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16 Days of Activism Against GBV Blog Series| Holding Both Ends of the Line in the fight Against Digital Violence

By ISS Blog Bliss 11 December 202519 February 2026 634 views

Prevailing responses to digital violence against women and girls remain overwhelmingly reactive. We demand justice only after revenge‑porn, doxxing, or cyber‑bullying has already shattered a woman’s livelihood, dignity, or sense of safety. The scale of the crisis is undeniable: globally, between 16-58% of women have experienced some form of online violence, and in Nigeria, 45% of women self‑report digital abuse. Yet our interventions continue to treat symptoms while leaving the systems that enables digital violence unchallenged.

We are holding only one end of the line.

In this blog, Emaediong Akpan argues for a dual approach that confronts both the structural and cultural roots of digital violence. First, we must hold tech platforms and legal systems accountable for the architectures that make abuse easy, anonymous, and viral. Second, we must rethink how we prepare and support the next generation, beginning with digital literacy from childhood. This is not about shifting responsibility to users; it is about building collective resilience against the weaponized shame that underpins digital abuse. When we meet survivors with belief, care, and solidarity, we disrupt the culture of silence and return shame to its rightful place — with abusers and the systems that protect them.

Beyond Reactions

Nearly half of the world’s women and girls, have no legal protection from digital violence. The uncomfortable truth in our fight for digital safety is that we are often act after the fact. There is an overwhelming number of safety nets: legal, social, psychological, designed to ‘protect’ women and girls after they have experienced harm in digital spaces. However, according to Amnesty International, 76% of women report altering their online behavior due to abuse. This statistic reveals the limitation of our reactionary approach. We are treating the consequences of digital violence but failing to confront the architecture that exposes women and girls to harm. Our reactionary approach, though vital, is a partial victory at best, it means holding one end of the line. My call is to extend our hands and hold both ends.

The reactionary approach operates after the fact, after the harm has been done. It fails to confront the underlying issue: a digital ecosystem that is engineered through its architecture, business model and algorithms to facilitate and profit from such harm. To address digital violence against women and girls, we must adopt a dual-approach. This approach requires us to hold the line of platform accountability on one hand while engaging in foundational prevention rooted in early digital literacy and communal care on the other.

Understanding the Impact of Digital Violence on Women’s Participation in Public Life

Globally, 16-58% of women have experience online violence. In Nigeria, 45% of women self-report experiencing digital violence, with girls aged 12-17 and young women up to 35 being targeted. 85% of women globally have witnessed digital violence such as cyberbullying, false and misleading smear campaigns, doxxing, image and text-based threats, and more. Although the forms of digital violence vary, the motive remains the same: to shame, silence, and exclude women and girls from public life. Below I explain the impact of two particularly insidious forms.

Cyber-Stalking: Research indicates that an estimated 7.5 million people have experienced cyberstalking, demonstrating that anyone with a smartphone, social-media or GPS-enabled device is vulnerable. Data from domestic violence programs in multiple countries indicates that 71-85% of domestic violence perpetrators use technology from smartphones and GPS to spyware, to stalk, monitor and threaten survivors. The intimate violence of the physical world now follows women into every digital space, collapsing any boundary between public and private life.

Gendered Disinformation: Amongst the most surreptitious forms of technology-facilitated gender-based violence is gendered disinformation, which can be defined as the “false or misleading gender and sex-based narratives [deployed] against women, often with some degree of coordination and aimed at deterring women from participating in the public sphere”. Women in public life, particularly politicians and journalists, are disproportionately targeted. A 2021 UNESCO/ICFJ survey found 73% of women journalists had experienced online violence, with 20% reporting subsequent offline attacks. The impact is a chilling effect on civic participation. More broadly, 76% of women who have experience digital violence think twice before posting, and 32% stop commenting on certain issues altogether. This is not a side effect; it is the core function of this violence, which is to enforce patriarchal norms by policing digital spaces.

What Do We Mean by ‘Digital Violence’?

Without a universal conceptualization, this phenomenon operates under a cluster of terms, each highlighting a different aspect of this menace.

Online Gender-Based Violence (OGBV): Emphasizes the space where the abuse happens as well as the gendered nature of the abuse.
Technology-Facilitated Gender-Based Violence (TFGBV): Highlights the enabling role of information communication tools, which can amplify scale, anonymity, and permanence of harm
Cyber Violence: A broader term sometimes used in legal and policy contexts to emphazize the use of computer systems to cause facilitate or threaten violence
Digital Violence: An umbrella term to describe the use of technology and or social media to intimidate, harass, or threaten.

I use “digital violence” throughout this blog because it is conceptually encompassing. It captures not only the act of violence (harassment, doxing) but also the structural nature of the harm. It points to a violent digital environment shaped by the algorithmic amplification of harm and the prioritization of engagement/virality over safety. Digital violence as a concept draws attention to the platform not as a neutral mirror of gender-based violence offline but as an active participant in these acts of violence.

Holding Platforms and Systems Accountable

Our response ought to begin with the platforms whose digital architectures are designed to maximize ‘engagement’ irrespective of whether these engagements are driven by joy, outrage or hatred. The algorithms reward inflammatory contents with increased visibility, providing a fertile ground for digital violence to thrive. In adopting this approach, we must move beyond reactive content moderation to safety-by-design principles that places the responsibility on these platforms to mitigate systemic risks, including gender-based violence.

