Radicalization and Extremism

Following President Muhammadu Buhari's May 11 meeting with the military service chiefs and the inspector general of police, Nigerian military sources confirmed that some troops were being moved from Borno State, where they have been engaged with Boko Haram and other jihadis, to the South East, to counter "bandits" and the regional separatist organization, the Indigenous People of Biafra (IPOB), along with its security force, the Eastern Security Network (ESN). The army and police have sustained increased casualties in the South East, so aircraft—including combat helicopters—will be "deployed to conduct massive raids" on the hideouts of "criminals" from the IPOB and ESN. Another source suggested traditional rulers, community heads, and chiefs could be arrested to warn them against "conniving with the agitators." The police announced yesterday the launch of Operation Restore Peace to confront the IPOB and ESN. So, rather than a counterinsurgency approach to Igbo separatism with a political dimension, the federal government is resorting to military and police force. The use of helicopters and other aircraft is concerning in that it could—and likely will—result in growing civilian casualties, thereby feeding the very separatist movements that the government is seeking to contain. It will also likely exacerbate ethnic tensions. Military and police personnel are increasingly unwilling to serve in the South East and, if there, unwilling to wear their uniforms, especially if they are not Igbos, the ethnic majority in the region. For President Buhari and others of his generation, the central event of Nigeria's post-independence history was the 1967-70 civil war, in which the primarily Igbo separatists attempted to leave the federation and establish an independent state of Biafra. The federal forces defeated Biafra, and the territory was reincorporated into Nigeria; deaths from the fighting and associated disease and famine were up to two million. Hence, successive federal administrations have reacted strongly against any resurgence of Biafran separatism.

Isa Pantami is minister of communications and digital economy in President Muhammadu Buhari's government. Some years ago, in sermons and other statements, he used rhetoric about Christians and the West that mimics that of al-Qaeda and the Taliban. He also fulsomely praised Osama bin Laden. Some years later, he apologized. Recently, however, those statements surfaced on social media. One Nigerian newspaper claimed that Pantami was on a U.S. government watch list for terrorists—a claim with no U.S. confirmation. For the time being, Pantami has become a lightning rod for those deeply suspicious of Islam and also of the Buhari administration. The opposition even sought a debate in the National Assembly but was blocked by the ruling party. However, the debate appears to be centered on social media, with dueling hashtags: #PantamiMustGo versus #PantamiMustStay. President Buhari's spokesman, Garba Shehu, issued a balanced statement affirming continuing support for Pantami while at the same time denouncing the jihadi statements he once made. The spokesman pointed out that Pantami's rhetoric was years old and that he had apologized. Those opposed to Pantami, however, express concern that his ministerial position gives him access to personal information about, not least, foreign diplomats in Nigeria. Some have called on the United States to press Buhari to investigate Pantami. In principle, U.S. law enforcement organizations do not comment on the presence or absence of individuals on watchlists. It would also be highly unusual for the U.S. government to express a view on a minister in a friendly government. The significance of the episode would seem to be that it illustrates the polarization in Nigerian society and politics—and that past injudicious and harmful statements can catch up.

Violence attributed to Islamist groups has dramatically increased in sub-Saharan Africa over the past decade, and continues to infect new venues where it has been absent. In the recent attacks on Palma in northern Mozambique, the self-proclaimed Islamic State (IS) is claiming responsibility. In other instances, say, in the Sahel and the Horn, al-Qaeda and its affiliated groups make the claim. Some analysts see a Faustian bargain between IS or al-Qaeda and insurgencies that are driven by local grievances associated with corrupt governments that have marginalized those far from the national capital. The essence of the bargain is that IS and al-Qaeda are able to demonstrate their prowess despite reverses in the Middle East—valuable for recruitment and fundraising. For locally based insurgencies, ties, no matter how tenuous, enhance their prestige and win international publicity. The extent to which these bargains translate into tactical, strategic, or financial partnerships with IS or al-Qaeda varies from one insurrection to another. However, for both sides of the bargain, incentives are to exaggerate its importance. Insofar as Western policy makers associate IS and al-Qaeda with the insurrection, the prestige and therefore the power of both grows. However, perceiving local insurgencies as primarily an aspect of international terrorism, rather than as a response to local grievances, can lead to policy mistakes recalling some made in Vietnam, Afghanistan, and Iraq. After all, IS and al-Qaeda are core Western security concerns, while local African insurgencies are not.

