Nigeria’s crisis in a world of Stolen youth
The roots of this crisis are fed by the lethal intersection of chronic poverty and fragile governance. In Northern Nigeria, the “out-of-school” crisis is a security threat of the highest order. Where classrooms fall silent, the void is filled by predatory influences. In Burundi, similarly high rates of poverty and displacement have historically made children as young as ten vulnerable to recruitment as combat troops and spies.
By Shu’aibu Usman Leman
The tragedy of conflict in Nigeria cannot be fully grasped without confronting its most disturbing consequence, which is the systematic militarisation of childhood. Over the last decade, violence has seeped from remote battlefields into the heart of villages and schools, erasing the boundary between adolescence and armed struggle. This phenomenon, however, is not unique to Nigeria alone, it is a recurring global nightmare that has scarred nations from South America to Southeast Asia.
Successive United Nations reports have identified Nigeria as having some of the world’s highest levels of grave violations against children in armed conflict. These clinical findings conceal a harrowing reality where children are abducted and compelled to serve as tactical assets. Nigeria shares this grim distinction with countries like the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), where for decades, groups like the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) have used abducted children as the backbone of their forces.
The insurgency in Nigeria’s North-East, driven by Boko Haram, marked a dark evolution in the nature of domestic warfare. In the cold calculus of insurgency, children are seen as easier to intimidate and entirely expendable. This mirrors the “Ashbal Saddam” or “Lion Cubs” once seen in Iraq, or the “Cubs of the Caliphate” used by ISIS in Syria, where children were institutionalised into systems of violence from as young as six.
For boys, this recruitment often results in forced labour as fighters or informants. In Myanmar, the national army (Tatmadaw) has a long history of “buying and selling” young recruits to meet quotas, targeting boys as young as ten who are snatched from transit hubs or streets. For girls, the ordeal is frequently compounded by forced marriage and sexual exploitation, a tragedy echoed in South Sudan, where thousands of girls have been taken as “wives” by various armed factions.
As a journalist, I find these statistics to be a blistering stain on our national conscience. We must resist the urge to view this as a dry collection of data points; it is a mirror held up to the soul of our nation. Behind every figure lies a stolen biography—a child whose dreams have been violently interrupted. This is the same “stolen childhood” experienced by the “little bees” in Colombia, children used by paramilitary groups to plant mines and gather intelligence for over sixty years.
The roots of this crisis are fed by the lethal intersection of chronic poverty and fragile governance. In Northern Nigeria, the “out-of-school” crisis is a security threat of the highest order. Where classrooms fall silent, the void is filled by predatory influences. In Burundi, similarly high rates of poverty and displacement have historically made children as young as ten vulnerable to recruitment as combat troops and spies.
Displacement further intensifies this vulnerability. Uprooted communities living in informal settlements often lack protective oversight. Recruitment networks exploit these fractures, cynically presenting armed affiliation as a means of survival. In Afghanistan, recruitment has often been the only “career path” available to orphans or displaced youth, leading to children as young as thirteen being captured on the front lines.
The psychological toll on these children is both profound and enduring. Exposure to brutality during formative years disrupts essential cognitive and emotional development. Many former child recruits exhibit symptoms of PTSD and depression. Without sustained therapeutic intervention, these hidden wounds often manifest as cycles of aggression or profound alienation, a phenomenon observed in former child soldiers from Sierra Leone, Liberia to Cambodia.
Reintegration presents a separate, daunting set of complexities. Communities that have suffered at the hands of insurgents often struggle to distinguish between victim and perpetrator. Suspicion and stigma frequently greet returning children. This was a major hurdle in Uganda following the LRA’s peak, where returning “bush wives” and fighters were often shunned by the very families they were stolen from.
To be successful, reintegration must be deliberate. It requires a sophisticated blend of long-term psychosocial support and restorative justice. We cannot expect these children to heal if they are met with the same hostility they sought to escape. Successful models in countries like Sierra Leone have shown that community-led ceremonies and vocational training are essential for breaking the cycle of re-recruitment.
Furthermore, legal accountability remains alarmingly uneven. While international law unequivocally prohibits the recruitment of children, domestic enforcement has been inconsistent. In DRC, the conviction of warlord Thomas Lubanga Dyilo by the International Criminal Court was a landmark moment, yet many other commanders across the globe continue to operate with total impunity.
Strengthening our investigative capacity and judicial independence is essential. If there are no consequences for those who steal the lives of our children, then our talk of the “rule of law” is a mere charade. Justice must be seen to be done to act as a credible deterrent against the weaponisation of youth.
However, military action and prosecution are only parts of the solution; prevention remains the most effective remedy. Education is the most reliable bulwark we possess. Safe schools provide the critical thinking skills necessary to counter extremist narratives. In Syria, the collapse of the school system was a direct precursor to the mass institutionalised recruitment of children by militant groups.
Complementary investment in vocational training and youth employment is also vital. By reducing economic desperation, we deprive recruiters of the grievances they use to fill their ranks. A busy, educated youth is a protected youth. This has been a key lesson in Colombia, where the 2016 peace accords emphasised educational pathways for former young combatants.
Civil society and the media hold a sacred trust in this struggle. Responsible journalism ensures that these atrocities are neither normalised nor ignored. We must act as the chroniclers of the national conscience, demanding transparency from those in power and humanising those who have been reduced to mere “assets” of war.
Faith leaders and traditional authorities also play an indispensable role. Their influence often exceeds that of formal state institutions, and they are uniquely positioned to reinforce protective social norms. In parts of Africa and the Middle East, religious leaders have been instrumental in challenging the perverted theological justifications used to recruit minors.
Nigeria’s security response must therefore be holistic. Short-term military successes are hollow if they are not backed by institutional reform and economic inclusion. A child-centred security framework recognises that safeguarding young lives is integral to long-term national stability, as seen in nations that have successfully transitioned from civil war to peace.
There have been encouraging signs, such as collaborative initiatives that have secured the release of thousands of children. Yet these gains remain fragile. They require consistent funding and a shift in the national mindset to ensure that “rehabilitation” is more than just a buzzword.
Ultimately, the militarisation of childhood poses a fundamental moral question, what value does our society truly place upon its youngest members? A nation that fails to protect its children risks forfeiting both its moral standing and its developmental prospects.
Reclaiming Nigerian childhood requires a cultural reaffirmation. We must return to a reality where childhood is understood as a protected phase defined by play, learning, and aspiration. From the jungles of South America to the streets of Myanmar, the lesson is the same, that children belong in schools, not on battlefields.
The future workforce, electorate, and leadership of Nigeria are being shaped in today’s communities. If we surrender these spaces to violence, the repercussions will echo for generations. Protecting our children is not an act of charity; it is an investment in our collective survival.
The militarisation of Nigerian childhood is neither inevitable nor irreversible. With political will and social commitment, the trajectory can be altered. In safeguarding the innocence of its children, Nigeria—and indeed the world—safeguards its own future.
Shu’aibu Usman Leman is a former National Secretary of Nigeria Union of Journalists- NUJ.
