Bombings and Boko Haram (Part II)

The insurgency continues in Maiduguri and though conversations aren't solely centered around the violence there, Boko Haram maintains its grip on the go-to subject in Nigeria. However, instead of looking at the issue in its current, bloody incarnation, I'd prefer to use it as a model for conflict in general, especially here in Nigeria.

I'll refer to a model from the Conflict Research Consortium, more essays and diagrams can be found here:



Ah, the majestic bell curve. The simple beauty of statistics, literary arcs, and bellmakers. The Boko Haram latent conflict can be traced back to the vestiges of colonialism and the divide and rule tactics of the British. In Nigeria, the British allowed for indirect rule of the northern states, which, from the time of the Fulani jihads, had a feudal system based on the religious power of the Sokoto caliphate. As part of this system, the British did not allow missionaries to evangelize in the North, nor did they spread the Western system of education in the Northern states.

Boko Haram, as previously mentioned, is Hausa for "Western education is forbidden." The group is extremist to say the least, but if one were to take them at their name, the foundation of their grievances is the challenge that they perceive Western education systems present to their way of life. So let's just call that the latent conflict in this scenario.

The conflict emerged through the creation of this organization and their call for an Islamic state in Northern Nigeria. Now at this point, the curve can diverge: conflict can escalate or a peace may be negotiated. It was obviously not in the Nigerian state's interest to negotiate the secession of a significant chunk of the country.

Here's where the conflict escalates: Boko Haram is a militant organization, but there are rumors that several politicians used the group for electioneering purposes. Hired thugs are unfortunately all too common in a country where 46% of the youth are unemployed. The justice system is egregiously broken in much of Nigeria as well, so the few arrests that have been made target only the foot soldiers, not the "big men" pulling the strings.

Two years ago, however, the military got involved and captured the group's leader, Muhammed Yusuf. They turned him over, and it looked like the conflict would enter a period of de-escalation and the group might fade back into obscurity. However, after the military turned Yusuf over to the police, years of impunity were transformed with a little street justice, and Yusuf was dead before he ever reached a court for trial. Since his arrest and extrajudicial execution, Boko Haram has experienced a resurgence, freeing 300 of its members from a prison in Bauchi last year and virtually taking over the city of Maiduguri.

Now the state and Boko Haram have entered the stalemate. The military operation in Maiduguri is ongoing, but the organization, like all asymmetric powers, has gone underground and rumors persist that there are cells like it all over the north. The army has been accused of human rights abuses in Maiduguri in part because they cannot differentiate civilian from combatant and are under constant pressure from improvised explosives that kill soldiers daily. Boko Haram itself says that it refuses to negotiate with a government trying to kill its members. That's not exactly crazy, as the last time one of them pitched up at the police station, he wound up dead.

So as the violence continues to unfold in Maiduguri, it will remain to be seen whether the conflict will rise, fall, or remain in its current stasis. As long as the military crackdown continues, I'm sure it will remain the topic of conversation.

Bombings and Boko Haram

If anyone has been following news in Nigeria recently, it has most likely been focused on the Islamic militant group Boko Haram and their recent attacks on the northeastern city of Maiduguri. The news is no different in Nigeria, either. Every day, front-page headlines are dedicated to updates on the continuing violence in the north of the country. Whenever there's a lull in local conversation, it is inevitably filled with some new comment about Boko Haram.

The group's official name is Jama'atu Ahlis Sunna Lidda'awati wal-Jihad, which in Arabic means "People Committed to the Propagation of the Prophet's Teachings and Jihad," but locals in the north dubbed the group Boko Haram, a Hausa phrase which means "Western Education is Forbidden" due to the group's opposition to western education.

I could give the group's history and a little bit of background, but honestly, there's too much intrigue to cover properly in one blog post. Suffice it to say, things have gotten bad. Last month, the group targeted the police headquarters in Abuja with a car bomb that killed two, shattered windows around the city, and destroyed over 70 nearby vehicles. Since then, the Nigerian government has gone on the offensive, and the entire situation is close to turning into a full-blown insurgency. Thousands of people have fled Maiduguri, including the 35,000 students at the university there, after Boko Haram threatened it with an attack. The timing could not be worse, as most of these students were about to sit for end-of-year exams.

