Who are we really raising in Arewa?

In Arewa today, we often speak of development, politics, and infrastructure, but rarely do we pause to discuss the soil in which all these aspirations grow—the moral upbringing of our children, what we call tarbiyya. The word is more than just “training” or “upbringing.” It is the complete shaping of character, values, discipline, and sense […]

In Arewa today, we often speak of development, politics, and infrastructure, but rarely do we pause to discuss the soil in which all these aspirations grow—the moral upbringing of our children, what we call tarbiyya. The word is more than just “training” or “upbringing.” It is the complete shaping of character, values, discipline, and sense of responsibility from childhood into adulthood. Without it, our ambitions for a better Arewa will always be built on shaky foundations.

It is said that a tree branch is shaped while it is still tender. In the same way, the character of a child is formed long before it becomes an adult. Tarbiyya is not merely about teaching a child how to pray or greet elders. It is about nurturing them to understand honesty, empathy, accountability, respect, and service to others. It is about building the moral compass that will guide them long after we are gone.

Unfortunately, in many of our communities, the decline in tarbiyya is becoming painfully evident. Everywhere you turn now, there’s a young boy or girl, barely out of secondary school, suddenly a “full-time activist.” Not the kind who builds arguments with facts, patience, and respect, but the kind who believes activism is an excuse for madness and a license to abuse, insult, and demean. Social media has become their stage. They open their phones, go live, and spray insults like bullets. No filter. No shame. No Tarbiyya.

And it’s not just politicians they target. It’s religious scholars and traditional rulers, men and women with decades of wisdom, people whose knowledge could fill books, being dragged online by children who have never read one. They think their “follower count” is more valuable than respect. They believe retweets are a measure of truth.

Tarbiyya, the moral upbringing that once formed the backbone of Arewa society, is eroding before our eyes. The shock is not only that this is happening but also that we are watching it happen as though it were a passing trend and not a ticking time bomb. A child who can casually hurl unspeakable words at a man old enough to be his grandfather, simply because he disagrees with a policy or doesn’t support a political party, is not just badly behaved. That child is proof that something is fundamentally broken in our homes.

Wanting a better country is not madness. Demanding accountability is not madness. But when you cross the line into personal insult, when you accuse without evidence, when you confuse abuse with courage, you destroy the weight of your own argument. Hiding behind a keyboard to spit venom? That’s not activism; it is not “freedom of speech.” It’s moral decay, broadcast in high definition. Even Idi Amin, in his own darkly comic way, put it plainly: you have freedom of speech, but no one guarantees you freedom after speech.

Make no mistake, this is not the government’s job to fix. The government’s role begins when laws are broken. What we are dealing with here begins at the dinner table, at bedtime, in the quiet lessons of the home. Tarbiyya is the work of parents and guardians. And yet, some parents either have no idea what their children are doing online, or worse, they know and simply don’t care. They only “wake up” when the consequences arrive in the form of an arrest, a lawsuit, or a public disgrace.

The tragedy is that we keep talking about fixing Arewa, building a stronger Arewa, better schools, better roads, better security, and a better economy. But tell me: who are we building it for? These same young people, raw with arrogance and empty of respect? If the next generation is rotten at the core and morally bankrupt, then who exactly are we building Arewa for? Who will inherit it? Who will lead it?

If we do not restore Tarbiyya now, if we do not demand both parental responsibility and legal accountability, then the Arewa of tomorrow will not be destroyed by poverty or insecurity but rather be destroyed from the inside, by the very people we are raising today.

So we must adapt tarbiyya to the challenges of the modern world. Social media, for example, has become both a blessing and a threat. While it offers opportunities for learning, it also exposes our youth to harmful influences. Tarbiyya today must include teaching digital discipline—how to use technology without letting it erode one’s values.

If Arewa wants a future of dignity, we must begin by reforming our homes. We must bring back the pride and discipline of tarbiyya. Parents and guardians must understand that upbringing is not a side task but the most important legacy they will leave.

The beauty of tarbiyya is that it multiplies across generations. When we raise one child with strong values, that child will one day raise others in the same way, and the cycle continues. But if we neglect it, we also multiply corruption, indiscipline, and division across generations.

We must take action now. We cannot wait for another 20 years to realise we have raised a generation that is brilliant in intellect but bankrupt in morals. We cannot afford to keep producing graduates who can speak English fluently but cannot keep their word. We cannot keep raising young people who are fearless in defending others’ wrongs but too timid to stand for what is right.

Tarbiyya is the seed, and the seed determines the harvest. If we plant honesty, we will harvest justice. If we plant discipline, we will harvest progress. If we plant unity, we will harvest peace. But if we plant negligence, we will harvest chaos.

Arewa’s future is not written in Abuja, nor in the offices of our governors. It is being written every day in our homes and communities. The question is, what story are we writing?

Let us choose to write one of dignity, service, and honor. Let us bring back tarbiyya, not as an old tradition to remember, but as a living practice to protect and pass on. Only then can we hope for a future where our children will not only inherit our land but also the values that will make it worth living in.