Our laws should specifically criminalize forms of digital violence including but not limited to cyber-stalking, disinformation, revenge porn, and doxxing. Although the Nigerian Violence Against Persons Prohibition Act 2015 is a good starting point, its effective application to address digital violence requires both amendment and judicial activism. The Act currently lacks explicit provisions for image-based sexual abuse, cyber-stalking, and platform liability. Courts must be willing to interpret existing provisions broadly while legislators work to close these gaps. We need legal frameworks that recognize the unique harms of digital violence—its permanence, its viral spread, its capacity to follow victims across every platform and into every space.

Digital Literacy as a Complimentary Strategy

Preventive approaches have been critiqued —often rightly for placing the responsibility on potential victims while absolving platforms of responsibility. My suggested approach does not absolve platforms of their responsibility. Rather, I argue that building communal resilience is not a parallel response but a complimentary strategy in this fight against digital violence. Even in a utopia with perfectly regulated platforms, harm can exist. The goal is to change the social and psychological terrain on which these attacks land.

Fostering a child’s critical consciousness does not excuse a platforms toxic design; it can help mitigate the effect of that design. This is the inoculation I speak of, is not against infection, but against the shame that digital violence weaponizes. Where young girls and women have the nonjudgmental support of their community, it becomes harder to manipulate them into feeling shame and equips them to identify, and resist abusive dynamics.

Building Communal Resilience from the Cradle

Today’s children are digital natives in a profound sense. Globally, one in three internet users is a child. In high-income countries, 60% of children use the internet by age five. In Africa, with the world’s youngest population and smartphone adoption surpassing 50%, children are primary users of family devices, entering complex digital publics with little to no guidance. This strategy ought to begin with digital literacy.

Critical consciousness from early childhood: Teaching children to question what they see online, who benefits from this content? Who might be harmed? Why is this being shown to me? This is media literacy adapted for an algorithmic age.

Bodily autonomy and consent: Children need to understand they have the right to set boundaries online, to say no to requests for images or information, and that consent given under pressure is not consent at all. These conversations must happen before children encounter coercion, not after.

Trusted adult networks: Every child should be able to identify at least two adults they can turn to if something online makes them uncomfortable or afraid. This requires adults who respond without panic, judgment, or punishment, a significant cultural shift in many contexts.

Community response models: When digital violence occurs, the community’s response matters as much as the legal one. Schools, religious institutions, and community organizations must be prepared to support survivors with unwavering belief rather than interrogation, with resources rather than blame. In Nigeria, organizations like the International Federation of Women Lawyers, Feminist Coalition, and StandToEndRape have pioneered such models, but they need to become the norm, not the exception.

The evidence supports this approach. In Finland, where comprehensive digital literacy has been integrated into education since 2014, young people report higher confidence in identifying misinformation and manipulation online. In South Korea, where digital citizenship education is mandatory, rates of cyber-bullying have declined even as internet usage has increased. Nigeria has the capacity to develop contextually grounded approaches that respond to our specific realities of digital violence.

Conclusion: Holding Both Ends of the Line

The fight against digital violence is a struggle for the future of public space, discourse, and democracy itself. A singular focus on post-harm justice, while morally imperative, is strategically incomplete. It addresses the symptoms but does not prepare the next-generation for these realities. We must confront digital violence by contesting the exploitative architectures of platforms and by building a critically conscious population from the cradle. This dual-approach is critical in this moment.

We must confront digital violence by contesting the exploitative architectures of platforms while simultaneously building a critically conscious population from the cradle. We must demand that platforms redesign their systems for safety while teaching young people to navigate these systems with critical awareness. We must prosecute abusers while building communities that refuse to shame survivors. This dual approach is not a compromise, it is recognition that structural change and cultural transformation must advance together. One end of the line without the other leaves us perpetually playing catch-up, counting casualties, offering comfort after the fact.

It is time to hold both ends of the line. Our children are counting on it.

Opinions expressed in Bliss posts reflect solely the views of the author of the post in question.

About the author:

Emaediong Akpan is a legal practitioner and an alumna of the International Institute of Social Studies. With extensive experience in the development sector, her work spans gender equity, social inclusion, and policy advocacy. She is also interested in exploring the intersections of law, technology, and feminist policy interventions to promote safer digital environments. Read her blogs here: 1, 2, 3, 4,5

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A clash of peace(s)? Feminist-decolonial reckoning with extractive disarmament, demobilisation, and reintegration (DDR) programmes in Africa

By ISS Blog Bliss 17 June 2025 1739 views

Conventional Disarmament, Demobilisation, and Reintegration (DDR) frameworks in Africa remain limited by masculinist and colonial legacies that marginalise the knowledge of African women’s and their lived realities. In this blog, visiting International Institute of Social Studies (ISS) researcher, Esther Beckley advances a feminist-decolonial intervention that centres women’s knowledge as indispensable to reimagining peacebuilding beyond militarised and exclusionary paradigms. This shift is essential for achieving effective peace processes.

**Photo by Alessandro Armignacco on Unsplash**

“We are not firing guns, but we are not at peace”. This sentiment, echoed by one of the women I encountered in Liberia during my PhD field research in 2022, encapsulates a critical challenge in “post-conflict” Africa. More than two decades have passed since the adoption of United Nations Security Council Resolution 1325 on Women, Peace and Security (WPS), which prioritised women’s protection and participation in conflict and its aftermath. Hailed as a landmark in recognising women’s experiences of war and contributions to peace, the resolution laid the groundwork for gender-sensitive peacebuilding frameworks worldwide, including Disarmament, Demobilisation, and Reintegration (DDR) programmes.