In the early hours of March 29, an estimated sixty gunmen attacked two small military installations in Kafolo and Kolobougou, both located in Ivory Coast on the border with Burkina Faso. The assailants killed at least three soldiers and wounded others. While no group has claimed responsibility for the attack, the media is speculating credibly that the perpetrators were jihadis based in nearby Burkina Faso, where Islamist groups have been increasingly active. There have been attacks before in the same area. In 2020, "jihadis" killed fourteen soldiers and gendarmes, also near Kafolo. Nevertheless, concerns are growing that the latest attack is a sign that jihadi insurgents are expanding their reach, as they have in neighboring Mali and Burkina Faso. In some ways Ivory Coast is the largest and most important country in francophone West Africa. In the decades after independence in 1960, Ivory Coast was an economic powerhouse with wealth mostly based on agriculture, especially cocoa. It hosted the largest French expatriate community in West Africa. However, political instability after the death of long-time statesman/big man Félix Houphouët-Boigny resulted in coups and civil war, the latest round of which ended in 2011 and left the economy in shambles. Since then, under the technocratic President Alassane Ouattara, the country has largely recovered economically. (Ouattara was elected to a controversial third term in 2020.) Ivory Coast, linked by roads and railways with interior francophone countries, plays an outsized regional economic role. The country has long been an immigration magnet from the other West African francophone countries, which are much poorer. Nevertheless, even with renewed prosperity, remaining internal divisions provide an opening for jihadi groups. As elsewhere in West Africa, the south, centered on Abidjan, is predominantly Christian and much more prosperous than the north. In effect, the south dominates the country. The north is predominantly Islamic and many northern residents feel marginalized by a southern francophone elite that is predominantly Christian. Overlaying north-south differences are those between "indigenes" and immigrants from elsewhere in francophone West Africa, especially Burkina Faso. The indigenes are mostly Christian, the immigrants mostly Muslim. Hence, Ivory Coast in some ways resembles other African hotspots—such as Mali, Burkina Faso, Cameroon, northern Nigeria, Mozambique, Central African Republic, and Niger—where a marginalized Islamic population provides an opening for radical jihadism. However, Ivory Coast is far larger and economically more important that the others, with the exception of Nigeria. If jihadi radicalism acquires a foothold, the consequences will be dire for the West African region beyond just Ivory Coast.

Nolan Quinn contributed to this post. Fighting between government forces and an Igbo separatist group risks adding yet another challenge for the Buhari administration. The emergence of an Igbo paramilitary force highlights the growing breakdown of any federal government monopoly on the use of force in the face of multiple security challenges. Even in good times, security is fragile in the former Biafra. Insecurity has multiple dimensions. The Igbo people are Nigeria's third largest ethnic group. They were the losers in the 1967–70 civil war in which they tried to establish a separate, Igbo-dominated state, Biafra. Many Igbo continue to believe that they are disadvantaged in Nigeria, and there continues to be residual support for Biafran independence, though not among the Igbo "establishment." Conflict over land and water, once largely restricted to the Middle Belt, is spreading to the south, where it frequently acquires ethnic and religious overtones. Many Igbo—mostly Christian—believe they are targeted by the Muslim Fulani herdsmen bringing their flocks south in search of better pastures. Criminal activity is widespread and often the Igbo attribute it to the Fulani. Many residents of the former Biafra are alienated from the federal government and see the Buhari administration as Muslim-dominated and as enabling Fulani atrocities. Added to this mix is Nnamdi Kanu's Indigenous People of Biafra (IPOB), a separatist movement that reflects and facilitates popular discontent. The federal government, recalling the civil war, is bitterly opposed to Igbo separatism, as is most of the Igbo establishment. The government has long sought to defang the IPOB and silence Kanu, sometimes through illegal or quasi-legal methods. He, in turn, has used alleged Fulani depredations as a means of attacking the Buhari administration. Starting in August 2020, violence between IPOB and the federal police and the army has escalated. In that month, the Nigerian police killed up to twenty-one civilians at an IPOB meeting in Enugu State. In response, the IPOB promised retaliation and urged its members to practice self-defense. In December, Kanu announced the establishment of a paramilitary wing, the Eastern Security Network (ESN), allegedly to protect the Igbo against the Fulani. For the federal government, a non-state sanctioned, paramilitary organization in the old Biafran heartland was unacceptable, and it moved against ESN camps. In late January 2021, serious fighting broke out in the town of Orlu in Imo State, leading to significant numbers of displaced persons. Fighting stopped when Kanu declared a cease-fire, saying that he was redirecting ESN efforts against "Fulani raiders." (He also claimed that the federal forces had withdrawn from Orlu.) Supporters of the ESN, including in the Igbo diaspora, justify it as being like Miyetti Allah in the north and Amotekun in Yorubaland in the west. Both are paramilitary operations outside the federal government's legal purview but with some ambiguous level of government approval. The north and the west were on the winning side in the civil war, and that may help account for the federal government's greater tolerance for their paramilitary organizations than for one associated with the Igbo. The escalating fighting in IPOB strongholds carries the risk of radicalizing the population and building support for the IPOB. Credible evidence suggests police assaulted residents in Orlu, and some police perpetrators have been arrested. The commissioner of police for Imo State has apologized. But as recently as December 2020, IPOB was saying that ESN forces were merely a "vigilante" group protecting the Igbo against the Fulani. Now Kanu has an organized wing, the ESN, and believes he has the authority to order a cease-fire in a fight with federal forces. Violence is escalating, and the outcome is unpredictable.