Here in Jos, the conversation stems around the flood of what can only be called refugees or internally displaced people. Everyone I speak to has seen these people fleeing the violence in overloaded cars and trucks. Basically anything with wheels is trucking people out of the city. There are rumors that drivers are charging upwards of 5 - 6000 Naira ($30 - $40) for the journey, a crazy sum for that distance, but one which people are paying due to the military crackdown and increasing reports of extrajudicial killings and severe human rights abuses.

But we can joke about it can't we? Honestly, Nigerians have the greatest capacity for joking about anything, but underlying the laughter is often an ounce of worry. I recently went out with some friends to get some fish and have a beer at one of the open-air bars that are ubiquitous in Africa. However, this time around it took some serious deliberation to choose one that was properly secluded. It was determined after much discussion to avoid the popular ones near West of Mines (a central, typically busy Jos Haunt). When we sat down, one of the guys joked, "Okay, no Boko Haram here." Laughing, we didn't want to believe that he was afraid of bombings. Realistically though, I think it weighs on everyone's mind. Bombs killed 80 people in Jos on Christmas Eve 2010, and reports from the north detailing the violence have continued to set people on edge. Only a few weeks ago, Boko Haram militants on motorcycles lobbed bombs into a popular nightspot in Maiduguri, killing 25 and injuring dozens more. Indeed, for a few weeks it was almost impossible to open the newspaper in the morning without coming across news of another bombing, leading many to think, "If it can happen there..."

The government has responded in its typically heavy-handed way, deploying the military to Maiduguri and watching the fallout. Traditional leaders in the city have criticized the military task force for its human rights abuses, which the state governor only recently admitted were guilty of "excesses."

But as I mentioned, these issues are too much for one post. In the next few days, I'll try to look at the government response to Boko Haram and how a conflict so local has exploded into widespread violence amounting to near-insurrection. The hard-line government stance has done little for the country in fighting the wave of terror engulfing Maiduguri and may have only worsened the situation. Stay tuned for the next post.

Losing My Religion

“We proclaim God’s favour, blessings and protection on all facilities here and upon anyone who comes here to use them for good.” – Placard outside Jos Business School

A few weeks ago, I had to register my phone. This is a common practice introduced last year by the government as a means to combat the infamous 419 fraud scams and the rash of kidnappings in the Niger Delta. New SIM cards must be registered with fingerprints and a litany of the usual information: occupation, address, mother’s maiden name, etc.

However, there are a few questions that threw me off a little bit: “Mother’s maiden name? Yada yada...Okay...Hobby?”

“Excuse me, what?”

“Hobby?”

“Like what do I do for fun?” This is perhaps the strangest question I’ve ever been asked during a routine registration procedure. I mean, what does the government actually expect from this question? “I like to kidnap Chinese oil workers...Damn! WRONG ANSWER!” “Oh, I’m actually the wife of former president Sani Abacha, and I need some help getting some money out of the country. If you could just give me your bank details...oh man, TRICKED AGAIN!” In the end, I declined my usual answers (puppy bowling, internationally renowned gentleman gambler, ruling several small fiefdoms in Central Asia) to give a rather blasé response: “reading.” I think I was a little flustered.

However, if hobby took me by surprise, the next question left me without any answer at all: “Religion?” In the United States, this is a distinctly no-go area. Religion is considered private, personal, but in Nigeria, most job applicants list their religious affiliation on the first page of their CV/resume.

Religion dominates life in Nigeria. It seems like every building, hair salon, bush taxi and motorbike has some motto or religious slogan begging God or Allah’s protection, blessings, a fabulous haircut or finely pressed pants. Sundays are devoted to worship, and every shop, restaurant, and bar seems to close for the Sabbath. This mirrors the specific times that the Muslim traders close shop to pray. Billboard advertisements from the recent elections tout specific candidates with slogans such as “With God, Change is Possible.”


