Fatmata’s rice field spoilt by cattle.
Shot by Patricia Sia Ngevao
By: patricia.ngevao@awokonewspapersl.com
In Northern Sierra Leone, conflicts between farmers and herders over land and grazing rights are tearing communities apart. Families face poverty, food shortages, and the constant threat of violence. But it is the children who suffer the most.
Awoko Newspaper visited four villages affected by farmer-herder conflicts Makoth in Bombali, and Simbeck, Kawa 1, and Saoria in Fadugu, Koinadugu.
The investigation reveals how children’s lives and sense of security have been turned upside down, where fear and uncertainty have become part of everyday life and survival comes at a heavy price.
Starving on Fertile Land
Across Makoth, Simbeck, Kawa 1, and Saoria, families watch their harvests disappear under the hooves of cattle, leaving children hungry, malnourished, and without hope of the next meal.
In these villages, most especially in Simbeck, Kawa 1 and Saoria, hunger has settled quietly into daily life. The sound of cattle in the distance now sends a wave of unease through farming families. It means herders are nearby and soon, the farms they depend on may be gone.
In Makoth, Hawa Koroma still remembers the night she heard her husband shouting in the fields. By morning, the small patch of rice they had been harvesting was gone. “The cows came through everything,” she says, her voice breaking. “We had already started cutting the rice, tying it into bundles to dry, but by dawn, the ground was bare. The cattle ate and trampled what was left.”
In Saoria, the same story plays out. 33-year-old Fatmata Sesay, a mother of four, points to her empty field. “We used to store rice to last for months, but now the cows reach even what we have cut and left to dry,” she explains. “We eat once a day sometimes only rice with salt or palm oil and when it finishes, we just wait.”
In Kawa 1, the devastation extends beyond rice fields as cassava, pepper, corn, and groundnut farms have all been destroyed, leaving families with nothing to harvest. “The cattle enter at night when everyone is asleep,” says farmer Alhassan Sesay. “By morning, it’s too late. We lose everything. Now our children eat less, and you can see the weakness in their bodies.”
Simbeck faces the same pain as the hunger there runs deeper. “When there’s no food, the children’s bodies change,” says 39-year-old Mariama Kamara, a mother of six. “Their hair turns light, their stomachs swell, and they sleep most of the day because they have no strength.”
“Hunger here isn’t just about food,” Mariama says. “When the cattle come, they destroy everything and leave fear behind. You can see it changing the children.”
Drinking Danger
In these villages, shrinking rivers and failing wells force families to rely on the same water sources as livestock. Children are especially vulnerable to illness as they are exposed to contaminated water that is often all that is available during the dry season.
Cows wade knee-deep, stirring up silt and dung, while children crouch at the edge, filling buckets with brown-tinged water. The air smells faintly of rot, the surface rippling with insects, but there is no other choice.
Makoth, located miles away from the other villages, relies on a Jacky pump that eases the daily struggle for water, though its flow is slow and often overused.
The situation in Saoria, Simbeck and Kawa 1 is even harder. In Saoria, the community’s Jacky pump is broken, forcing families to rely on the same stream used by livestock. In Kawa 1, the Jacky pump works but often runs dry during the hot months, leaving families no choice but to return to the contaminated stream.
This reliance on shared water sources exposes children and adults to illness and adds to the daily struggle for survival.
Spoilt Jacky pump in Saoria now used for drying rice and clothes.
Shot by Patricia Sia Ngevao
In Simbeck, there is no well at allonly the river, shared with animals and runoff from nearby farms. Seven-year-old Lamin from Simbeck recalls being bedridden for days. “I drink from the river because there’s no other water,” he says, his voice faint.
Stream shared by humans and animals in Simbeck.
Shot by Patricia Sia Ngevao
At a local health center, a nurse who requested anonymity said the clinic is overwhelmed with preventable cases. “During the dry season, more than half of the children we treat, mostly under ten, come in with diarrhea or other waterborne illnesses,” they explained. “Some days, we see up to 15 children before noon. Supplies are limited, and the heartbreaking part is that all of this could be avoided if safe water were available.”