Nolan Quinn is a research associate for the Council on Foreign Relations’ Africa Program. The revelation that a Kenyan member of al-Shabab was charged with planning a 9/11-style attack on the United States has served to underline the Somali terror group’s enduring presence in East Africa and the region’s continuing relevance to U.S. national security. Shabab has terrorized the northern reaches of the Swahili Coast, which runs from southern Somalia to northern Mozambique, for well over a decade. More recently, a brutal jihadi insurgency has emerged on the Swahili Coast’s southern tip. Ansar al-Sunna (ASWJ), known among other names as Swahili Sunna, ramped up its violent activities in Mozambique’s Cabo Delgado province in 2017 before spreading more recently into Tanzania. The risk of a further rise in jihadism along the Swahili Coast is serious—and growing. The Swahili Coast has long been recognized as having a rich, eclectic culture shaped by interactions with predominantly Arab traders. (Much of the coast once fell under the rule of the Sultan of Oman.) The region has been strongly influenced by Islam, in contrast to the Great Lakes region further west, which is predominantly Christian. Additionally, much of the mainland is dominated by Bantu ethnic groups, while many coastal residents maintain an identity distinct from their continental peers. As in much of Africa, arbitrary borders drawn during the period of European colonialism separate the region, lumping coastal and mainland residents together across several states. The separation of the Swahili Coast laid the foundations for a re-emergence of pre-independence feelings of marginalization. Many coastal residents, who chafe at government institutions and economic policies seen as favoring Christians and wabara (“people of the mainland”), have called for decentralization of power and even secession from their respective states. Separatist fervor—particularly strong in the Mombasa-Zanzibar corridor—has been stoked by groups such as the Mombasa Republican Council (MRC) and Uamsho (“awakening” in Kiswahili). While both have been defunct or dormant following crackdowns on their leadership, a purported effort to reinvigorate the MRC—already met with a spate of arrests by Kenyan police—illustrates that discontent is still very much present along the coast. In this context, the growing popularity of Salafist ideology in East Africa is worrying. The trend, facilitated by the historical exchange of people and ideas with other littoral states in Africa and the Middle East, has resulted in the displacement of the tolerant, Sufi-inspired Islam that has long been predominant on the Swahili Coast. Salafis’ strict textualist approach raises several objections to Sufism that have been used to motivate attacks by ASWJ in northern Mozambique [PDF] and al-Shabab in Somalia. Less violent—but still occasionally violent—Sufi-Salafi competition has also been on the rise in Tanzania. Several factors suggest that disgruntled wapwani (“people of the coast”), especially youth, are at increased risk of Salafi radicalization. To start, unemployment is widespread on the coast. Joblessness is concentrated among youth and the well-educated—the demographics that have most enthusiastically subscribed to Salafist teachings globally. In Cabo Delgado, ASWJ fighters have clashed with Sufi elders seen as heretical by the Salafi-jihadi group. Yet financial rewards [PDF], such as small loans to start a business or pay bride prices, also appear to be important recruitment incentives. While al-Shabab and ASWJ have gained international notoriety for their insurgent activities, allied groups focusing on youth recruitment in East Africa play a sinister role in enabling their success. Islamist groups such as the Muslim Youth Centre (MYC)—later renamed al-Hijra—in Kenya and the Ansaar Muslim Youth Center (AMYC) in Tanzania have both sent fighters to Somalia and offered refuge [PDF] to returning jihadis. And in Tanga—the coastal region of Tanzania where AMYC was founded and reports [PDF] of small-scale attacks by Islamists have occasionally surfaced—police have in the past uncovered Shabab-linked child indoctrination camps. Swahili’s function as a lingua franca in East Africa is also helping Islamist groups grow in the region. MYC leader Aboud Rogo Mohammed, a radical Kenyan imam who was sanctioned by the United Nations for his support of al-Shabab, targeted Swahili speakers with his repeated calls for the formation of a caliphate in East Africa. Tapes of Rogo preaching in Swahili allowed disaffected youth in Cabo Delgado—many of whom speak Swahili but have a weak or no understanding of Arabic—to access extremist viewpoints, accelerating their radicalization. The jihadis now take advantage of