Many politicians in the States cloak themselves in religious conservatism, but I am glad we haven’t progressed far enough down this path to directly invoke God in our political campaigns. For one, it seems facile, without substance (though admittedly, few campaign slogans actually contain much substance), as if inserting God can replace any real dialogue on the economy, education, health care or foreign policy. More importantly, linking religion to a political candidate carries with it the danger that any opposition to the politician may be construed as an opposition to religion. In Nigeria, the confluence of religion, politics, and ethnicity has done wonders in tearing apart communities and inciting bloodshed.

So, back to that crowded street corner and the booth where I registered my phone: “Religion?”

I paused, “None.”

He looked at me, confused, as if one of us hadn’t heard the other correctly. “None?” he asked.

“None,” I repeated. I think it’s the first time in my life that I’ve ever denied a religion. I come from a very conservative community in the States. I could rattle off fifteen different Christian denominations that are present in my small town alone. However, I couldn’t have told you anything about Sufi Islam before living in Niger. (Sufi Islam? Ya, he used to be Cat Stevens, right? Little Boy Blue and the Man in the Moon, when you coming home Dad...That’s Harry Chapin, idiot. Sufi Islam sang Peace Train. Oh...my bad.)

Fact: Most Nigeriens have never heard of this sexy man.

Because of my past, I always defaulted into Christianity, but for personal reasons, I don’t think I can do that in Nigeria. Here, faith is a very public marker for an identity that is, to me, intensely private. In addition, my work here is to help bring together Christians and Muslims for a sustainable peace in Plateau State. Professionally, I don’t think I should claim one religion or another in my daily interactions.

I don’t write this as an attack upon any type of religion (or on Cat Stevens/Yusuf). Every person is spiritual in some way, and I am no different. One of my favorite writers, David Foster Wallace, spoke at Kenyon College’s commencement ceremony in 2005 and said, “here's something else that's weird but true: in the day-to-day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship.” I’m compelled by Kierkegaard and some of the other existentialists to constantly reexamine what it is that I worship. And even if that means I have to explain myself constantly to those who ask, I’m assured that in that process of explaining myself, I’ll find the right answers.

Pain and Vengeance: The Women of Jos

On Tuesday, I wrote about how Search for Common Ground organized a meeting between community leaders and journalists with the goal of better utilizing media to attain peace in Plateau State. On Wednesday, Search for Common Ground brought together 35 women community leaders and women journalists to discuss how we can increase women’s voices in the media. The goal: to give voice to those typically marginalized by conflict in order to attain a sustainable peace.

The two meetings raised similar issues. However, the character of the two groups could not have been more different. The men spoke of their exhaustion: ten years of conflict, neighborhoods and communities torn apart by violence, children raised on hatred and mistrust challenging their leaders, becoming more extreme, calling for more violence. The emotion was raw and powerful and helped more than anything to put a human face on this conflict.

I expected similar emotion from the women, and I had steeled myself for our meeting the next day. Indeed, one of the first women spoke about her role as a teacher, how she worked with children from some of the worst affected areas and their reactions to growing up in such violent circumstances. Many of the children, during an art therapy session, depicted houses on fire, knives, guns, a bomb. When she asked the child about the bomb, the simple response was, “That is what I will use to take revenge on the people that killed my uncle.” The impact on children was something the men had brought up the day before, but to hear mothers speak about their children gave the issue shape and clarity. There is a whole generation positioned on the razor’s edge of violence, and at times it seems like the slightest breeze could reignite the embers that are smoldering in Plateau State.

What surprised me, then, was the women’s reaction to the violence. Much more so than the men, the women dredged up the past and viewed it with an ugly, black hurt that colored the entire conversation. Rumors of “no go zones” and silent killings abounded, with women from indicted communities countering with their own horror stories about the opposing side. It was honestly shocking to hear women, so often considered the peace makers, speak with such anger and pain. In their voices I could hear the specter of the violence that has consumed these communities for so long and the danger that, in their anger, they may be the ones shaping their children’s views of the conflict.

