The New York Times met and photographed dozens of the students abducted by Boko Haram. Now at a university, they say they are the lucky ones. But their celebrity has a price.

Four years later, more than a hundred of them have been freed.

Boko Haram dressed them in dark gowns and head coverings, broadcasting the images to the world the following month.

In April 2014, more than 200 girls were kidnapped from a school in Nigeria. The world responded: #BringBackOurGirls.

“But I’m thinking about my sisters who are still in the back,” in Boko Haram’s clutches, she said.

“I’m happy,” said Ms. Ntakai, who was No. 169 on the list. Now, she is a 20-year-old student who rises at dawn for Saturday yoga class and argues about the benefits and dangers of social media during debate night at the university.

But more than 100 of their former classmates are still missing, held by Boko Haram. About a dozen are thought to be dead.

The government negotiated for the release of many of the Chibok students, who were set free in groups over the last year and a half. A few others were found roaming the countryside, having escaped their captors.

Nearly four years after they were abducted and dragged off to a forest hide-out, more than 100 of the students from Chibok now live on a pristine university campus four hours from their homes here in northeastern Nigeria, their days filled with math and English classes, karaoke and selfies, and movie nights with popcorn.

“I’m ‘back,’ as they say,” said Hauwa Ntakai, one of the Chibok students.

And then, many of their names were joyfully crossed off the list.

For years, the teenagers remained missing, changing from girls into women, lost to a band of extremists known for beating, raping and enslaving its captives.

Far away in America, France, South Korea and elsewhere, public figures and celebrities joined the cause.

“As I began to read each name, my resolve strengthened,” said Oby Ezekwesili, a former education minister who led protests. “They were not just statistics. These were real human beings.”

Negotiators checked the names as they bartered with militants for the girls’ release. And the list became an inspiration for protesters hundreds of miles away in the capital, who kept marching for the girls’ return, day after day.

Soldiers used the list, too, as they combed the countryside for the missing students, marching through the forest, dispatching jets and enlisting the help of foreign militaries.

The list quickly circulated among the grieving parents searching for their daughters, some setting out on motorbikes to confront the Islamist militants who had stormed the school, loaded the girls into trucks and hauled them away at gunpoint.

It took Nigerian officials agonizing weeks to publish the names of all the students Boko Haram kidnapped from a boarding school in the village of Chibok four years ago, on the night of April 14. Once they did, the numbers were staggering.

Nigeria is in its ninth year of war with Boko Haram, a group that has killed and kidnapped thousands of civilians across northern Nigeria. In many respects, the Chibok students, as extraordinary as their plight has been, were just another set of its victims. Many of the young women now consider themselves the lucky ones.

Weeks before the Chibok kidnapping, a group of young boys were burned alive in their own school, a tragedy that failed to resonate around the world in the same way as the mass abduction of the schoolgirls.

The vast majority of Boko Haram’s victims will remain anonymous and unaccounted for, their names never broadcast across the globe. Many of their families will never even know what happened to them. The crimes committed against them occur in remote areas, far from the reach of cellphone networks, and often while the world’s attention is elsewhere.

But the Chibok girls had names. Saratu Ayuba. Ruth Amos. Comfort Habila. Esther Usman.

And from a few weeks after they were taken — when Boko Haram broadcast images of its somber-looking captives, covered from head to toe in long, dark gowns — they had faces.

96 Rahab Ibrahim After negotiating with the government, Boko Haram released 21 Chibok students in 2016. Ms. Ibrahim was one of them.

Teenage students from a village school suddenly became the unwitting representatives of all the dead and missing victims of a crisis that has upended a poor, remote corner of the globe.

They became the daughters of Nigeria, and more broadly daughters of the whole world, embraced and fretted over as though they belonged to everyone.

“When the Chibok abduction happened, it was the articulation of this whole saga,” said Saudatu Mahdi, a co-founder of the Bring Back Our Girls movement. “They became a rallying point.”

But the freed students from Chibok also bear the heavy burden of the celebrity that led to their release.

They are fortunate enough to attend a private university that educates the children of Nigerian politicians, businesspeople and other members of the elite.

But security restrictions on the Chibok students are especially tight. They are not allowed to leave campus without an escort. They can’t have visitors without special permission. And though some of the women gave birth during their captivity, their children are not allowed to stay with them at the university. Administrators say that would distract from their studies.

