We have no moral authority to forgive on behalf of victims

For more than a decade, communities across parts of Northeastern Nigeria have lived through one of the darkest and most painful periods in recent history. Thousands of lives have been lost. Families have been broken. Entire communities have been displaced. Women have endured violence that cannot easily be put into words. Even now, long after […]

For more than a decade, communities across parts of Northeastern Nigeria have lived through one of the darkest and most painful periods in recent history. Thousands of lives have been lost. Families have been broken. Entire communities have been displaced. Women have endured violence that cannot easily be put into words. Even now, long after the peak of the violence, many survivors continue to carry injuries that are physical, emotional, and economic. For them, the conflict is not history. It is lived reality.

Reports that some states have allegedly reintegrate rehabilitated insurgents into society and in some case planning to provide them with housing has reopened difficult conversations. Rehabilitation and reintegration as a policy choice is not in itself new. Governments faced with long conflicts have often adopted such approaches in the hope of encouraging defections from armed groups. Whether one agrees with that approach or not, it is a policy question that can be debated on its own terms. What disturbed me, however, was not simply the policy itself but the language used to defend it.

The reported statement by an official who said that, on behalf of the good people of the state and indeed Nigeria, “we have forgiven them.” That statement raises a serious concern that goes beyond politics. It goes to the question of authority and moral representation. Who gave any government official the authority to forgive on behalf of millions of people?

A government official  has the right to announce government policy. He can explain why government believes rehabilitation is necessary. He can defend reintegration as part of a security strategy. Those are matters of policy. Forgiveness however, is not a government policy. It does not belong to the state. It does not belong to public declarations. Forgiveness is personal and it belongs to those who were directly affected.

The widow who lost her husband. The orphan who lost a parent. The woman who survived abduction. The families who buried loved ones. The communities that were destroyed. Each of these groups own their forgiveness. No politician, government official, or public institution can legitimately take ownership of that right and exercise it on their behalf.

What makes the statement particularly insensitive is that it treats the suffering of millions as though it can be collectively resolved through a public declaration. It cannot. Some victims may have forgiven. Others may not have. Many may still be struggling with grief, trauma, anger, and unanswered questions. Every one of those responses is valid because the pain was personal.

To say that “we have forgiven them” is to compress millions of individual experiences into a single political sentence. It assumes unity where there is pain, and consensus where there is still grief.

There is also the claim that these individuals have sworn by the Quran not to return to terrorism. That point was presented as reassurance to the public. But it raises its own set of questions. An oath, even when taken in a sacred form, cannot on its own serve as proof of transformation. The issue is not the act of swearing. The issue is whether there is credible evidence that individuals who once embraced violent extremism have genuinely abandoned the ideology that led them there.

If a proper  understanding of the Holy Quran and its values had guided many of them from the beginning, they would never have embraced an ideology that justified the killing of innocent people, the abduction and rape of women, and the destruction of communities.

The insurgency itself was driven largely by distorted interpretations and manipulated teachings that stood in direct conflict with the principles of justice, mercy, and respect for human life in Islam. That is why a return to religious language alone cannot be treated as sufficient evidence of change. What matters is evidence, process and accountability.

What criteria were used to determine that these individuals have been rehabilitated? What assessments were carried out? Who conducted them? How long were they observed? What safeguards exist to ensure that communities are not placed at risk? These are not unfair questions. They are questions any responsible society should be asking.

Other question to be asked are: were the communities most affected by the insurgency ever consulted before these decisions were made? Were displaced persons asked for their views? Were widows, orphans, survivors of abduction, and families who lost loved ones given a voice in determining how “former” insurgents should be treated?

These questions matter because those communities bore the highest cost of the conflict. They are the ones still living with the consequences long after the wider public conversation has moved on. If they were consulted, the public deserves to know how those consultations were conducted and how their views shaped the outcome. If they were not consulted, then it becomes difficult to understand on what basis anyone can confidently claim to speak on their behalf. A decision of this nature should not only be about security strategy. It should also reflect legitimacy in the eyes of those most affected.

There is also a wider concern about the message such statements send. Every policy communicates something, whether intended or not. When people see that individuals who participated in violence are being reintegrated and forgiven, it raises difficult questions about accountability and consequences.

What message does this send to victims who are still trying to rebuild their lives? What message does it send to communities that continue to live with trauma and loss? What message does it send to younger generations who may one day be exposed to the same extremist narratives?

None of this is an argument against rehabilitation in principle. Societies emerging from conflict often face difficult choices, and there are examples globally where former combatants have been reintegrated as part of broader peace processes. But those processes are usually built on transparency, structured assessment, and engagement with affected communities. They are not built on unilateral declarations of forgiveness.

There is also a moral dimension that should not be ignored. As in many religions, in Islam, there are two distinct wrongs one, committed against God (Huquq Allah) and the other committed against fellow humans (Huquq al-Ibad). A person may seek ALLAH’s forgiveness for the former. But when harm has been inflicted upon another human, there remains a responsibility toward those who were wronged. The rights of victims do not belong to government officials. Their pain cannot be erased through a policy announcement, and their forgiveness cannot be granted by someone acting on their behalf.

Government has absolute right to make its case for rehabilitation and reintegration. It should explain the evidence, the safeguards, and the reasoning behind its decisions. What it should not do is presume to speak for the conscience of millions of Nigerians.

The central issue here is not whether government can adopt rehabilitation policies. It is whether anyone has the authority to make moral decisions on behalf of millions of people whose suffering they did not experience.

No one has that authority. Not over forgiveness. Not over grief. Not over memory.

Those remain with the people who lived through the violence.