Cabo Delgado’s linguistic, cultural, and business links to coastal communities—in Tanzania in particular—to recruit and expand ASWJ’s operations. Meanwhile, al-Shabab and the Islamic State group, to which ASWJ has been formally aligned since June 2019, utilize Swahili in original and translated media publications. Many of the responses to such activities have been counterproductive. Between 2012 and 2014, Rogo and two of his successors were killed in three separate, extrajudicial shootings blamed on Kenyan police. The killings caused riots in Mombasa, and Rogo’s posthumous influence points to the futility of a “whack-a-mole” approach that tries to silence firebrands. Several mosques and homes in Mombasa were also controversially raided, with hundreds arrested. Yet according to the International Crisis Group (ICG), a shift in strategy since 2015 from heavy-handed policing to community outreach has successfully reduced jihadi recruitment along the Kenyan coast. Tanzania and Mozambique, however, appear to be repeating Kenyan mistakes. The overly militarized response to ASWJ has failed to quell a fast-intensifying insurgency. And in Zanzibar, where some researchers have argued electoral competition has forestalled Salafis’ embrace of jihadism—despite Uamsho’s evolution from religious charity to secessionist movement to nascent militant Islamist group—worsening repression and the ongoing detention of Uamsho leaders ensure the situation remains volatile. Even mainland Tanzania, seen as more pacific than Zanzibar, has seen a recent uptick [PDF] in terrorist violence; Tanzanian security forces, according to ICG, have responded with arbitrary arrests and forced disappearances of coastal Muslims. The threat of rising support for Islamist militancy in East Africa should not take away from efforts to address calls for secession: separatist movements can, of course, turn violent. However, in areas where separatism is rife, ham-fisted clampdowns on Muslim preachers and their followers risk strengthening radicals’ hand. As UN Secretary-General Antonio Guterres—speaking in Nairobi—warned, the “final tipping point” to radicalism is often state-led violence and abuse of power. A shift from separatism to endemic radical Salafism would re-frame narratives of coastal exclusion along more explicitly religious lines, causing new problems for governments. While calls for autonomy and independence draw strongly on questions of identity, they remain political—and therefore open to conversation and compromise. A growing Islamist movement, meanwhile, would recast such debates in rigid, ideological terms, thus giving rise to a zero-sum scenario in which dialogue is nigh on impossible.

There are signs that as the Nigerian army and the police continue to fail to meet the security needs of the Nigerian people, they will turn toward repression. In November, Chief of Army Staff Tukur Buratai called on all troops to put themselves in a “war mode.” An internal army communication obtained by the media exhorted Nigerian soldiers to treat all individuals in the region where Boko Haram is active as suspected jihadis until they are “properly identified.” The door is opening to yet more human rights abuses by the security services. Fears that the Buhari government may revive shelved legislation that would seek greater control over social media—including the death penalty for spreading “fake news,” as defined by the government—are also surfacing. Meanwhile, the Coalition of Northern Groups (CNG), a civil society organization that focuses on the welfare of northern Nigerians, is calling on local communities to defend themselves against Boko Haram and “bandits” because the Buhari government is failing to protect them. Last week, before the resolution of the kidnapping of hundreds of schoolboys at Kankara, CNG’s national coordinator said “northern Nigeria has been abandoned at the mercy of various insurgents, bandits, kidnappers, armed robbers, rapists, and an assortment of hardened criminals,” with a “huge vacuum in the political will and capacity of government to challenge” such violent actors. Around the country, numerous state governors are organizing and supporting more-or-less informal militias, ostensibly in support of the army and the police. In the current climate, such groups are likely now acting independently more often than in conjunction with security forces. Some evidence suggests that security service abuses contribute to the alienation of the population from the government, helping drive jihadi recruitment. With the growth of militias, the Nigerian state is losing an attribute of sovereignty: a monopoly on the legal use of violence. The government is also failing to fulfill its obligation to provide security for its people.