Yet, in Africa, where histories of conflict and resistance continue to shape present realities, these frameworks remain largely extractive, technical, and blind to African women’s lived realities. They are extractive because they use women’s stories to fit donor agendas without truly listening to their needs. They are technical, relying on rigid checklists that ignore the complex ways women build peace daily. They are blind to the plural forms of African women’s peacebuilding that do not fit Western stereotypes. This creates a gap between peacebuilding frameworks and the real lives of the women they aim to support. This way, women’s agency is not only marginalised but actively erased through peacebuilding paradigms that are masculinist in design and colonial in logic.

In this article, I offer a feminist-decolonial reckoning with DDR in Africa – one that challenges the colonial roots and gender biases of these processes, and centres the voices and realities of African women so often ignored. Drawing on examples from Sierra Leone, Nigeria, Liberia, and the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), I reflect on how DDR processes continue to operate through narrow definitions of combatant identity, exclusionary disarmament criteria, and a persistent inability to value women’s plural and communal approaches to peace. Beyond the question of inclusion, I ask: Which kinds of peace are being imagined? Whose security is being prioritised? And what violence is rendered invisible in the process? Doing so allows for a deeper understanding of how African women’s experiences can reshape peacebuilding into a more just and grounded practice.

Beyond the rhetoric of inclusion: The limits of gender mainstreaming

Women in Africa have never been absent from conflict. In Sierra Leone, figures like “Adama cut hand” and “Krio Mammy” embodied a complex warrior identity, challenging the stereotype of women as passive victims of war. In northeastern Nigeria, the widespread use of girls as suicide bombers by Boko Haram reveals a calculated militarisation of girlhood. Likewise, in Goma, DRC, some of the women I encountered in 2022 spoke of occupying roles as commanders, platoon leaders, logistics coordinators, and so forth. Yet, DDR programmes across Africa have persistently treated women’s participation in conflict as anomalous or secondary.

The problem is not just one of oversight; it is structural. DDR programmes are designed around a narrow, militarised conception of combatant status – one that centres gun ownership, formal enlistment, and the ability to surrender arms as prerequisites for recognition. In this framework, women who served as spies, cooks, caregivers, sex slaves, or who fought using traditional weapons such as machetes or “juju” (voodoo) are not seen as legitimate ex-combatants. As a result, they are excluded from reintegration benefits and left to “self-reintegrate” without psychological, social, or economic support.

This exclusion is not incidental. It reflects the coloniality of peacebuilding, a system that privileges Western top-down models and masculinist understandings of war, while delegitimising the complex and fluid roles women occupy during and after conflict. In Sierra Leone, female fighters within the Kamajor Civil Defence Forces were left out of DDR processes because they did not fit the predefined mould of the disarmed soldier. In Nigeria, women affected by the Niger Delta insurgency and the counterinsurgency war in the Northeast were similarly marginalised by state-led peace initiatives such as the Presidential Amnesty Programme and Operation Safe Corridor. These programmes, despite being framed within WPS language, failed to acknowledge the socio-political and gendered dynamics that shape women’s experiences of conflict and recovery.

“Informal” peacebuilding as epistemic resistance

In the face of structural exclusion from formal peace processes, African women have long practised peacebuilding on their own terms, drawing from cultural knowledge(s), spiritual resilience, and communal solidarity. These practices, often unseen by dominant DDR frameworks, constitute powerful forms of epistemic resistance – challenging dominant knowledge systems and asserting their own ways of knowing and being. In this context, it represents women’s active resistance to the narrow definitions of peace and peacebuilding embedded in DDR programmes. They offer plural ways of knowing and doing peace, rooted in collective healing, intergenerational memory, and care.

Consider Liberia, where women’s movements, notably Women in Peacebuilding Network (WIPNET), mobilised mass actions combining Christian and Muslim prayer circles, sit-ins, song, and silent protest. Their methods, born out of necessity and resilience, may not have resembled conventional conflict resolution, but their impact was undeniable. Through everyday activism, they created political pressure that eventually helped end the war and paved the way for the election of Africa’s first female head of state. These practices disrupt the distinction made between victim and agent, public and private, formal and informal, reclaiming peace as a communal, ongoing process rather than a set of steps to be completed.

These forms of peacebuilding are not simply add-ons to liberal peace processes; they expose how the “peace” envisioned in DDR and WPS agendas often neglects the violences women continue to endure in “post-conflict” contexts: domestic violence, land dispossession, political exclusion, illiteracy, and trauma. As one of the women in Liberia told me, “The war is over, but our struggle is not”. Their activism around issues like drug abuse, domestic violence, and declining female political representation, though not always labelled “peacebuilding”, is deeply political and rooted in relational justice and survival.

By ignoring these practices, DDR programmes perpetuate epistemic injustice. They continue to treat peacebuilding as a domain of expertise held by international actors and armed men, rather than a relational, lived process in which women are already engaged. Feminist-decolonial approaches compel us to ask: Which forms of knowledge are recognised as legitimate? Who is authorised to speak, and whose voices remain unheard?

