It was meant to be the sound of school bells, but it was gunshots that rang louder at St. Mary’s Catholic School in Papiri on that fateful day. Children as young as six were whisked away without brushing their teeth or taking their baths. The gunmen reportedly led them into the bush on foot, forcing young, innocent Nigerians into a long, exhausting trek with no chance to rest or resist.

Or has it now become a crime to be a Nigerian student?

Parents did not receive calls from teachers; they heard the news through their radio sets. Many clutched their radios tightly, praying not to hear the name of their child’s school, hoping desperately that it would be another school.

What greeted them instead were shattered windows and broken hostel doors. Some parents began identifying their children’s clothes among scattered belongings, their cries filled with bitterness and despair. Can I trust this government to bring back my child? They asked.

According to several reports, over 300 schoolchildren were abducted in a single attack, stirring painful memories of the 2014 Chibok girls. And the government’s response? Promises. Promises to return the children as soon as possible. The rest, sadly, became history. We can only hope that history does not repeat itself in the days ahead.

The Christian Association of Nigeria later confirmed that 50 students had been reunited with their families. A moment of relief, perhaps, but what of the over 250 still unaccounted for? A child who once had a small room in their village now sleeps in the bush, where mosquitoes breed freely. These children now see guns as tools of fear and control, having witnessed their use against classmates who tried to escape. Can such trauma ever truly fade?

If education is my right, why is it not the responsibility of the government to protect me? If I am called a leader of tomorrow, why am I ageing in the forest, under the control of those who have taught me that hope does not exist? If we combine the number of out-of-school children with those currently in captivity, they outnumber the Nigerian Senate. Are these not the future senators and leaders? All they ask for is safety, education, and a fair environment that allows them to compete with their peers across Nigeria and beyond.

It is World Day of Education, and it must be said clearly: education is not a luxury; it is a necessity.

Fear should not ring louder than school bells, nor should bullets replace books on our lawns. Armed men should not storm classrooms or shout at teachers while dragging students into the bush. Psychologists remind us that a stable mind learns better and faster. Children must be allowed to learn in peace.

Books, Not Bullets: Reclaiming Education on the World Day of Learning

There was a time when intelligence and knowledge were celebrated on Nigerian television through programmes like Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?, Cowbellpedia, spelling bees, and academic competitions. Today, books feel distant to many young Nigerians, not because they lack interest, but because priorities have shifted under the weight of fear. How does one read when tension fills the air, knowing a bullet could tear through pages at any moment?

On this World Day of Education, PSJ UK stands firmly for education, peace, and social justice for children who have been forced from classrooms into bushes, from desks into displacement. We call on the Nigerian government to tackle insecurity with urgency and sincerity, so education ceases to be a privilege and returns to being a guaranteed right.

Children belong in classrooms, not forests. They belong with books, not bullets.

And to those who kidnap children: every child taken is a dream stolen, a future distorted. The consequences of such violence ripple far beyond today.

PSJ UK believes that lasting peace begins where children are safe to learn. Let schools remain places of hope, not fear. Let bells ring louder than gunshots. Let students remain in classrooms—not bushes.