Nolan Quinn is a research associate for the Council on Foreign Relations’ Africa Program. On October 14, the Islamist insurgency focused in northern Mozambique spilled over into Tanzania, with an estimated three hundred militants carrying out an attack on Kitaya village in the region of Mtwara. Since then, Ansar al-Sunna (ASWJ)—the Mozambican jihadi group with apparent links to the self-proclaimed Islamic State (IS)—has claimed at least three more attacks in Mtwara. This comes despite Tanzania sending troops to the region earlier this year to tighten border security and its military’s security operations in areas near the Mozambican border. The widening scope of ASWJ’s attacks is indicative of the shortcomings of the current approach to combating the group. The response to the Islamist insurgency has, thus far, been primarily military in focus. In September 2019, the Wagner Group—a private military contractor with links to the Kremlin—was deployed to Cabo Delgado, Mozambique’s worst-afflicted province and site of the largest private investment in Africa. By November the same year, the mercenaries were evacuated after sustaining losses; another security contractor, the South African Dyck Advisory Group (DAG), remains in Cabo Delgado but has been unable to subdue the insurgency. An (unlikely) intervention by South African government forces has been considered, and Zimbabwe’s ruling party has argued the Southern African Development Community should invoke its mutual defense pact and enter the conflict. The European Union, meanwhile, agreed last month to provide training as well as logistical and medical support to Mozambican forces. The military response has been hampered by its unprofessionalism. Tensions between Tanzanian and Mozambican forces were already high before the former allegedly fired rockets into the latter’s territory, injuring civilians. Mozambican forces were implicated in a horrific extrajudicial killing last year and have been credibly accused of various other abuses. DAG helicopters have, on multiple occasions, killed Mozambican civilians in counterinsurgency operations. Amid the climate of insecurity, Mozambique’s government has begun arming militia groups, which have publicly tortured and beheaded suspected insurgents. Government forces and militia groups have accidentally attacked one another several times, highlighting a lack of coordination. Concerted efforts to improve governance and economic opportunity in Cabo Delgado have been largely absent from any existing counterinsurgency strategy. Instead, in a peripheral region blighted by persistent poverty and inequality [PDF], government officials have prioritized the interests of multinational energy companies, large-scale ruby miners, and heroin smugglers [PDF] at the expense of local workers—all while enriching themselves [PDF] through corrupt practices. In Tanzania, President John Magufuli has shown slightly more concern for Mtwara’s economic fortunes by promising government purchases of cashews, a local staple. This, however, has not stopped residents of the region—an opposition stronghold—from crossing into Cabo Delgado to join the insurgency. Government corruption and economic stagnation, coupled with security forces’ penchant for human rights violations, help strengthen ASWJ. While the Islamist group is notorious for gruesome killings, it also employs tactics to win local support. The group has warned civilians to flee before attacks, distributed food in areas under its control, and offered loans to potential recruits. This “hearts and minds” approach bears the imprint of IS, which advocated a similar tactical shift in the Lake Chad Basin, where the Islamic State in West Africa (ISWA) began providing services and split from Boko Haram due to the latter’s more indiscriminate targeting of civilians. It appears that ASWJ, which has been formally aligned with IS since June 2019, has increased cooperation [PDF] with foreign jihadis. By implementing some of their operational practices, ASWJ is finding success in undermining the Mozambican government’s already tenuous claims to legitimacy. A first step in improving the counterinsurgency effort should be to formalize militia groups’ participation. A major impediment to the military response has been the makeup of troops deployed to Cabo Delgado: most soldiers do not speak the local languages and, being underpaid with little personal attachment to the area, often retreat when attacked. Both the military and militia groups need training in human rights—from the European Union or a regional body—and a clear indication that violations will be punished. To date, Mozambique’s government has not taken any steps to investigate abuses. This makes it difficult for government forces to win local cooperation in fighting ASWJ. Better regional partnerships—especially with the Tanzanian government, with whom joint police operations are set to begin—are needed to push back on ASWJ’s expansion, particularly its growing maritime prowess. A military-first approach cannot cure a failing state. The government and its partners should equally focus on restoring—or, in some areas, establishing for the first time—provision of basic services. Encouragingly, after years of delay, the government appears to have recognized the need for a development strategy. As renowned Mozambique scholar Joseph Hanlon recently documented [PDF], President Filipe Nyusi has put one of his most trusted, effective officials in charge of development agencies—with a remit focused in the country’s north—controlling more than $2.8 billion. The World Bank, meanwhile, has set aside $700 million for initiatives “to address the underlying causes of fragility and conflict.” Hanlon also points to a cash transfer program, starting in Cabo Delgado but later scaling up to the entire country, as a plausible way to share resource wealth. These measures are not preordained for success: hollow institutions and rampant corruption are at the core of Mozambique’s problems and will complicate the rollout of economic stimulus programs. Building a more effective state will amplify military and economic approaches to counterinsurgency and improve the chances of achieving lasting peace. The process of doing so will be long and arduous. But after years of neglecting—even actively harming—many of its citizens, Mozambique’s government has no alternative.