37-year-old Fatmata Jalloh, a mother of four in Saoria, describes the delicate process of trying to make the dirty water drinkable. “We fetch the water from the stream and let it sit so the dirt can settle,” she says. “After that, we drain the top and boil it. But even after boiling, the water still feels slippery when you turn it, it’s not clean, just a bit clearer. Still, we drink it because we must.”
Fatmata explains the challenges her community faces with water.
Shot by Patricia Sia Ngevao
Across these communities, water, once a source of life, now brings fear with every sip. Survival depends on endurance, patience, and hope for rain. For many families, drinking water no longer ends their thirst; it only marks the struggle to stay alive.
Jacky pump in Kawa 1 built in 2009.
Shot by Patricia Sia Ngevao
Education Under Strain
School is one of the few things holding children’s lives together, but even that thread is wearing thin. Hunger, poverty, and the effects of violence have turned learning into a daily struggle for survival.
In Simbeck, the community built their own primary school using mud bricks and old zinc sheets, a sign of their determination to keep education alive. But the structure is falling apart. “The school has no doors or windows,” says Head Teacher Emmanuel Koroma.
He added “Sometimes cows wander into the classroom and disrupt learning. When it rains, we stop lessons. When the cows come, we chase them out. The children lose more days of school to these interruptions than to any other reason.”
Children attend class at Simbeck’s mud-brick school.
Shot by Patricia Sia Ngevao
Photos taken with consent from the school’s Headteacher, Emmanuel Koroma.
Also, in Kawa 1 and Saoria, teachers describe the same hardship. Many children come to school hungry, unable to focus or stay awake. “Some haven’t eaten since the night before,” says a teacher in RC Kawa 1 School. “Their eyes close during lessons, not because they don’t care, but because hunger has worn them down.”
Two pupils in RC Kawa 1 School rest after being given food by their teacher.
Shot by Patricia Sia Ngevao
Photos taken with consent from the school’s administration.
Teachers across the villages say the destruction of farms has left families too poor to afford uniforms, notebooks, or even shoes. “You see them in slippers or barefoot,” says another teacher from Simbeck. “It’s not neglect, it’s survival.”
Parents face impossible choices. 47-year-old father in Simbeck, Alusine Kamara, a farmer with 14 children, admits he allows some of them to work for others in exchange for food. “It is not what I want,” he says quietly.
“But if they don’t work, they don’t eat. And if they don’t eat, they can’t go to school.” Alusine explains that he can no longer provide for his children because cattle destroyed his farm, leaving him without any means to earn money or properly care for his family.
Photo of Alusine Kamara.
Shot by Patricia Sia Ngevao
Even for those who manage to attend, learning remains fragile. Lessons pause when cattle cross the fields, when rain floods the classrooms, or when hunger makes concentration impossible. “Even when we teach, it feels like fighting against the wind,” says Madam Jeneba Mohamed Thoronka, a teacher in RC Kawa 1 School. “The children’s minds are full of worry about food, about safety, about what tomorrow will bring.”
Madam Jeneba Mohamed Thoronka, a teacher in RC Kawa 1 School.
Shot by Patricia Sia Ngevao
Early childhood education, which lays the foundation for learning, is almost nonexistent in these communities. There are no proper preschools, trained caregivers, or early learning programs. Children often start primary school late and unprepared, already burdened by hardship. National data reflect this divide.
According to UNICEF’s Education Analysis for Global Learning and Equity, only 3% of rural children in Sierra Leone are enrolled in early childhood education programs, compared to 27% in urban areas. The Early Childhood Development Index (ECDI) shows that just over half 51.4% of children under five in Sierra Leone are developmentally on track, but the situation in these conflict-affected rural areas is likely far worse.
The absence of nurturing care, proper nutrition, and safe learning spaces means that many children begin school already behind and few get the chance to catch up. This fragile foundation follows them into higher grades, where opportunities become even scarcer.