During the break, I asked one of the journalists, a friend of mine who works for the government-owned television station, why the women spoke about peace with so much vengeance in their voices. She told me that for many of these women, this is the first forum they’ve been given to express their anger, their hurt, the trauma they’ve seen and experienced. The “white papers,” investigations conducted by state and federal government into the Jos violence, have often ignored women’s voices. The various peace committees that have been formed have never included women in positions of authority or opened the door for women to express their hurt. For many, this was the first chance to express that pain, even as it divided them into various accusatory camps.

One common refrain among the women was that the violence was the fault of men, that men committed the violence, men lead the violence. “Women we must tell our men to stop this violence.” In the past, I’ve agreed with this opinion, that war is men’s creation and men’s crime. However, juxtaposed with the hurt of these women, I can only recognize that we are all culpable in violent communal conflict such as this. Young men may commit the violence, but they are often under the exhortations of others. Violent conflict such as this is driven by fear, mistrust, and insecurity. Young men are often expected to take up the mantle of warrior, protector. Even if there are no direct calls for conflict, the pressure in most patriarchal societies is too great to ignore.

So I think we must throw away these gendered opinions of conflict and realize that we all have a stake in our communities. We shouldn’t assume that women are inherently always the victims in conflict, though women and children often suffer more than men. However, denying that women play a role in conflict, both as actors and as victims, denies them the anger and trauma inculcated by extreme violence. Denying them a voice in the peace process, a chance to work through that pain, can rob a community of a chance at sustainable peace. By recognizing our shared guilt, we recognize our shared humanity. Humans are fallible. We are imperfect creatures, and, recognizing that, we can begin to work together to pick up the pieces and rebuild.

This Is My Home. They Will Bury Me Here.

“We don’t have any other country than Nigeria. Nigeria is our father, is our mother. We must embrace Nigeria.” The old man spoke with a tear in his eyes, which soon led to several, an outpouring of emotion for his home and the changes that have torn at his community over the past ten years.

I’m spending the next three months in Jos, Plateau State, Nigeria, interning with Search for Common Ground (SFCG), an international NGO that focuses on addressing and transforming conflict in some of the world’s most dangerous places. In the past ten years, Jos has been rocked by ethno-religious violence pitting Christians against Muslims, engulfing whole communities in an area known as “The Home of Peace and Tourism.”

This is the first major activity that we’ve undertaken in my time here. The goal: unite religious and community leaders with media partners to promote peace in the region. To this end, today we brought together forty journalists and community leaders to discuss issues they’ve faced over the course of nearly a decade of violence. The man who spoke the above words captured everything at stake in this conflict and, for me, drove home the emotional, human side of violence.

He was a community leader, a Hausa, a Muslim. He had grown up with Christians and Muslims sharing the same space, going to the same schools, working alongside one another as neighbors and friends. From his childhood, he remembered his Christian playmates, and his community has successfully avoided violence in part because community leaders from both sides, Christian and Muslim, have remembered their common humanity and come together to protect one another in times of crisis.

But the strain on these men and women was palpable in his voice, and he perfectly articulated how he and other leaders were “tired.” Tired of the violence, but also exhausted from their attempts to hold back forces that are often outside of their control. The sad truth is that Nigeria suffers from horrible infrastructure, a failing health and education sector, an economy entirely reliant upon oil revenues, and corruption that is endemic to nearly every part of life. Youth unemployment is impossibly high, and it is often young, unemployed men who are the main protagonists in the violence. “It’s people instigating this issue. It’s a government effort, all the industries. No one is working a job. How many industries do we have in Jos, in Kaduna, in Bauchi? How many industries do we have that are working? Most of our children are graduates; when it comes to employment, sorry if you don’t know anybody. You don’t know how, where you will find employment.”1 This man articulated all of these issues in one fell swoop, painting a picture of a conflict far more complex than the simple Muslim/Christian dynamics represented in far too many media depictions of the Jos violence.

