Are they safe? Do they have shelter? Will they come back? I don't know.
In the final days of March 2021, armed insurgents linked to Islamic State swept through Palma, a northern Mozambican town built around one of the world's largest natural gas developments, scattering tens of thousands of residents into surrounding forests and severing the fragile thread between economic promise and human security. The attack marks not merely an escalation of a four-year insurgency in Cabo Delgado, but a reckoning with the oldest of colonial tensions — the question of who bears the cost when vast wealth is extracted from a place, and who is left behind when that extraction becomes too dangerous to continue. Survivors emerge from the bush carrying stories of hunger, crocodiles, and separation, while the companies that shaped the town quietly withdraw, and the missing remain uncounted.
- Well-armed militants in red scarves overran Palma on March 24 with overwhelming speed, cutting communications and forcing tens of thousands to flee into dense forest with no warning and no clear escape.
- A week after the assault, only 9,900 displaced persons had been formally registered — a fraction of those believed to have fled — leaving thousands unaccounted for, possibly still hiding or already dead in the surrounding wilderness.
- Survivors describe escape routes lined with the dead: people who succumbed to starvation, dehydration, crocodile attacks, and deep mud before ever reaching safety.
- Total, the French oil giant anchoring the region's $60 billion gas development, evacuated its workers and formally withdrew from the project site, handing an overwhelmed military the burden of a crisis it did not create alone.
- Families were split at the point of evacuation — boats with limited capacity forced impossible choices — and many survivors now wait in displacement camps with no word from those left behind.
Luisa Jose was fifty-two when she ran from Palma, watching uniformed men with red scarves and bazookas pour into the town from every direction. She was among tens of thousands displaced when Islamic State-linked insurgents attacked the northern Mozambican gas hub on March 24 — a town that had grown up around some of the world's largest natural gas projects, valued at roughly sixty billion dollars.
For nearly five days, Jose moved through the forest with crowds of other survivors, eating bitter cassava and drinking from stagnant pools. The broader insurgency in Cabo Delgado had been building since 2017, but this assault came with a new ferocity, and communications to Palma were severed almost immediately. A week later, only 9,900 displaced persons had been registered by UN humanitarian agency OCHA — a number that left thousands unaccounted for, still somewhere in the surrounding bush.
The stories that emerged from survivors were consistent and devastating. People died along the escape routes from hunger and dehydration. Some were taken by crocodiles. Others sank into deep mud and did not rise. The Mozambican government offered only vague casualty figures, and security forces declined to comment.
Jose eventually reached Quitunda, a resettlement village built for those previously displaced by the gas projects themselves — a bitter irony not lost on those who noticed. Total evacuated her by boat, but the vessel had no room for her husband, her daughter, and four others in her family. She left them on the shore.
Total has since withdrawn all remaining workers from the project site, transferring security responsibility to the military. Jose now waits in a stadium in Pemba, the regional port city, with no contact from the family she left behind and no answer to the question her survival has made unavoidable: what becomes of a place when the industry that built it decides it is no longer worth the risk?
Luisa Jose was fifty-two years old when she ran for her life through the streets of Palma. The attackers came from every direction—men in uniforms with red scarves tied around their heads, carrying bazookas, moving through the town with the speed of a practiced assault. She was one of tens of thousands who fled the gas hub in northern Mozambique on March 24, and one of the few who made it out to tell what she saw.
Palma sits next to some of the world's largest natural gas projects, worth roughly sixty billion dollars. The town had been relatively stable until the attack, though the broader region of Cabo Delgado had been simmering with Islamist violence since 2017. That insurgency is now confirmed to have links to Islamic State. When the assault came, it came with overwhelming force and speed. Communications to the town were severed almost immediately, making it impossible for outside observers to verify what was happening in real time.
Jose spent nearly five days in the bush after fleeing. She ate bitter cassava tubers and drank from stagnant pools of water, moving through the forest with thousands of others trying to reach safety. Aid organizations believe tens of thousands of people fled the violence, but the actual number remains murky. As of Friday—a week after the attack—only 9,900 displaced persons had been registered across Pemba and other parts of Cabo Delgado province, according to the United Nations humanitarian agency OCHA. The gap between those who fled and those accounted for suggests that many thousands are still missing, possibly still hiding in the surrounding forest.
The survivors who did emerge told consistent and grim stories. People died along the escape routes from hunger and dehydration. Some were killed by crocodiles. Others became trapped in deep mud and did not get out. A contractor whose employee witnessed these deaths confirmed the accounts. The scale of the casualties remains unknown because the government has released only vague statements—dozens killed, officials said, but nothing more precise. Mozambique's defense and security forces declined to comment when contacted. The national police did not answer calls.
Jose eventually reached Quitunda, a village that had been built to relocate people displaced by the gas projects themselves. From there, she was evacuated by Total, the French oil major operating one of the largest projects in the area. But the boat had limited capacity. She had to leave behind more than six family members—her husband, a daughter, and others—because there was no room. On Friday, Total withdrew all remaining workers from the project site near Palma, handing security responsibility entirely to the military. The company declined to comment on the evacuation or its operations.
Jose is now in a stadium in Pemba, the port city where thousands of other displaced people have gathered. She has had no contact with her family since she left them behind. She does not know if they are alive, if they have shelter, or if they will ever return. The question hangs unanswered: what happens to a town when the companies that built it around a resource decide the resource is no longer worth protecting?
Citas Notables
I was running to save my life... they were coming from every street. I saw them with bazookas. They wore uniforms with red scarves tied to their heads.— Luisa Jose, 52-year-old survivor
Are they safe? Do they have shelter? Will they come back? I don't know.— Luisa Jose, speaking from a stadium in Pemba after being separated from her family
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why does a gas hub in Mozambique matter to people who will never use that gas?
Because when a place becomes valuable to the world, the world's conflicts find their way there. Palma was stable until it wasn't. Now sixty billion dollars in infrastructure sits abandoned, and thousands of people are scattered or missing.
The numbers seem strange—tens of thousands fled, but only 9,900 registered. Where are the others?
Some are still in the forest. Some may have died. Some may have reached other towns and not yet registered. The silence from the government makes it impossible to know. That uncertainty is part of the terror.
Luisa Jose left her husband and daughter on a boat. Does she know if they survived?
No. That's the cruelest part of her story. She escaped but has no way to know if the people she left behind are alive. The attack severed not just communications to the town—it severed families.
Total pulled out. Does that mean the gas projects are finished?
Not necessarily. It means they're paused. The military is holding the site now. But a four-year insurgency doesn't end quickly, and companies don't return until they're certain profits will exceed risks.
What does Islamic State want with a gas hub?
Control. Territory. The ability to say they hold something the world wants. Cabo Delgado has been unstable for years—this attack is the escalation, not the beginning.