The July 2 surrender of 210 Boko Haram fighters and their families to the Multinational Joint Task Force (MNJTF) at Baga Sola, near the Lake Chad axis, has once again stirred the national conscience and thrown a spotlight on Nigeria’s complex, and often controversial, approach to counterterrorism and post-conflict reintegration.
The development is being lauded by security agencies as a significant victory. Yet behind the numbers and rhetoric lies a deeply polarised and unresolved debate: how should a country reconcile with those who once wielded guns against it?
According to MNJTF spokesman, Lt. Col. Olaniyi Osoba, the fighters, who had operated across several notorious flashpoints such as Bakatolerom, Barkalam, Litri and Kaiga Ngbouboun, laid down their arms as a result of sustained military pressure. Assorted weapons were surrendered.
Plans are now underway to enrol the defectors in a deradicalisation and reintegration programme, complete with vocational training and psychosocial support. The initiative, being led in part by the Lake Chad regional government and MNJTF, is modelled as a pathway to peace, economic stability and the eventual dismantling of terrorist structures.
This may appear, on the surface, like an indisputable step forward. But the moral calculus is far murkier. For while the reintegration of former combatants is a common feature of post-conflict transitions across the world, such programmes are only successful when they also account for victims’ rights, public transparency and genuine justice.
Let us be frank, Boko Haram’s reign of terror left thousands dead, communities shattered, women violated and children orphaned. Families continue to mourn abducted schoolgirls and entire regions still reel from economic and psychological ruin. To now offer perpetrators vocational support and resettlement without a corresponding system of accountability, restitution, or even truth-telling, is to sideline justice in the name of security. That is a dangerous gamble.
Global examples abound to show that it need not be this way. In Colombia, following the decades-long conflict with FARC rebels, a landmark peace deal in 2016 created a transitional justice framework under which former fighters were not only rehabilitated but also held to account. Public hearings, restorative justice panels, and community restitution efforts formed a crucial part of their reintegration. Rwanda, in the wake of the 1994 genocide, instituted Gacaca community courts that enabled reconciliation without erasing the memory of wrongs. Even Northern Ireland, in the wake of The Troubles, ensured that political compromise did not equate to blanket impunity.
By contrast, Nigeria’s current approach appears overly lenient, rushed and opaque. There is no known mechanism compelling former terrorists to publicly account for their actions. There is no victims’ registry. No truth commissions. No reparations. No communal engagement to ensure that the communities receiving these returnees are mentally and materially prepared. This vacuum leaves room for distrust, resentment and fear , not healing.
Indeed, the process begs the question: who is reintegrating into whose society? If victims feel invisible and unheard while perpetrators are protected, the reintegration process becomes one-sided and unjust.
More troubling still is the lack of uniformity in how the law is applied. The Nigerian state has, in recent memory, pursued harsh crackdowns on peaceful protesters, journalists, and even agitating civil groups. Yet, when it comes to confessed terrorists, the state’s posture softens. Where is the consistency? Where is the equal application of justice?
No society can endure on double standards. The moral message we risk sending is that violence, if large-scale enough, earns a place at the negotiation table; but lawful dissent invites repression. That is not how modern nations function. It is not how social contracts are built.
We must also interrogate the effectiveness of these rehabilitation schemes. Reports from the North-East over the last three years have already indicated that some so-called repentant fighters returned to terrorist activity. Without proper screening, ideological re-education, and a robust monitoring mechanism, we risk sowing the seeds of future insecurity under the guise of peacebuilding.
Yes, surrender is preferable to prolonged violence. Yes, reconciliation is better than revenge. But peace must rest on the twin pillars of truth and justice. A rushed or shallow reintegration process risks becoming an amnesty without accountability , and such a precedent could weaken not just the moral credibility of the government but the very foundations of law and order.
To move forward, Nigeria must create a transitional justice architecture tailored to our reality. One that invites public participation, acknowledges victims, sets the record straight, and makes reintegration conditional upon truth, remorse and redress. Security agencies and local governments must work hand-in-hand with civil society, religious leaders, and trauma specialists to ensure the process is credible and holistic.
The government must also invest heavily in victim rehabilitation , not just in IDP camps, but in social, economic and psychological support systems that signal that the state cares as much about the wounded as it does the reformed.
Above all, there must be clarity of vision: is Nigeria rehabilitating individuals for peace, or merely recycling combatants for short-term headlines?
The difference between a healing nation and a haunted one lies in how it treats the pain of its past. Surrender is only the beginning. Real peace demands reflection, reckoning , and responsibility.