Nkasi Wodu is a lawyer, peacebuilding practitioner, and development expert based in Port Harcourt, Nigeria. On October 20, 2020, Nigerians watched in horror on social media as men suspected to be members of the military opened fire on peaceful #EndSARS protesters—a movement responding to a litany of abuses by the Special Anti-Robbery Squad (SARS), a special police unit—in Lagos, Nigeria’s largest city. For more than a decade, Nigerian civil society groups have trained members of public security forces regarding the inviolability of human rights. Despite such training, Nigerian security agencies still follow the all-too-familiar path of perpetrating violence against the very people they have sworn to protect. Nigeria has had a complex existence since its independence from British colonial rule in 1960—a complexity perhaps more pronounced than in other countries considering the country’s highly diverse population of over two hundred million. Consequently, governing the strikingly heterogeneous country—and addressing the deep-seated grievances of its many groups—can be difficult. Unfortunately, a recurring theme throughout Nigeria’s postcolonial history has been security forces’ propensity to use force to suppress unrest. Deployment of security forces to deescalate potential or actual violent situations is not in itself a wrong practice; preventing the destruction of lives and properties is a prerequisite for a functioning state. In the case of Nigeria, however, security forces routinely use disproportionate force on civilians in gross violations of human rights, such as in Odi, Gbaramatu, Zaria, Zaki Biam, and other instances. This “shoot first, ask questions later” approach poses various dangers to the Nigerian state. First, it does not address the initial cause of escalating violence and is ultimately counterproductive. In many instances, it reinforces the positions of aggrieved groups and improves public perceptions of those groups.  This pattern is currently playing out across Nigeria, as many conflicts have persisted despite—or perhaps because of—the deployment of security officials. For example, Biafran separatist groups, such as the Indigenous People of Biafra (IPOB), continue to command a large following in the South East region after the civil war fought more than fifty years ago. Various military exercises and the Nigerian government’s designation of IPOB as a terrorist group have done little to diminish its influence. Another danger of the violence-first approach is that it encourages a violent response from already aggrieved groups, especially in the absence of platforms for peaceful, constructive dialogue. This has led to increasing radicalization of individuals and groups who see violence as the only means to get the government’s attention. For example, in the Niger Delta, years of nonviolent agitations led by prominent activists such as Ken Saro-Wiwa were met with repression from the Nigerian military. This pushed many young men in the region toward a violent insurgency featuring attacks on oil and gas facilities, resulting in billions of dollars in lost revenue for the government. To stop the violence, the federal government declared an amnesty program, offering stipends to repentant militants in exchange for peace. Similarly, many scholars focused on Boko Haram agree that the group’s radicalization—it previously proselytized through largely non-violent means—followed a government clampdown in 2009, in which some eight hundred of its members were killed. The group’s leader, Mohammed Yusuf, was later killed in police custody. Returning to a familiar playbook, the government has commenced a controversial amnesty program for repentant Boko Haram members, effectively sending a message that violence pays. The Nigerian government needs to change its approach of immediately responding to conflict with military might. One fundamental shift should be to understand conflict as the evidence of a struggle against systemic oppression. When viewed from this lens, conflict becomes an opportunity for the government to understand the myriad structural issues bedeviling its people and work together with aggrieved groups to address those issues. This sort of understanding also lessens the temptation to escalate tensions each and every time grievances arise, or to resort to paying for peace without addressing the origins of unrest. The Nigerian government should also set a standard of accountability for security officials and use it to pursue those involved in human rights violations. To date, no one has been held responsible for atrocities committed in Odi, Zaria, and Gbaramatu; with the Nigerian army denying much of what unfolded at Lekki Toll Gate on October 20, it appears this pattern of impunity is set to continue. As long as security officials involved in human rights violations are not held accountable, they will continue to perpetrate violence on those they are called to protect.

Up to now, radical jihadi activity in West Africa has been centered in Mali—with spillover to adjacent parts of Burkina Faso and Niger—and the Lake Chad Basin. The two locales are now increasingly bridged by jihadi activity in northwest Nigeria, where resurgent struggles over land and water with a cast of ethnically aligned fighters and flourishing criminality provide them with new space. Jihadi movements in all three regions are fractious, subject to bloody internal rivalries, and overlap with criminal elements. They do share a declared goal of establishing polities based on Islamic law—sharia—and the destruction of the fragile, postcolonial secular states in the region. (National borders, established by the former colonial powers, are largely meaningless for most local people, as well as for criminals and jihadis.) Were they to be successful, however, it is by no means clear that they could establish coherent territorial governance much above the village level. No charismatic leader such as Abu Musab al-Barnawi, Osama bin Laden, or even Abu Musab al-Zarqawi has emerged to impose unity on the various jihadi groups now active from the Lake Chad Basin to the western Sahel. More likely would be decentralized regimes of warlordism led by Islamist and criminal opportunists. Criminally inflected chaos and a humanitarian disaster are more likely than a resurrected, unified Islamic State. France has the most modern military force countering the jihadis—Operation Barkhane numbers some 4,500 soldiers—and supports most of the weak militaries of francophone West Africa. The United States provides France with limited logistical and intelligence support from its drone base in Niger. It also trains small numbers of soldiers drawn from local militaries. Jihadi forces at present are resurgent throughout the region. Were the French to leave, jihadis would likely overrun Mali and adjacent territories even if they could not govern them. In the Lake Chad Basin—mostly in Nigeria but also in Chad, Cameroon, and Niger—the jihadis are primarily factions of Boko Haram, some with links to the Islamic State, others to al-Qaeda. (Observers are divided as to the tactical or strategic significance of those links.) Nigeria has taken the lead in attempting to coordinate its efforts with those of Chad, Niger, and Cameroon. Other than in Niger, the United States has no significant