IN TIMES of peace, ethnic and religious solidarity can be a source of strength. Shared language fosters cooperation. Shared faith builds trust. Shared ancestry creates bonds of belonging. But in times of terror—when villages burn and innocent lives are lost—the meaning of solidarity must be questioned. At what point does loyalty to identity become betrayal of justice? When does defending “our own” cross the moral line into shielding wrongdoing?
Nigeria’s prolonged battle with insurgency and banditry has forced these uncomfortable questions into the open. Across Zamfara State, Katsina State, Kaduna State, Sokoto State, and Niger State, communities have endured repeated attacks from armed groups engaged in kidnapping, cattle rustling, extortion, and mass killings. Entire rural settlements have been displaced. Markets have collapsed. Schools have shut down. The social fabric has been strained to its limits.
In contemporary Nigeria, the tension between solidarity and justice is visible in public debates. When violent actors are described in familial terms, some interpret it as a call for reconciliation. Others hear it as moral dilution. The difference lies in timing and clarity. Reconciliation without accountability appears insensitive to victims. Dialogue without justice sounds like surrender to impunity.
In such an environment, the language of brotherhood becomes morally sensitive. When violent actors are framed in terms that emphasize shared identity—tribal, regional, or religious—it risks confusing solidarity with sympathy. Victims begin to ask: are we united in condemning crime, or divided in excusing it?
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History teaches that identity can be both protective and dangerous. African political scholar Ali Mazrui argued that post-colonial conflicts often become “ethnicized,” even when the root causes are political or economic. Violence is reframed as a clash of communities, deepening division and weakening national cohesion. In reality, many armed groups operate as criminal enterprises exploiting poverty, weak governance, and porous borders. Their actions do not represent entire ethnic groups, yet public discourse sometimes drifts in that direction.
Historian Murray Last documented centuries of coexistence between Hausa and Fulani communities in northern Nigeria—shared governance, scholarship, trade, and intermarriage. That long history of interdependence stands in contrast to modern narratives that frame today’s violence as an ethnic confrontation. Indeed, many Fulani communities have themselves been victims of banditry, just as Hausa and minority groups have suffered grievous losses.
The moral challenge, therefore, is not about rejecting one ethnic group in favor of another. It is about rejecting criminality regardless of the identity of the perpetrator. When solidarity becomes selective—condemning violence from outsiders while minimizing violence from insiders—it undermines justice. Such inconsistency weakens public trust in both community leadership and state institutions.
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Political philosophy underscores this principle. Thomas Hobbes argued that the legitimacy of the state depends on its ability to protect life. If citizens believe that identity shields offenders from consequences, the social contract begins to fracture. Cesare Beccaria emphasized that justice must be impartial and proportionate; favoritism breeds impunity, and impunity invites further violence.
Religious traditions provide even clearer guidance. In the Holy Qur’an, Surah an-Nisa (4:135) commands believers to stand firmly for justice even if it is against themselves or their relatives. This verse sets a powerful ethical standard: loyalty to truth must override loyalty to tribe. Surah al-Ma’idah (5:32) equates the unjust killing of a single soul with killing all humanity, underscoring the sacredness of life.
The Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) reinforced this principle when he declared, “Help your brother whether he is an oppressor or oppressed.” When asked how to help an oppressor, he answered: by preventing him from oppression. This teaching dismantles the idea that solidarity means blind defense. True solidarity means moral correction.
Brotherhood is noble when it aligns with righteousness. It becomes betrayal when it excuses oppression. The true test of solidarity is not how loudly we defend those who share our identity, but how firmly we uphold justice—even when it is uncomfortable.
The Bible echoes similar convictions. Deuteronomy 16:19 warns against perverting justice or showing partiality. Genesis 9:6 affirms accountability for the shedding of innocent blood. Romans 13:4 describes governing authorities as responsible for punishing wrongdoing. Across traditions, justice is portrayed not as optional but as foundational to peace.
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In contemporary Nigeria, the tension between solidarity and justice is visible in public debates. When violent actors are described in familial terms, some interpret it as a call for reconciliation. Others hear it as moral dilution. The difference lies in timing and clarity. Reconciliation without accountability appears insensitive to victims. Dialogue without justice sounds like surrender to impunity.
Yet there is another danger: collective blame. Just as solidarity can become misplaced sympathy, anger can become indiscriminate hostility. Entire ethnic groups must not be stigmatized for crimes committed by armed networks. Criminals must be isolated from their communities, not fused with them in public imagination. Justice must be precise.
The moral limits of solidarity are reached when loyalty to identity begins to contradict loyalty to truth. A society that defends wrongdoers because they share its language or religion risks betraying its own moral foundations. Brotherhood, in its authentic sense, is not about shared blood but shared responsibility. A brother protects. A brother restrains harm. A brother stands against injustice—even when the perpetrator comes from within his own community.
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Nigeria’s unity depends on this moral clarity. Ethnic and religious bonds can strengthen the nation when they promote mutual support and coexistence. They become destructive when they shield violence or justify silence. Leaders, scholars, clerics, and community elders must articulate this distinction clearly. The message must be consistent: criminality has no tribe, and justice has no bias.
In times of terror, societies face defining choices. They can retreat into narrow identities and defend their own at all costs, or they can elevate justice above sentiment. The former path deepens division and prolongs conflict. The latter strengthens national cohesion and restores confidence in institutions.
Brotherhood is noble when it aligns with righteousness. It becomes betrayal when it excuses oppression. The true test of solidarity is not how loudly we defend those who share our identity, but how firmly we uphold justice—even when it is uncomfortable.
For Nigeria to heal, its citizens must redefine loyalty. Loyalty to tribe must not exceed loyalty to truth. Loyalty to religion must not override loyalty to justice. Only then can solidarity become a force for peace rather than a shield for wrongdoing.
Comrade Danlami popularly known as Baba Lawan writes from Haliru Umar Street, Dorayi Karamar Unguwar Yamma, Gwale LGA, Kano State, Nigeria. He can be reached via email: lawanmusa363@gmail.com