Towards feminist-decolonial peacebuilding

For DDR in Africa to be truly meaningful, it must abandon its masculinist, militarised, and top-down foundations. A feminist-decolonial approach demands a radical reimagining beyond the standard three-step process. Disarmament must extend beyond weapons to acknowledge women’s unique experiences of war, while demobilisation must ensure safety and inclusion for female ex-combatants. Reintegration requires holistic healing that is psychological, spiritual, and relational, not just economic support. Crucially, we must ask what peace and reintegration mean for women whose bodies were sites for warfare and survival or who bore the burdens of conflict without wielding arms.

Central to this transformation is recognising African women’s knowledges such as prayer, storytelling, rituals, and care as vital peacebuilding practices that challenge the liberal peace framework. Tokenistic gender mainstreaming falls short because DDR must confront colonial legacies that marginalise women’s political labour and exclude them from decision-making. Feminist-decolonial peacebuilding calls for fundamentally reimagining peace as justice, dignity, and relational repair, emerging from communities rather than institutions. This is not a tweak but a reckoning and a shift toward liberation grounded in voices too often forgotten.

Opinions expressed in Bliss posts reflect solely the views of the author of the post in question.

About the Author

Esther Beckley is a visiting research fellow at the International Institute of Social Studies (ISS). Her PhD research centered the peacebuilding practices of indigenous women in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) and Liberia, learning how they navigate and reshape complex ‘postconflict’ environments within their communities. Grounded in a feminist-decolonial approach, her work challenges dominant colonial narratives that have long silenced these women’s voices, foregrounding the significance of their spiritual, relational, and communal methods of building peace. This research provides critical insights into the limitations of conventional Disarmament, Demobilisation and Reintegration (DDR) programmes and emphasises the need for more transformative and contextually grounded peace processes.

Mobilizing against patriarchy and caste on Twitter: How women in India use digital spaces to speak up against gender-based violence

By ISS Blog Bliss 27 March 2025 3560 views

Digital spaces can amplify marginalized voices, but for many women, especially Dalit women in India, they often become sites of abuse. Navigating the intersection of gender, caste, and religion, Dalit women face systemic exclusion and violence, reinforced by both offline and online structures. While technology does not oppress all women equally, movements like #MeToo have helped Dalit women spotlight caste-based and patriarchal violence. In this blog, recent ISS MA graduates, Sri Lakshmi, and Emaediong Akpan explore how digital platforms both challenge and reinforce structural inequalities, revealing that technology is never neutral.

Dalit women in India

The Indian Hindu religious caste system (more than 3000 years old) has stratified Indian society into castes based on bloodline, occupation, and economic resources. The Brahman caste and other ‘upper’ castes have capitalized on their social position to exercise superiority and control over the ‘lower castes’ and therefore sustains an exploitative system. At the other end of the scale, the Dalit caste is deemed to have been rejected by God and is therefore ‘outside’ the caste system. While India has made progress in several social aspects, the sturdy caste system continues to prevail based on religious authorization. The Brahman caste has subjugated women from their own caste as well as ‘lower’ castes to maintain ‘caste purity’. This modus operandi is manifested in intense oppression and gender-based violence towards the Dalit women. ‘In every sphere of life, they (Dalit women) are in a pitiable position, worse off than the upper caste women’ due to the triple oppression exerted by men from their own caste and ‘upper castes’. The triple oppression here refers to casteism, patriarchy,and economic injustices that are manifested as gender-based violence, caste-based discrimination, and being limited to low-grade jobs that are poorly paid.

The Janus-faced nature of digital spaces in India: Reflections on the non-neutral nature of digital spaces

Digital technology has expanded communication, breaking traditional media barriers and enabling collective action. Today,people are leveraging digital spaces like Twitter (now X),and FaceBook to organize, draw attention to their struggles, and demand change.

In India, the dawn of digital spaces transformed social interactions, providing avenues for citizens to engage politically, communicate their demands. These spaces are considered revolutionary tools that promote global inclusion and equality.

These spaces also act as a window into the broader Indian society, where norms and power interact to control individual actions. In navigating societal norms, digital spaces have been useful in helping Dalit women find community and access resources for mobilization. For example, Pallical, a Dalit rights activist, noted that ‘online space is refreshing and a space we never had earlier. There used to be limited regional media spaces, but we are now visible, and much of our anti-caste conversations are now happening on social media platforms’. For example, stories of how Dalit women were flogged and assaulted in public in the small city of Una led to government intervention only after it went viral on Twitter.

In this example, Twitter (and other digital spaces) served as a powerful public space for minorities and marginalized voices to circumvent traditional media; online, these actors could express opinions and opposition in a succinct format, as well as unite and organize swiftly in their capacity as ‘new social movements’. However, this is not the full picture. In these spaces, these marginalized groups are still unable to escape society and have been re-victimized in the spaces that also hold a ‘liberating’ potential’. This inability to ‘escape’ reality is why Wacjman states that technologies are not neutral; they do not exist outside of society but are a part of society. Within digital spaces, interactions are understood as performing gender roles that are deeply ingrained in society.

Digital spaces are a replication of gendered societal values and norms. One such replication is the backlash that followed the posting of an image showing a poster held by Jack Dorsey (former Twitter CEO) and Dalit Activists that read ‘Smash Brahminical Patriarchy’.