In fact, the young women have rarely seen their families since they were freed from Boko Haram. The longest period they have spent with their parents, siblings and other relatives since their abduction in 2014 was over Christmas break last year, when they went home for a couple of weeks. Other than that, they have been under close supervision by officials and educators.

As soon as they were released from Boko Haram, the women were whisked to Abuja, the capital, where they spent weeks in the government’s custody, questioned for information that could help find their still-missing classmates — and to satisfy officials that they had not grown loyal to Boko Haram.

Security agents warned the young women not to talk about their time with militants, arguing that it might jeopardize the safety of the students still held captive. Forget about the past and move forward, they were told.

106 Saratu Ayuba Last May, an additional 82 hostages were released. Ms. Ayuba was in that group.

For months, their access to their parents was severely restricted. They weren’t allowed to leave the bland government building that was their dormitory. Even today, their only regular connection to their families is by phone.

Last summer, officials at the American University of Nigeria traveled to Abuja to meet with the government. Back in 2014, the university, in the city of Yola, had taken in about 20 students from Chibok who had been kidnapped by Boko Haram but had managed to escape within hours.

Administrators pitched the government on a plan to take the newly freed women, too. The idea was to incorporate them into a program designed to help them catch up on their studies, reunite them with their former classmates who were already at the university and prepare them for college life.

Now the Chibok students’ lives are highly structured. With militants still at large in the country, they are considered high-profile targets. And as public figures, officials fear, they are vulnerable to exploitation.

“They will not be the normal people they were before they were abducted,” said Ms. Mahdi, secretary general of the Women’s Rights Advancement and Protection Alternative, an advocacy group for women and girls in Nigeria. “A lot of restrictions will come with their lifestyle.”

Officials at the university had no experience educating a large group of former hostages from a village school. But neither did anyone else.

“We’ll take them all and figure it out,” the university’s president, Dawn Dekle, an American, recalled thinking at the time. “They were traumatized as a group. Their healing has to be in a group.”

All but one of the newly freed students agreed to attend. She had already been married at the time she was kidnapped, so she went back to live on her farm near Chibok with her husband.

At the university, officials scrambled to prepare for the students, renovating a dormitory so they all could be housed together and finding classrooms to accommodate the extra pupils.

The assistant dean of student affairs became the women’s de facto principal. A therapist in the United States, who had counseled some of the early escapees from the kidnapping, was recruited to work as the students’ psychologist. A conference room was designated as a prayer room for the few women who are Muslim. And for the Christian students, the person in charge of the university’s recycling program, who also serves as a local pastor, leads Sunday services.

190 Deborah Andrawus While the women now live on a university campus, studying English and preparing for college, they are "free, but not really free."

Last September, more than 100 of the students arrived at the tidy campus, with its trimmed hedges, three-story library and solar-powered buildings. Not everyone was happy to welcome such a large group of women who had spent the past few years living with militants.

Some of the other students were scared that Boko Haram would come for the Chibok women again, especially at a university representing the sort of Western education that Boko Haram has long condemned.

Others worried that the women had grown attached to their captors and could be terrorists themselves. One student told officials that she feared waking up at night to discover one of the women holding a knife to her neck.

After arriving on campus, the women were escorted to the university cafeteria for their first meal. The group drew stares from the other students.

“I could tell they were not feeling comfortable,” said Reginald Braggs, a former United States Navy R.O.T.C. instructor who is in charge of the program for the Chibok students.

Rather than force integration, administrators decided to let the new arrivals eat most meals in their dorm.

All in their 20s now, the women are housed at the university, but in a program that sometimes seems designed for elementary students. Classrooms are decorated with pictures of Spider-Man and basic multiplication tables.

“Remember to flush the toilet and wash your hands,” reads a poster on the bulletin board.

For months, their tablets, all donated, were ordered turned off at night. Messages of positive thinking are plastered on every wall: Never give up. Believe in yourself. Shine like stars.

When some of the women were upset at messing up during spelling bees, administrators gave them the words to study ahead of time. Even their church service, during which the women seemed relaxed and joyful as they sang and danced on a recent Sunday morning, is watered down. Raymond Obindu, a charismatic speaker who bounces beside the pulpit and uses an equally ebullient interpreter, keeps his sermons for the women more uplifting than the ones he delivers to his local congregation.

“The Bible says you are fearfully and wonderfully made,” Mr. Obindu said during the service. “Everyone say, ‘I’m beautiful.’ ”

“I’m beautiful,” the room of women chanted.

He asked if anyone wanted to give thanks.