security presence in the Lake Chad region or the western Sahel. Across the region, the jihadis, far from defeated, appear to be strengthening. Northeast Nigeria and the Lake Chad Basin have a much larger population and, accordingly, the humanitarian disaster associated with fighting is much greater than in the western Sahel. (The United Nations, the European Union, the United States, and other international donors already provide significant humanitarian assistance right across West Africa, including the Sahel.) These two centers of jihadism are separated by northwest Nigeria. That region is increasingly plagued by conflicts over water and land use, exacerbated by human and cattle population growth, climate change, and poor governance. A borderland between the Sahara, the Sahel, and better-watered lands to the south, the region has long been a center of smuggling as well as trading. With a harsh and variable climate—as in the rest of the Sahel—population movements have been a constant. So, too, have been waves of Islamic religious revival, which influence present-day jihadi activity. Jihadi groups are taking advantage of a general societal breakdown in certain areas. The Nigerian government has responded by seeking to crush the jihadis and the bandits through military and police methods, so far to no avail. Government-sponsored proposals, some fanciful, prescribe reorganization of the cattle industry. None address the huge population increase, climate change, and poor governance that provide jihadis and criminals with oxygen. A different strategy is possible. Much of northwest Nigeria is included in the domains of the Sultan of Sokoto and his subordinate emirs. (The sultan is the preeminent Muslim traditional ruler in Nigeria, and his domains stretch into neighboring countries.) Muslim rulers provide traditional justice that often commands greater popular confidence than that handed down by the government in far-off Abuja. Their agents sometimes have a good understanding of what is happening on the ground—the local drivers of conflict. Jihadis despise these traditional rulers as heretics and seek to kill them whenever possible. In the northeast, for example, Boko Haram was nearly successful in killing the Shehu of Borno, generally regarded as second only to the sultan in the traditional hierarchy that jihadis seek to destroy. Were Abuja to cooperate more closely with traditional rulers that command popular confidence, its confrontation with the jihadis could be more successful.

Jacob Ware is a research associate for counterterrorism and the Studies program at the Council on Foreign Relations. His research focuses on global far-right terrorism and countering violent extremism, and his work has appeared in the Wall Street Journal, CNN, War on the Rocks, and in the academic journal Studies in Conflict & Terrorism. As white supremacist militancy has raced across the Western world, it has not spared South Africa from being swept up in the chaos. Domestic South African white supremacist movements both inform white supremacist movements elsewhere, and at the same time are influenced by global trends on the extreme right. South Africa, of course, has its own long—and painful—history of white supremacism. The formal apartheid system, which governed the country for over 40 years, institutionally oppressed the Black population, concentrating political, economic, and judicial power exclusively in white hands. Since the 1990s, when apartheid finally collapsed, race relations have remained raw, and the white population still holds much of the economic capital. The country remains one of the world's premier examples of the postcolonial challenges in managing racial tensions and promoting a sustainable national identity in a democratic context with the rule of law. Accordingly, South Africa still inflames the passions of white supremacists around the world. Dylann Roof, murderer of nine African Americans at Bible study at the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, South Carolina in June 2015, was in no small part inspired by white supremacism in southern Africa—his Facebook profile picture showed him in a jacket emblazoned with the flags of Rhodesia, a bastion of white supremacy before it achieved independence as Zimbabwe, and apartheid-era South Africa, and his manifesto was published on a personal website titled “The Last Rhodesian.” The centrality of South Africa to the white supremacist struggle around the world has been summarized by the radical website American Renaissance in March 2018: “the fate of white people around the world is linked to that of the Afrikaners.” Within South Africa, there are periodic reminders of the enduring threat of white supremacist violence. In 2019, for instance, four members of the “Crusaders,” a white supremacist group, were arrested for plotting attacks against Black targets. The Afrikaner Weerstandsbeweging (Afrikaner Resistance Movement), founded in 1973 by noted white supremacist Eugène Terre'Blanche, also remains active today. The group apparently boasts around 5,000 members, and in 2010, members of the group were arrested for plans to attack Black townships in the wake of the murder of Terre'Blanche—which some claimed was racially motivated. The plotters, based in Pretoria, had also threatened foreigners and players traveling to the country for the 2010 World Cup. And in 2002, a far-right group calling itself the “Warriors of the Boer Nation” claimed responsibility for a series of blasts targeting the township of Soweto, in which one woman was killed. The transnational white supremacist threat has manifested itself in devastating attacks in the U.S., Europe (especially Norway and Germany), and New Zealand, where an extremist murdered 51 in twin attacks at two mosques in Christchurch in March 2019. And the same networks responsible for violence elsewhere have reached Africa's southernmost state. The Base, a neo-Nazi organization whose members have been arrested for major plots in Maryland and Georgia, had recruited in South Africa. And Simon Roche, a senior figure in the Suidlanders, an Afrikaner survivalist group, marched with other white supremacists at the Charlottesville Unite the Right rally in August 2017—an event at which a young woman was killed in a far-right car ramming attack. One is always tempted to dismiss such activism if it hasn't yet manifested in violence—but as one Cape Town-based journalist recently wrote, “We laugh at the far right because it makes them seem less frightening, but it doesn't make them any less dangerous.” After all, in the age of social media radicalization and lone actor terrorism, all it takes is one. As the threat remains contained, South Africa's counterterrorism measures should surgically target more extreme fringes. Confronting race-based conspiracy theories—such as the false claim that Black South Africans were killing white farmers that was infamously tweeted by President Trump in August 2018—is essential. It can be pursed both through promoting truthfulness online and marginalizing proponents of hate speech. South Africa's intelligence agencies, meanwhile, should be aware of international networks' and groups' efforts to recruit and radicalize within the country, while continuing to maintain vigilance over groups active in South Africa itself. 