**Former Twitter CEO Jack Dorsey and Activists holding a Poster: Source Nalina**

This sparked controversy and threats of boycotts on Twitter, ultimately emboldening casteism by forcing an apology for the poster and image. Despite knowing the impact of the caste system, Twitter conformed to the social norms in Indian society by stating that the poster ‘did not represent Twitter’s official position’. Twitter also apologized for speaking out against marginalization and social injustice in order to avert the risk of losing the Indian market which boasts about 8 million Twitter users. This singular act amongst many others reflects how technology is both a source and consequence of marginalization; first because of how it relates with society and second as a consequence of marginalization by reinforcing it through ‘mindless apologies’.

**Twitter’s Denial of Siding with Dalits; Source: Bapuji and Chrispa**

Gendered access and use of technology in India: The #MeToo case study in India

The #MeToo movement was a viral online movement of raising voices against the sexual harassment of women. Many women came forward to share their experiences using the hashtag #MeToo on Twitter and other digital spaces.

The Indian #MeToo movement leaves the original ‘Me’ behind

The Indian #MeToo movement was started in 2017 by Raya Sarkar, a woman from the Dalit caste. She used the digital space of Facebook to expose sexual harassment as a form of gender-based violence by male professors in Indian universities by curating a List of Sexual Harassers in Academia (LoSHA). Sarkar was berated for posting such a ‘name and shame list’ in an attempt to re-enact the historical silencing and disregard for the testimonies of sexual violence against Dalit women in India. After this, the movement was taken over by mainstream activists, especially on Twitter and this diffused any remnant attention on the marginalization of women from the Dalit caste. While there were several personal testimonies on Twitter in which Indian women shared their experiences of sexual harassment, the testimonies of Dalit women were absent and scarcely featured in the debates that ensued. Hence, Twitter became a tool used to exclude the voices of the most oppressed who suffer on account of their class, race, and gender. In this way, Twitter reinforced the marginalization of Dalit women.

Technology as a source and consequence of gendered relations: Exclusion and discrediting of marginalized voices

As stated earlier, digital spaces have been instrumental in helping marginalized groups draw attention to social injustices. However, platforms like Twitter are generally unsupportive and even hostile toward women from the Dalit caste. Their marginalization on Twitter reflects these women’s reality by mirroring the existing caste network. It is unsettling to witness the casual and rarely-questioned oppression on Twitter faced by Dalit women. The oppression includes casteist slurs, disparaging comments on darker skin tones, and implicit insults on how women who are academically, professionally, and financially successful, or who have a fairer skin tone, are told that they don’t ‘look’ Dalit. Twitter has also provided the space for misogynists to target Dalit women without any consequences. This shows how technology (digital spaces) embolden and exacerbate existing gender inequalities and caste-based marginalization’ . Gender- and caste-based social dynamics and technology therefore connive to leave women from the Dalit caste behind on Twitter.

Conclusion

While there are numerous accounts of the benefits of social movements that have been organized in digital spaces, the realities are not the same for all, especially for marginalized groups. This lends credence to Whelan’s position that technology does not oppress all in the same way, nor does it necessarily oppress all women. In India, Dalit women, despite having gained access to digital spaces to draw attention to the injustice they face, are often faced with violence based on their gender and caste. Thus, although Twitter helped to break the culture of silence around sexual violence and draw attention to the injustices faced by Dalit women, it did not influence social relations to address the root causes. Rather, it emboldened these root causes and became a space where Dalit women continue to experience violence. People who wield more power (upper caste and those with more access) decide and shape technology by deciding what information is important or true.

Digital spaces are double-edged – they expose women and marginalized groups to harm, yet remain vital for organizing social movements. Recognizing the lack of neutrality of these spaces remains crucial, as offline systems of oppression are often mirrored and reinforced online. While legal frameworks can play a role in addressing digital harms, they alone cannot dismantle deeply entrenched caste and gender hierarchies. Instead, the focus must shift to challenging the power structures that shape technology itself. The experiences of Dalit women show that technology can be both a tool of oppression and resistance. Ensuring that digital platforms do not further marginalize vulnerable communities requires holding innovators and policymakers to higher ethical standards while amplifying the voices of those fighting for justice.

Opinions expressed in Bliss posts reflect solely the views of the author of the post in question.

About the authors:

Sri Lakshmi is a recent graduate of the Master’s in Development Studies program at the International Institute of Social Studies. With nine years of experience working with students, caregivers, educators, disability inclusion organizations, and government officials. Sri is passionate about fostering inclusive spaces, bridging the gap between education and social impact.

Emaediong Akpan is a recent graduate of the Master’s in Development Studies program at the International Institute of Social Studies. With extensive experience in the development sector, Emaediong Akpan’s work spans gender equity, social inclusion, and policy advocacy. She is also interested in exploring the intersections of law, technology, and feminist policy interventions to promote safer online environments. Read her blogs 1,2, 3

Building Peace Through Time: Reflections on Post-Civil War Nigeria

By ISS Blog Bliss 25 February 202513 March 2025 3027 views

Over fifty years later, the Nigerian Civil War, a pivotal conflict in the nation’s history, continues to influence contemporary discourse. The recent publication of A Journey in Service by former military Head of State General Ibrahim Babangida has reignited discussions on the war’s legacy and its enduring impact. In this Blog, ISS recent MA graduate, Emaediong Akpan explores the Civil War’s complexities, peacebuilding efforts, and the relevance of time in these processes. She highlights how historical narratives shape current realities and the lessons they offer for the future.