But even when these problems are all stacked up, one on top of another, in seemingly insurmountable opposition to any solution, these community leaders are still committed to peace. The stakes are too high to do anything but to continue to strive toward a solution. Thousands have died in Plateau State in the past decade. The violence has displaced hundreds of thousands and caused billions of naira in property damages. Many adolescents cannot remember a time in their lives in which Christians and Muslims trusted one another, let alone lived amongst one another as neighbors and friends. Many worry that these children, knowing nothing but trauma and fear, would carry hatred with them into their adult lives, further alienating any chance of a future peace.

The old man finished his speech in a voice fiery and defiant, his tears giving him the strength to remember a past in which Christians and Muslims were not separated by violence: “We’ve grown up together. We’ve schooled together. We’ve worked together…I was born in Bauchi, but I settled in Jos. They will bury me here. This is my home. Let us go back and tell our people, ‘We will defend our lives and everything for them.’”

For many, it is the loss of this past, a history of tolerance and mutual respect, which gives them reason to continue the struggle for a solution to the violence. Jos was once known as a cosmopolitan city that married various and diverse cultures from all over the country. Now it is known mostly as the front for a battle that could tear apart not only Plateau State, but all of Nigeria. However, with these dialogues, perhaps there is hope for a unified state and a sustainable peace. For the future of Jos, and for its past, I certainly hope so.

Death on an Imagined Afternoon

I’m standing in a dimly lit hallway, big, blue plastic bucket in hand, staring at a heating element, which looks as if it’s been ripped from an electric kettle and jammed into a giant metal bowl full of boiling water.

This is how I’m going to die: not with a bang, but with ten thousand volts running through my body as I flop around on the floor, upset about thirty gallons of scalding death, and soil myself all in one swift motion.

That’s the image that’s just flashed through my mind. Now what was it that John, the night manager, had told me? “Oh, you want hot water? Okay, first you must take de bohket, go to the end of de hall. There’s a bowl of water. Off de switch,” he turns to the light switch, “You understand? Off de switch,” turning the light off, “off de switch, take water, fill de bowl again, and on de switch.” He turns the light back on. “Don’t forget to off de switch.”

Off de switch. I’m a little reluctant to do even that. Will I flip the breaker when I electrocute myself? Or is this an old-school system where they’ve just saved money on fuses by jamming pennies into a fuse box instead? The difference is crucial: I’ll either lie dead in my own filth until the cleaning lady comes by in the morning, or I’ll flop around like a fish until the penny jammed in the fuse box shoots out and implants itself in some innocent nun’s head. THESE ARE THE THOUGHTS THAT ARE RUNNING THROUGH MY HEAD. Maybe I just shouldn’t bathe.

One of the things I like most about Nigeria is that I’ve lost the sense of security that seems to pervade all of life in the United States. It really makes you appreciate life when you’re constantly sure you might die at any given moment. Even Niger felt different. At least there I couldn’t see the billions of parasites that were going to slowly eat me from the inside out.

Another example: I tried to walk to work exactly one time in the two weeks I’ve lived here. It’s a straight path along a major highway filled with crazy amounts of traffic and smog, and it takes about half an hour. One attempt left me with lungs blacker than a Chinese coal miner’s. Can’t believe I used to enjoy the smell of car exhaust as a kid.

Don’t focus on that last sentence too hard.

So now I take an okada (motorcycle taxi) to and from work every day. I first thought the guys who wear helmets are probably the safest drivers. After several trips, I’m pretty sure they’re just thinking, “Well if we crash, at least I don’t have to worry about my head caving in. Hold on white man!” Okada drivers fall into three types: the crazy, the suicidal, and the “hey, let’s slalom through oncoming traffic!” Ironically, I’ve found that the bikes that are most beat to hell are usually the safest. They can’t really go much faster than a golf cart, and I’m fine with that as long as we’re not rammed by a petrol truck out on a little romp.

So although the probability of certain death reaches 1 the longer I take the okadas or pull hot water to bathe, I’ll keep doing it. In part because of necessity, but also, I think I’ve learned that the continual fear of death really makes you appreciate all that life has to offer even if that means a high likelihood that someone will eventually peel your face off the tarmac with a spatula.