Alvin Young is a Rangel Fellow and master's candidate at the Elliott School of International Affairs at the George Washington University. On February 19, 2020, Senator Ibrahim Gaidam, the former governor of Yobe State, introduced legislation to create the National Agency for Deradicalization, Rehabilitation, and Reintegration of Repentant Insurgents. Gaidam represents Yobe state, which borders Borno and has been affected by the insurgency. The bill’s purpose is to encourage and rehabilitate Boko Haram defectors and prevent violent extremism in Nigeria. Given the recent requests for additional military force to combat Boko Haram by Nigerian lawmakers, Senator Gaidam’s legislation is an important step toward incorporating deradicalization, rehabilitation, and reintegration (DRR) programs into the overall strategy designed to defeat Boko Haram.  Currently, Nigeria has three deradicalization programs that support Boko Haram defectors. The Prison Program works with militants convicted of violent extremist offenses or those on or awaiting trial. During the program, Imams teach classes on non-violent interpretations of Islam, and other program staff provide vocational training so that, when inmates fulfill their prison terms, they can reenter society with less risk of reverting to terrorism. Second, the Yellow Ribbon Initiative supports women and children associated with Boko Haram by providing psychosocial therapy and reintegration programs. Finally, Operation Safe Corridor, launched by the Nigerian military in 2015, works with Boko Haram defectors by addressing extremist ideology and providing them with trauma counseling. Two thousand members of Boko Haram and the Islamic State in West Africa (ISWA) have defected through Operation Safe Corridor since its inception. Governor Babagana Zulum of Borno promised to complement security initiatives with programs that provide access to education and job opportunities. But, as military failures at the hands of Boko Haram’s have left much of Borno cut off from itself and the rest of the country, Governor Zulum has apparently—and understandably—prioritized military action by calling on the federal government to recruit 100,000 troops to counter the insurgency. Zulum promised an additional 50,000 "able-bodied" persons to combat the extremist group but did not request support for DRR programs. Instead, Babagana urged the Nigerian military to re-establish a military base in Borno. Other Northern leaders such as Yobe State governor, Malam Mai Mala Buni, are calling on the Nigerian military to expand their presence in the north. While an influx of troops may be important to addressing the immediate security situation caused by Boko Haram, the governors’ prioritization of security forces over investments into more DRR initiatives places their constituents in a revolving cycle of violence. Many Nigerians, including several lawmakers, oppose DRR programs. Some feel that their communities are not sufficiently consulted when these programs are developed and implemented. Perhaps more problematic, many communities, after enduring years of atrocities, remain skeptical of reconciliation with Boko Haram defectors. A senator from Ondo state said that there was “no justification” for the program proposed by senator Gaidam. “How can an enemy be rehabilitated? These are people who have done Nigeria so much harm." Current DRR efforts have had mixed results due to the Nigerian military’s limited expertise in deradicalization programs such as Operation Safe Corridor and reasonable fears that program participants will face violent retribution upon reintegration.  Vanda Felbab-Brown argues that community opposition to DRR efforts suggests that the Nigerian government “needs to invest more in open and comprehensive discussions with society about rehabilitation, reintegration, leniency, and victims’ rights.” To be effective, Nigerian lawmakers must ensure that DRR programs continue to work with those communities that will receive the rehabilitated fighters. A primarily military effort—still the current approach of the government—has not been successful; leaders owe it to their communities to explore the root causes of the insurgency and support non-military efforts, where possible, such as Senator Gaidam’s new legislation. 

This year, a mass-casualty terrorist attack on the United States or a treaty ally directed or inspired by a foreign terrorist organization was included as a top tier priority in the Center for Preventive Action’s annual Preventive Priorities Survey.