Nigerian Civil War: Causes, Participants, and Casualties

The Nigerian Civil War was a violent conflict between Nigeria, led by General Yakubu Gowon, and the secessionist Republic of Biafra, led by Lt. Colonel Odumegwu Ojukwu (Late). The war ensued after the breakdown of the Aburi accord, which was designed to promote inclusive governance, leading the Igbos to lose faith in the possibility of existing together as a nation.

The war lasted about 30 months and resulted in the death of approximately two million civilians. There are several accounts of the Nigerian civil war. These accounts often have ethnic, political, and colonial undertones in their presentation of the root causes, the judgment of its outcomes, and the peacebuilding efforts. However, it is important to note that the root causes of the war are numerous. It begins with a colonial history that forced diverse nations with distinct cultures, languages, and identities into a single entity known as Nigeria.

Relevant political causes of the war include the coup on July 15, 1966, which resulted in the deaths of several northern leaders. This event fostered the perception of ethnic motives behind the coup, leading to widespread violence, looting, and a mass exodus of Igbos back to the south.

In the aftermath, Aguiyi Ironsi, the new military leader and an Igbo man, was overthrown and assassinated in another coup led by northern military officers. This coup further exacerbated the ongoing ethnic tensions in Nigeria, as the northern and southeastern regions clashed over power and representation. Ironsi’s removal marked a significant shift in leadership, replacing him with Lieut. Col. (later Gen) Yakubu Gowon, a northerner.

The Relationship Between Time and Peacebuilding

a. The Role of Time in Lasting Peace

In building peace, there is often an expectation for warring parties to negotiate and leave the past behind. Even the Bible says, “do not remember the former things, nor consider the things of old” (Isaiah 43:18). However, peace scholar John Paul Lederach argues that sustainable peace requires acknowledging historical grievances

For those who experienced conflict firsthand, history remains influential in shaping perspectives and interactions. If peace initiatives fail to account for these lived experiences and address root causes, peace remains fragile and susceptible to renewed tensions. The post-war experience of the Igbos illustrates this dynamic; economic hardship, loss of property, and exclusion from federal positions created lasting grievances that were not adequately addressed.

b. There is No Prescription for Peace

Usually, people impose their own ideas of peace on others. In navigating the transition from crisis to a peaceful future, it is crucial to avoid essentialist views, allowing for creativity and acceptance that post-conflict, ‘peace’ may not be easily achieved. Recognizing and acknowledging the experiences of others opens opportunities to imagine a future together. The future is deeply intertwined with the past, forming a continuum where individuals remain connected to their experiences. Agonistic peace becomes relevant here because it fosters non-essentialist perspectives that unlock the creativity needed to imagine the future. It provides space for differences and resistance, holding transformative power.

However, a fixation on uniformity can hinder the healing process, driving a hasty disregard for differences in favor of assimilation. This ultimately ignores basic human needs and sets the stage for disaster. In Nigeria’s case, post-civil war peacebuilding prioritized national unity over addressing structural inequalities. This approach framed the preservation of “One Nigeria” as the primary goal, sidelining discussions of marginalization. The persistence of groups advocating for Biafra today reflects these lingering divisions.

Analysis of Time and Peacebuilding in the Nigerian Civil War

i. Gowon’s Reconciliation vs. Igbo Realities

Following the war, Lieut. Col. (later Gen) Yakubu Gowon introduced a policy of Reconciliation, Reconstruction, and Rehabilitation, ‘forgiving’ the secessionist state, assuming this approach would foster national cohesion. For Gowon, it was natural for peace to follow war, and forgiveness was key to achieving that. However, for the Igbos, peace was not a straightforward transition after war, and ‘forgiveness’ was not as significant to them. They believed that forgiveness was not Nigeria’s to grant; it belonged to them. Genuine forgiveness would require confronting historical events such as the forced amalgamation of Nigeria, coups, mass murders, and the disregard for the Aburi accord. Gowon’s actions thus led to a clash between immediate demands and historical narratives.

Post-war, Gowon focused on restoring the country’s unity, implying that the war’s aim was to preserve territorial integrity. The slogan during the war was, “to keep Nigeria one, is a task that must be done,” reinforcing the idea that Nigeria exemplifies a successful colonial legacy. Instead of fostering genuine peace, the policies adopted were more about maintaining a singular national narrative.

Governments often misunderstand the critical role of time in peacebuilding, focusing solely on the present without considering historical narratives. Gowon’s limited understanding of time caused him to concentrate on the most recent manifestation of conflict which was the civil war while ignoring the longstanding tensions that led to it.

ii. Nigeria Must Be One: Dictating Peace for Others

Violence does not occur in isolation; it is deeply embedded in broader power dynamics. This reality makes agonistic peace appealing, as it fosters the necessary objectivity for conflict transformation. Such transformation enables us to reimagine ‘enemies’ as opponents and ‘antagonism’ as difference, embracing resistance.

The enduring song, “Ojukwu wanted to separate Nigeria, But Gowon said Nigeria must be one…” which I learnt as a child echoes this sentiment and reinforces the belief that the Nigerian civil war was a “just war”. However, it also highlights the failure of Nigerian leaders to recognize that there was a time when the Igbos existed separately. It appears as if the leaders had forgotten this reality, leading to a forced unity.

The historical context I have provided illustrates how political actions transcend time and shape the future. Gowon’s prioritization of political stability over addressing historical grievances has fueled ongoing “structural dimensions of violence,” including the marginalization of Igbos and others aligned with Biafra long after the war ended. This prioritization creates a peace narrative that Mbembe describes as the ‘mutation of war’ that perpetuates violence even after conflict resolution.