Lingering Fear
In Saoria, twelve-year-old Mohamed no longer plays football with friends. “We stop early now,” he says, glancing toward the road. “When the cows come or people start shouting, my mother tells us to hide under the bed.”
45-year-old Isatu, a widow and mother of three in the same village, explains how fear follows children even to bed. “My daughter cries in her sleep,” she says. “She dreams that cows are chasing us. I tell her we are safe, but even I don’t believe it.”
Saoria’s community women leader, Mariama Kamara, describes how children have learned to move cautiously. “They don’t run or laugh too loudly,” she says. “They have learned to be careful, as if being a child is something dangerous.”
Two children play quietly in front of their house in Saoria.
Shot by Patricia Sia Ngevao
Full consent was given by the mother, Fatmata Jalloh
In Kawa 1, the open field where children once played freely has grown thick with grass. “It used to be full of games and laughter,” says local resident Sembecka Kamara. “Now it is empty and wild. Children are too afraid to go there.”
The playground in Kawa 1 now lies overgrown and empty.
Shot by Patricia Sia Ngevao
At a Community Health Center, Nurse Fatmata Koroma reports that the fear is affecting children’s health. “They come with stomach aches or headaches that have no medical cause,” she says. “When we talk to them, they say they don’t sleep well because they’re scared. Some have stopped eating properly.”
A police officer in Koinadugu, who asked not to be named, admits that patrols are limited. “By the time help comes, the children have already seen too much,” he says. “They’ve seen animals destroying what their parents built. That kind of fear doesn’t leave a child easily.”
Escalating Violence
The conflict is not easing, it’s getting worse. In the past two years, farmer-herder clashes in Some parts of Bombali and Koinadugu districts have grown both in frequency and brutality. What began as disputes over grazing boundaries and water sources has turned into organized attacks that leave entire villages reeling.
Local leaders estimate that at least 20 major incidents have occurred across northern Sierra Leone since 2023, displacing thousands. Many go unreported, resolved quietly or left to simmer until the next spark. “Every time it happens, we say it will be the last,” says an elder from Fadugu. “But it always comes again.”
The Sierra Leone Police confirm a rise in violent confrontations, though official figures remain incomplete. “It’s not just about land anymore,” a security officer in Kabala explains. “People are angry, tired, and armed. Every conflict now carries the risk of escalation.”
The insecurity has paralyzed daily life. Farmers hesitate to plant during peak grazing months, fearing attacks. Herders avoid certain paths, fearing reprisal. Schools close with every new clash. “It feels like we are living between two storms,” says a teacher in Simbeck. “When one ends, we start waiting for the next.”
District officials admit that the situation is slipping beyond their control. “We have tried dialogue,” says a councilor in Koinadugu. “But without stronger enforcement and compensation policies, these conflicts will not end. Each side feels wronged, and the children are the ones paying the price.”
Shortcomings in Mediation, Protection and Psychological Impact on Children
Kamara, a farmer in Kawa 1, lost his rice plantation to grazing cattle. “We went to the town chief and the police,” he says. “They promised to look into it. It’s been eight months, and nothing has happened. We are still waiting.”
An elder from Makoth highlights the systemic imbalance: “Even when herders are wrong, they find ways to escape responsibility. Farmers receive less than they ask for, but if a cow is maimed, the farmer pays full price. Children see this and wonder why fairness favors the powerful.”
Chief Timothy Koroma of Simbeck reveals that herders often move into and settle in their village without any prior notice, leaving families unprepared and vulnerable. “We call the authorities, but no one comes. The people suffer, and the children see it every day. It feels like we are left to handle this alone. Even when we report incidents, no follow-up is made,” he adds.
Local mediation bodies like the Cattle Settlement Committee were established to prevent and manage disputes over grazing and farm encroachment. Composed of elders, community representatives, and members from both farming and herding communities, the committee mediates conflicts, organizes early-warning systems, and recommends restitution.
Abubakar Jalloh, a committee member in Koinadugu, explains: “We hold early warning meetings, mediate disputes, and assign monitors to alert farmers and herders.” Alhaji Amadu Wurie Bah, chairman of the committee, confirms the unequal burden on farmers: “Fields are destroyed, and few receive compensation. Children grow up seeing that fairness isn’t always upheld.”
