Reintegration Without Justice: Nigeria’s Dangerous Security Gamble
As Nigeria reintegrates 744 former insurgents under Operation Safe Corridor, a deeper question emerges: can a state still battling terrorism prioritise reconciliation without first securing justice, trust, and legitimacy?
By John Onyeukwu | Policy and Reform Column, Business a.m. | Mon April 20-Sun April 26, 2026 | pullout attached.
The Federal Government’s recent decision to reintegrate 744 former insurgents into society under the Operation Safe Corridor programme has ignited one of the most intense public backlashes in recent months.
At the centre of this policy moment is the Nigerian military leadership itself. Speaking on April 16, 2026, at the Operation Safe Corridor graduation ceremony held in Gombe State, the Chief of Defence Staff, General Olufemi Oluyede, made the government’s position unequivocal: the programme is “not a reward” but a deliberate strategy to reduce violence, weaken extremist recruitment, and promote long-term stability. The ceremony marked the formal transition of 744 “rehabilitated” former insurgents from military custody back into civilian pathways, under the supervision of relevant state governments.
The scale and composition of this cohort are significant. The 744 individuals are reported to include a mix of low-level fighters, logistics supporters, and individuals conscripted or coerced into insurgent networks, primarily from Borno, Yobe, and Adamawa States, with a small number of foreign nationals linked to cross-border insurgent activity in the Lake Chad Basin. Their participation in Operation Safe Corridor followed screening by security agencies to determine eligibility, typically excluding those considered to have committed grave atrocities. Over the course of rehabilitation, participants underwent deradicalisation anchored in religious re-education, psychosocial therapy to address trauma and extremist conditioning, and vocational training designed to support economic reintegration. The underlying assumption is that economic agency, combined with ideological disengagement, reduces the likelihood of recidivism.
From a policy standpoint, the logic is not new. It reflects a shift from purely military responses to a hybrid model that combines force with behavioural transformation. Nigeria is not alone in this approach; similar frameworks have been deployed in conflict zones globally under Disarmament, Demobilisation, and Reintegration (DDR) strategies. The United Nations has long maintained that DDR programmes are essential to “stabilising post-conflict environments, reducing the likelihood of relapse into violence, and facilitating the transition from conflict to peace.” In parallel, the World Bank has consistently warned that reintegration is “the most complex and longest phase of DDR,” requiring sustained economic absorption and community acceptance to succeed. In contexts where these conditions are weak, DDR programmes risk underperformance or reversal.
Yet, despite this global policy logic, the Nigerian public response has been swift, emotional, and overwhelmingly distrustful.
To understand why, we must move beyond surface outrage and confront the deeper policy contradictions at play.
The first and most immediate issue is one of justice, or the perception of its absence. Across the North-East and other affected regions, the scars of insurgency remain fresh. Entire communities have been displaced, families torn apart, and economic systems shattered. Nigeria continues to grapple with one of the largest internal displacement crises in Sub-Saharan Africa. Yet, while former fighters are being processed, rehabilitated, and prepared for re-entry into society, many victims remain in camps or fragile host communities, without compensation, closure, or meaningful state support. This creates a profound moral imbalance. When a government appears more efficient at reintegrating perpetrators than restoring victims, it risks eroding the ethical foundation of its own policy. Justice, in this context, is not limited to prosecution; it extends to recognition, restitution, and the visible prioritisation of those who suffered. Without this balance, reintegration begins to look less like strategy and more like surrender.
This concern is also constitutional in nature. Under the Constitution of the Federal Republic of Nigeria 1999 (as amended), Section 14(2)(b) clearly establishes that “the security and welfare of the people shall be the primary purpose of government.” Reintegration, if not carefully balanced with victim protection and restitution, raises legitimate questions about whether this constitutional obligation is being discharged holistically.