In Nigeria, peacebuilding was coerced, and anyone or group who opposed the re-assimilation of all ethnic groups faced criminalization.

Conclusion: Reflections on Transformation

Peacebuilding is a commitment to the future, one that requires a reflective understanding of the past as its foundation. For the Igbos, the civil war is not just history; it is an enduring narrative that continues to shape their identity and lived experiences. Lt. Colonel Ojukwu and Biafra live on through the stories passed down to their children. The dominant narratives of the Nigerian civil war often overlooks the rich history of the Igbos, threatening their existence as a distinct community. To ensure their experiences are recognized, the stories of resilience, survival, and suffering must be told from their own perspective.

I acknowledge that these narratives may not guarantee peace, but it is a crucial step toward understanding the roots of conflict and transforming perceptions of enemies into opportunities for dialogue. A truly inclusive approach is essential for fostering reconciliation. This approach must embrace diverse narratives to address the historical complexities that continue to challenge national unity in Nigeria.

As long as Nigeria’s peacebuilding efforts remain primarily state-driven, these challenges will persist. A more inclusive framework, one that directly engages affected communities and meaningfully acknowledges historical grievances, may offer a more sustainable path forward.

Opinions expressed in Bliss posts reflect solely the views of the author of the post in question.

About the author:

Emaediong Akpan is a legal practitioner, called to the Nigerian Bar in 2015. She recently graduated from the MA programme Development Studies with a specialization in Women and Gender Studies at the International Institute of Social Studies, Erasmus University Rotterdam. Read her blogs here

Risks and rewards: How travelling with children shapes migrant decision-making

By ISS Blog Bliss 23 January 202518 November 2025 1274 views

Travelling with children is more complex than travelling alone. It is also more expensive. Yet the impact of children on migration decision-making – and the dilemmas faced by parents and caregivers on the world’s major migration routes – are poorly understood.

In this blog, Chloe Sydney draws upon recent survey data to share initial insights into how parents and caregivers make decisions about migration when children are accompanying them on their journey.

Surveying migrant decision-making

Between March and October 2024, the Mixed Migration Centre (MMC) surveyed 1,557 people on the move in Italy, Niger, and Tunisia for PACES, a 40-month Horizon Europe project that aims to understand migration decision-making and thereby also inform migration policymaking (1). Among people surveyed, 11.5% were travelling with children(2).

A gendered and geographical distribution

Women surveyed were nearly four times more likely than men to travel with children, with 24% of women travelling with children compared to just 6.5% of men – and their migration decision-making accordingly constrained.

Geographically, the percentage of respondents travelling with children drops progressively along the route: 16% in Niger, 10% in Tunisia, and just 8% in Italy(3). As can be observed on MMC’s 4Mi Interactive, a similar trend emerges when broadening the scope beyond PACES to all data collected in the three countries. This may be because parents and caregivers are wary of exposing children to the significant risks found in the Sahara, Libya, and the Mediterranean Sea.

How the risks inform the route

Recommendations and past experiences of family or friends were the most common factor informing choice of route for all respondents. For those travelling with children, safety and familiarity also played an important role in informing decision-making: as illustrated below, those travelling with children were somewhat more likely than others to prioritize safety (30% compared to 26%) and to choose routes they knew best (36% compared to 27%).

However, cost matters too, especially since travelling with children makes things more expensive. ‘My journey here with my children has not been easy at all, I had to spend a lot of money between Benin and Niger’, shared a Togolese father. In the face of limited resources, 35% of those travelling with children chose their route at least partly because it was the cheapest option, compared to 26% of other respondents. Conversely, parents and caregivers travelling with children were less likely to prioritize the fastest route, possibly because faster routes tend to be more expensive.

If the cheapest route involves greater risks, parents and caregivers face a difficult dilemma. Should you expose your children to danger in the hope of finding safety? In the words of British poet Warsan Shire,

you have to understand,
that no one puts their children in a boat
unless the water is safer than the land […]

Keeping safe en route

In the absence of safe alternatives, parents and caregivers take steps to mitigate the risks. As shown below, to protect themselves from crime and abuse, people travelling with children were more likely to travel in a group (58%), stop in places with trusted contacts (42%), and use safer methods of transport (36%). These precautions aim to reduce risks related to crime and abuse, but may also increase the cost of travel.

Despite efforts to protect children from harm, over two-thirds (68%) of respondents travelling with children felt children had been highly or very highly exposed to serious risks such as physical violence, sexual violence, kidnapping or death during the journey.

‘I cannot encourage anyone to take this route, because I lost my daughter during the journey, and I miscarried as a result of the pressure’, shared a Nigerian woman in Tunisia. ‘If you want to go, you should leave your children at home’, warned a father who saw his daughter being raped on their journey from Chad to Tunisia.

Where to go and whether to stay

Just as travelling with children can influence the route taken and the means of travel, it also influences decision-making with regards to choice of destination.

Reflecting parents’ and caregivers’ safety concerns, among those who specified a destination, over half (54%) of respondents travelling with children said they chose it at least partly because it was the safest option(4). This was the case for just 44% of those not travelling with children.

Perhaps to provide for their families, people travelling with children were more likely to mention their choice of destination was influenced by economic opportunities, at 80%. They were also more likely to mention the social welfare system, at 41%. Access to better education mattered somewhat more to them as well, as shown in the figure below.