Alhaji Amadu Wurie Bah, chairman of the committee
Shot by Patricia Sia Ngevao
Some cases bypass the committee entirely and go straight to local courts. “This delays resolution and often heightens tension,” says Bah. “We urge disputes to come to the committee first so they can be resolved at the community level.”
Parents describe how their children go through a landscape of insecurity. Without consistent intervention, children are growing up in a reality where violence is normalized and justice is invisible. Families cope by limiting children’s mobility or sending them to relatives in safer towns when farms are destroyed. Chief Timothy adds, “We do what we can as leaders, but the government’s absence leaves these children to bear the consequences of adult conflicts.”
The absence of formal government intervention has forced communities to rely on informal structures While these bodies attempt mediation and damage control, they lack enforcement power, and wealthier or politically connected herders often ignore their recommendations.
A district agriculture officer in Kabala confirms the gap. “Without national guidelines for compensation in farmer-herder conflicts, most cases are handled informally, which often means justice is never served.”
Officials from the Ministry of Social Welfare and the Ministry of Gender and Children’s Affairs acknowledged the gaps anonymously. “Our presence in these villages is minimal. We rely on local committees and NGOs, but our reach is too thin to provide timely protection for children during conflicts,” said one senior officer. Another source added, “We are aware that children are suffering, but logistical constraints and limited funding mean our interventions often come too late or not at all.”
The psychological toll on children is evident. Fear, anxiety, and stress have become constant companions for many. Teachers report that some children struggle to sleep, avoid playing outside, or show signs of withdrawal.
“They are living with trauma before they even fully understand it,” says one local educator. “The constant fear of losing their home, their food, or being caught in a clash affects their learning and their childhood.”
Mental Health experts reveal that children exposed to repeated violence without protective oversight show heightened anxiety, difficulty trusting adults, and stunted emotional development.
There are no local child protection committees, trained volunteers, or NGOs providing support in these communities. Families struggle to keep children fed, safe, and emotionally stable while their homes and farms are destroyed. Daily life is dominated by fear from roaming cattle, shouting during clashes, or the absence of any authority to protect them.
Social worker Hawa Sesay explains, “The danger is not only physical, it’s psychological. When children grow up in fear, it affects how they trust, how they relate to others, even how they see the world.”
Legal Gaps in Child Protection
Despite legal protections, children in conflict zones bear the brunt of violence, displacement, and trauma.
On paper, Sierra Leone has some of the strongest child protection laws in West Africa. The Child Rights Act of 2007 guarantees children’s rights to safety, education, and protection from exploitation or violence. The country has also ratified international conventions, including the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child (UNCRC), the African Charter on the Rights and Welfare of the Child, and the Optional Protocols on the involvement of children in armed conflict and child trafficking. These commitments underscore Sierra Leone’s responsibility to shield its youngest citizens.
Yet, in some villages in Bombali and Koinadugu, the reality is different. “Our structures are too thin,” admits a Child Protection Officer in Koinadugu. “We have one child welfare committee serving nearly ten villages. By the time we reach the affected communities, children have already been displaced or traumatized.”
The National Child Protection Policy, launched in 2019, outlines procedures for identifying at-risk children, providing psychosocial care, and reuniting separated families. But field officers describe its implementation as fragmented and underfunded. “Everyone is doing something, but no one is doing it together,” says Social Welfare Supervisor Josephine Sesay. “We need a joint response system not scattered efforts.”
Even the security forces face limitations. A police Inspector of the Police Family Support Unit (FSU) in the Northern region says, “We are trained to respond to crimes, not trauma. When a child sees someone killed, that’s not just evidence it’s a wound. And our system doesn’t have the tools to heal it.”
Internationally, Sierra Leone is obligated under the UNCRC Article 6 (right to life, survival, and development) and Article 19 (protection from all forms of violence), yet enforcement remains uneven. The country also aligns with the African Charter on the Rights and Welfare of the Child, which emphasizes protection during conflict and displacement. Local experts argue that translating these commitments into real-world protection, especially in remote rural areas, remains a challenge.