Equally troubling is the issue of timing. Reintegration programmes are typically most effective in post-conflict environments, when violence has subsided and institutional control is relatively stable. Nigeria, however, remains firmly within an active conflict environment. According to the Institute for Economics and Peace, Nigeria continues to rank among the countries most impacted by terrorism in the Global Terrorism Index, reflecting persistent insurgent activity and evolving asymmetric threats. Nigeria experienced a 46% increase in terrorism related deaths (750 in 2025), and a 43 % rise in incidents, driven mainly by Boko Haram and ISWAP. This is not a post-conflict society; it is a conflict-affected one. Reintegration under such conditions introduces a layer of strategic risk that must be actively mitigated through robust monitoring, intelligence coordination, and community-level safeguards.
This leads directly to the deeper structural issue of trust. Reintegration is not simply a technical programme; it is a social contract between the state and its citizens. It requires communities to accept former combatants, institutions to monitor compliance, and government to guarantee security. In Nigeria, however, trust in these systems is already fragile. Citizens question whether security agencies possess the capacity for sustained monitoring, whether local communities have been adequately prepared for reintegration, and whether the broader policy architecture is sufficiently coherent to prevent relapse into violence. In the absence of confidence, fear becomes the default response, and fear, once entrenched, is difficult to reverse through official assurances alone.
Perhaps the most under-examined risk is that of incentives. Public policy shapes behaviour, sometimes in unintended ways. If reintegration is not carefully structured, it may be interpreted as an eventual pathway back into society without sufficient accountability. Nigeria’s counter-terrorism framework, including the Terrorism (Prevention) Act 2011 (as amended), criminalises acts of terrorism and provides for prosecution and sanctions. Where reintegration appears to operate alongside, or in tension with, this legal regime, clarity becomes essential. The state must ensure that deradicalisation does not inadvertently dilute deterrence or create ambiguity around consequences.
In fragile security environments, narratives matter. The perception that the system is lenient toward violent actors can distort future choices in ways that undermine long-term stability. This makes it imperative that reintegration frameworks clearly communicate consequences, thresholds, and distinctions between categories of offenders.
I am persuaded that the government is not entirely wrong. As the Chief of Defence Staff has emphasised, military force alone cannot end insurgency. Addressing the human dimensions of conflict; the ideological, psychological, and socio-economic drivers, is essential for sustainable peace. Operation Safe Corridor reflects this understanding and represents an attempt to move beyond a purely kinetic doctrine. As DDR scholarship consistently emphasises, “reintegration is fundamentally a political process, not merely a technical one,” requiring legitimacy, sequencing, and sustained community acceptance. But necessity does not excuse poor sequencing.
Reintegration cannot precede justice. It cannot outpace trust. And it cannot succeed without community legitimacy.
What is required now is not a reversal of policy, but a recalibration. The state must demonstrate, in visible and measurable terms, which victims are not an afterthought but a central pillar of the response. Community engagement must shift from assumption to deliberate strategy, ensuring that reintegration is locally grounded rather than centrally imposed. Monitoring systems must evolve beyond administrative processes into credible, intelligence-driven frameworks capable of tracking outcomes and managing risk over time.
Beyond these structural adjustments, there is also a communication gap that the government must urgently address. Policies of this magnitude cannot be executed in technocratic silence. Citizens need clarity, transparency, and sustained engagement. They need to understand not just what is being done, but how risks are being mitigated, what safeguards exist, and what accountability mechanisms are in place.
Ultimately, the controversy surrounding the reintegration of 744 former insurgents is not just about those individuals. It is about the Nigerian state and the nature of its relationship with its citizens. It is about whether public policy is perceived as fair, strategic, and anchored in a coherent moral and legal framework.
At its core, the public is asking a simple but profound question: whose side is the state on?
Until that question is answered convincingly, even the most well-intentioned policies will struggle to gain acceptance. Reintegration, done right, can be a pathway to peace. Done poorly, it risks becoming something far more dangerous, a catalyst for deeper instability and a further erosion of public trust at a time when the state can least afford it.
More importantly, legitimacy in governance is not built on intention but on perception reinforced by experience. Citizens measure fairness not by policy design documents, but by outcomes they can see and feel. When victims remain marginalised while perpetrators are visibly processed and reintegrated, the state inadvertently weakens its own moral authority. Over time, this gap between policy intent and public perception can harden into cynicism, making future reforms, no matter how sound, far more difficult to implement.
http://www.policy.hu/onyeukwu/
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