...And I Can't Stop Smiling

Jos, Nigeria. Capital of Plateau State in Nigeria’s Middle Belt, the geographic region that unites/divides the Christian South from the Muslim North. Over the past decade, Jos has seen interreligious/interethnic violence that has claimed over 3000 lives and displaced hundreds of thousands more. Most recently, a series of bombings on Christmas Eve killed 80 and set off a cycle of violence which spread to neighboring states and throughout the country. Plateau State, in many ways, has come to represent the volatile relationship between Nigeria’s diverse ethnic and religious groups that threatens peace throughout the country.

It is in this turbulent landscape that I will be working for the next ten weeks. I will be conducting an assessment on the violence in Jos to advise the local government on policy considerations and to inform Search for Common Ground’s upcoming project linking religious leaders, civil society activists, and journalists for a series of radio roundtables and media projects aimed at building peace within local communities.

Now that I’ve given a short overview, I have to admit: I have no idea what I’m doing here. Let me rephrase that: when I get right down to it, a significant part of me believes that I shouldn’t be here. I came from small-town, rural Indiana. I got lucky with Peace Corps. Farm kids aren’t supposed to get the chance to do some of the things that I was able to do, and if by some chance they do, it’s more than likely a one-off opportunity that won’t happen again.

Maybe I got lucky. I feel a bit like a fraud, or that I’m faking my way through things because I don’t know anyone else with my background who’s gotten the same opportunities that I have. Some people would probably call it hard work, but I don’t think I work any harder or am any more talented than a lot of other people I know. In fact, most of the time, I think I’m pretty lazy.

But that doesn’t stop me from feeling blessed by coming back to this part of the world. There’s just something about the red clay, the open-air bars, the heat of a raw, tropical sun, the dirt, the smoke, the chaos, all of it that takes something away from me. I don’t know if being here lifts some type of burden from my shoulders or if it simply gives me some internal buoyancy, but I feel lighter nonetheless. Everything is new and familiar at the same time. I feel closer to some sort of raw energy, some basic core of humanity that I don’t feel as strongly in the States. My home is a place that’s much more insulated and safe. It’s comforting and stifling at the same time, like a blanket wrapped too tight. Don’t get me wrong: I love my hometown. It will always be a part of me, but for now, I feel, perhaps like some prodigal son, the need to leave and return.

With Peace Corps, I always felt that I would one day return to Indiana. My life in Niger always seemed very ephemeral. I would not be living in a village for the rest of my life. I would have to leave it and return home. Now, however, I feel as if I’m on a path that will take me far from the place where I was born. I don’t know where this path leads, if or when it will return. But I haven’t forgotten my home. I’m sure I will continue to be filled with a sense of wonder. How did I get here? Who am I fooling, and why haven’t they seen through me yet? It’s a sense of not belonging to this world of international travel and new experiences solely because of my background, not that I’m disadvantaged or hindered in any way, but because I am so thoroughly average. It may be difficult to understand, but I think it stems from a feeling that when there are literally millions of others like you, you’re forced to confront and build who you are and what you want in life, and that is a very scary proposition. Not only are you responsible for your own success but also for your own failure, an insecurity bred from not knowing how much it will hurt when you inevitably fall.

So for me, I am left with only one choice. I will keep moving forward, because even if I sometimes feel like a fraud, there are moments where I can’t help but feel the purest beauty of life, a seeming unity with everything around me, when gravity and time stop and some unknown energy seems to flow through every part of my body. It’s difficult for me to put into words, and it sounds admittedly overly emotional or melodramatic. But really, there’s nothing like sitting under the open sky, a full moon, a stereo system crashing music from Nigerian pop to high life to local Berom hip hop, a fish caught, killed, and grilled all within the last few hours, melting into the background while those around you joke, laugh, and each in their own way celebrate existence. Despite any doubts I may carry with me, I can’t stop smiling. I just can’t stop smiling.