Deputy Minister of Gender and Children’s Affairs, Hindowa Buakai Bindi, acknowledges the gap: “Our goal is to bring the services to the villages including counseling, legal aid, and safe spaces. But until the budget matches the policy, we’ll always be chasing the problem, not solving it.
Community Action Amid Limited Humanitarian Support
In Simbeck, Kawa 1, and Saoria, NGOs are scarce. Despite this lack of external aid, communities have taken matters into their own hands, creating systems to support children and daily life.
Parents, elders, and youth groups organize informal feeding points, share remaining grains and vegetables, and mediate disputes before they escalate. Teachers provide food to children who fall asleep in class, helping them stay alert and continue learning despite hunger. “We cannot wait for help,” says teacher Sorie Kamara of Kawa 1 Community School. “If we don’t act, the children suffer even more.”
Residents converge in Simbeck to mediate a matter.
Shot by Patricia Sia Ngevao
Children continue to face fear, hunger, and disrupted routines, yet it is the strength and determination of their communities that provide small but vital lifelines.
In Kawa 1 and Simbeck, children now gather after school to play together in the school field under the guidance of their teachers before heading home. Teacher Jeneba says these moments are more than just playtime. “It helps their minds,” she explains. “After all the fear and hunger they experience, playing together makes them feel like children again.”
Children in Kawa 1 play together after school under the watch of their teacher.
Shot by Patricia Sia Ngevao
Photo taken with consent from the school’s administration.
Even without consistent NGO intervention, communities continue to act. The organization, alertness, and informal systems they maintain are the difference between life and despair for children growing up amid farmer-herder conflict. Survival has replaced play, but care and attention from families and neighbors help children endure daily challenges.
Data Gap
In northern Sierra Leone, reliable data on how farmer-herder conflicts affect children is virtually nonexistent. Villages such as Makoth, Simbeck, Kawa 1 and Saoria have repeatedly experienced the farmer-herder crisis, yet no official records quantify the impact on children. Government agencies, local authorities, and humanitarian organizations have not collected comprehensive figures on school absenteeism, malnutrition, injuries, or the wellbeing of affected children.
Awoko Newspaper’s efforts to obtain information from district offices and headquarters yielded no usable data. Officials either could not provide figures or referred only to anecdotal observations, highlighting the absence of systematic monitoring. As a result, the true scale of child suffering remains invisible.
Officials from the Ministry of Social Welfare and the Ministry of Gender and Children’s Affairs confirmed that no structured data collection exists in these remote areas. Most incidents go unreported, and where reports are filed, they rarely capture how children are specifically affected. There are no baseline figures tracking how many children have been displaced, lost access to education, or suffered injury or trauma. Local authorities also confirmed that no child-focused assessments or surveys have been carried out. Most of what is known comes from word of mouth—teachers, parents, and community leaders describing the hardships they witness daily.
Civil society organizations working on child protection stress the dangers of this information void. A senior officer from the Child Rights Advocacy Network (CRAN), Abubakarr Bockarie, said, “Without accurate data, children’s needs are consistently overlooked. We cannot plan nutrition programs, education interventions, or psychosocial support when we do not know how many children are displaced, malnourished, or out of school.” The officer added that the absence of monitoring also makes it impossible to hold authorities accountable, leaving families to navigate insecurity on their own.
Parents and teachers in these villages echo these concerns. Fatmata Jalloh from Kawa 1 says, “No one comes to ask how many children are going hungry or how many schools are closed. We survive as best as we can, but the government doesn’t know, so no help comes.” A teacher in Simbeck notes that entire classrooms remain empty after families flee, yet no records capture the number of children missing lessons or forced to work to eat something.
The lack of data perpetuates a cycle of neglect. Children continue to grow up amid destroyed farms, scarce food, and disrupted routines, but their suffering is neither quantified nor addressed.
