mokolo yesterday. Koza the day before. What about tomorrow? No one knows. No one dares to promise.

Over 9,000 people displaced by Boko Haram’s violence remain unable to return home, and the number grows with every incursion. In early June 2026 alone, the International Organization for Migration recorded 482 new displacements—78 households—fleeing attacks in Mokolo, Koza, and Mayo-Moskota. The crisis stretches beyond departmental borders. By early July 2026, a local authority in Kalfou, Mayo-Danay, reported welcoming nearly 300 displaced families who had fled Boko Haram’s violence from Mokolo. The journey spans 210 kilometers, a testament to the scale of the exodus: families abandon their homes, lands, and livelihoods, embarking on treacherous journeys in search of safety. This ongoing displacement underscores the severity of the humanitarian catastrophe.

Those who flee leave behind everything—even their dead. Official documents, birth certificates, national identity cards, and family memories are reduced to ashes in burnt homes. But the deepest tragedy lies in the fragmentation of families. In the chaos of an attack, parents and children are separated, some fleeing without the chance to take their loved ones with them. Children and adolescents, left to fend for themselves, are robbed of education, protection, and stability. Their futures darken: some abandon their studies, others turn to crime, and many young girls lose hope of a better life ahead.

Mayo-Tsanaga is emptying. Agriculture is collapsing. Schools are shuttered. The local economy is vanishing. If nothing changes, the department faces irreversible depopulation. The state cannot afford to ignore its citizens simply because they live far from Yaoundé. How many more villages must be abandoned before this crisis becomes a national priority?