Without this information, national and humanitarian planning cannot respond effectively. In these villages, the crisis exists in the memories and daily struggles of families, not in any official reports or national database. Until children are counted, their pain will remain unseen and solutions will continue to fall short.
Regional Snapshot
Notably, the conflicts between farmers and herders in northern Sierra Leone are not isolated, they are part of a larger West African crisis that stretches from Nigeria’s Middle Belt to the savannahs of Ghana and Mali. As climate pressures intensify and herders move further in search of water and pasture, boundaries blur, and old patterns of coexistence give way to tension and violence.
In Koinadugu, community elders say they now see unfamiliar herders passing through villages during the dry season. “Some speak languages we don’t understand,” says Chief Lansana Marah of Fadugu. “They come with hundreds of cattle, and they do not know our local customs. That is where the problem begins.”
Security experts point out that Sierra Leone’s northern border with Guinea has become a corridor for nomadic herders moving from the Sahel. A senior security personnel explains, “We monitor movements across the frontier, but it’s difficult terrain. There are dozens of informal crossing points, and not all herders register with local authorities. This makes enforcement almost impossible.”
The pattern mirrors what has been seen in Nigeria, where violent farmer-herder conflicts claimed more than 4,000 lives in 2023 alone, according to the Nigeria Conflict Observatory. There, porous borders and weak enforcement of grazing laws have allowed nomadic herders to move freely between states, triggering disputes over farmland and water points. Ghana has faced similar strains: in 2022, the Ghanaian government launched Operation Cow Leg, a military campaign aimed at stopping illegal herder movements after repeated clashes in the Volta and Bono regions.
But Sierra Leone’s context differs in scale and opportunity. The country’s smaller cattle population and long tradition of communal farming once made peaceful coexistence the norm. “We used to share water sources,” recalls Pa Yamba, a 70-year-old farmer in Makoth. “We even helped them when their cattle were sick. But now, everything is about survival. They want land, and we want food. There is no middle ground anymore.”
Dominic Boima, Sierra Leone’s Head for the West Africa Network for Peacebuilding (WANEP), argue that Sierra Leone must act before the situation spirals. “We’ve seen how neglect in early stages allowed the Nigerian conflict to explode,” he warns. “Cross-border cooperation is key between Sierra Leone, Guinea, and Mali to track herder movements, mediate land access, and prevent small disputes from becoming blood feuds.”
Already, the ECOWAS Transhumance Protocol which regulates livestock mobility across borders offers a framework for peace. Yet in Sierra Leone, enforcement remains weak. Few local officers or chiefs are even aware of the protocol’s provisions. “The laws are written in Freetown, but the cattle walk in Fadugu,” one district security officer remarked wryly.
In the meantime, children in the north live in the shadow of a regional crisis. Their reality mirrors that of thousands across West Africa — children in the middle belt and northern Nigeria, northern Ghana, and southern Mali who, like the children in Simbeck, Makoth, Kawa 1 and Saoria, now measure their days by the distance between fear and safety.
Paths to Peace: Suggested Strategies
Key actors in northern Sierra Leone emphasize that achieving sustainable peace requires proactive, preventive measures rather than reactive interventions. Clear land management and properly marked grazing boundaries are crucial to prevent disputes between farmers and herders. Ensuring that communities have a shared understanding of where farming ends and grazing begins can reduce tensions before they escalate into conflict.
Regular community dialogues that involve farmers, herders, parents, and children are recommended to create safe spaces for airing grievances and fostering understanding. Including young people in these discussions and integrating conflict resolution and cooperative learning into school curricula can help children develop nonviolent ways to handle disputes and contribute to long-term community harmony.
Local authorities and security actors are encouraged to coordinate closely with communities, combining oversight with mediation to address root causes of conflict. Engagement by multiple stakeholders including ministries, community leaders, and civil society organizations can strengthen preventive measures, ensuring that disputes are resolved at the local level before they escalate.
The overall approach emphasizes collaboration, inclusion, and forward planning, ensuring that both adults and children are actively involved in shaping peaceful coexistence in northern Sierra Leone.
This report was produced with support from the REACH Network.