Finally, travelling with children impacts whether and why people might one day return to their countries of origin. Those travelling with children were more likely to say they would return only if they believed it was safe (26% compared to 18% for other respondents). ‘The security situation is much better here than in our country of origin’, explained a man from northeast Nigeria, surveyed in Niger.

What we’ve learned

Among the people we interviewed, the presence of children impacts migration decision-making. Those travelling with children more often prioritise safety when selecting a destination, deciding whether to return, or to a certain extent when choosing a route. However, as travel becomes more expensive, costs also play a more important role in decision-making, potentially forcing some families to forsake safer, costlier routes in favour of more affordable, perilous journeys.

Our data also highlights the risks faced by children on the move, and their resulting need for specialised protection services. ‘My daughter has suffered many injustices on this route, she will be forever traumatised’, said a mother from Tigray in Ethiopia. ‘She has seen things beyond her years.’ Those who embark on dangerous journeys with their children, however, often have few alternatives: opportunities for safe, regular migration from Tigray, for example, are limited, even though the region is beset by high levels of food insecurity, limited access to essential services including education, and continued political instability.

Endnotes:

1. Since we rely on non-probability sampling, our findings cannot be generalized to all people on the move. Our baseline data collection will be complemented by two rounds of longitudinal data collection, enabling us to examine decisions to stay and migrate over the course of a year and a half.

2. One respondent refused to say whether they were travelling with children.

3. The proportion of women surveyed remains relatively stable across the three countries, so this does not explain the drop in respondents travelling with children.

4. 177 respondents travelling with children and 1,344 of other respondents had specified a destination.

Funded by the European Union. Views and opinions expressed are those of the authors only and do not necessarily reflect those of the European Union. Neither the European Union nor the granting authority can be held responsible for them.

Opinions expressed in Bliss posts reflect solely the views of the author of the post in question.

About the author

Chloe Sydney is the Mixed Migration Centre’s Global 4Mi and Data Coordinator. She has nearly a decade of research experience, with a particular focus on forced migration. Chloe has a PhD on refugee decision-making with regards to return, and a master’s degree in International Migration and Public Policy.

When the State Doesn’t love you back: Navigating identities as a Nigerian woman

By ISS Blog Bliss 22 October 202424 October 2024 2365 views

Although the Nigerian state is guided by a Constitution that confers on all Nigerian citizens equal rights regardless of gender and sexual identity, it has been adept at maintaining a system of patriarchy through institutions, policies, and procedures which has led to the differential treatment of men and women. This is what Chouinard refers to as “spatial differing”, and has several knock-on effects that translate to unequal outcomes for some Nigerian citizens. In this blog, Emaediong Akpan explores how the state confers citizenship on its people: who has the right to participate in the affairs of the state? And to what extent such rights can be exercised and enjoyed by all?

Does the State have a character? And is it Gendered?

“The state is a masculine institution,” assigning rights and belonging along gendered patterns. In allocating these rights, the state decides who belongs in the state and to what extent a person can lay claim to their citizenship. This is both a legal and social decision that affects the feeling of belonging and inclusion The struggle for inclusive citizenship is not new, and from voting rights to property rights, women have had to constantly negotiate with the state about what rights they can enjoy, but not in the same way that men do. This is because Nigerian women are often at a disadvantage, working against multiple levels of assumption, and negotiating male-dominated spaces.

The state is not a neutral entity, only concerned with the maintenance of law and order, rather it descends like a biased umpire into the arena of private life, regulating bodies and relationships. This is what French philosopher, Michael Foucault describes as bio-politics: [state] regulation of its people, taking the form of control over social interaction, health and reproductive rights, and the right to life amongst many others. For radical feminists, bio-politics is an indication of the state’s masculinity and commitment to protecting patriarchy.

The organisation of state affairs does not occur accidentally, rather it is a deliberate effort to ‘exert a positive influence on life, that endeavors to administer, optimize, and multiply it, subjecting it to precise controls and comprehensive regulations.’ This deliberate effort of the state generally works though subjection that is guided by economic structures and cultural norms that dictate gender roles.

In Nigeria, citizenship occurs at the national level, state, and local government levels. While a woman in Nigeria can claim citizenship (on paper), true citizenship that is characterized by access to citizenship rights, including social benefits and political participation. True citizenship, then, is something she must consistently negotiate through the course of her life. This negotiation is limited by the state’s decision to favor patriarchy, and this results in the differential capacity of men and women to claim the benefits and privileges that come with being a citizen.

Gender and Citizenship in Nigeria: Women as Outsiders Within

The 1999 Nigerian Constitution (As Amended) is the reference point for who can be conferred the status of a citizen and who can transfer citizenship. In the country, citizenship is conferred at the national level by birth, where either parents or a grandparent is a citizen of Nigeria or from a tribe indigenous to Nigeria. Under section 26(2), only a man can confer citizenship to his wife through marriage, in essence, a Nigerian woman who marries a non-Nigerian cannot confer this citizenship on her husband or her children. In this way, a Nigerian woman’s citizenship can be considered inferior in the sense that it cannot be transferred to another.

The situation becomes more dire with single mothers who try to navigate citizenship, especially when the father of their child is no longer present or refuses to be in their lives. Women in this situation must attach themselves to a Nigerian male if their child is to identify as a citizen of the country, even with the most basic form of identity, a certificate of birth. These women are left with no other choice than to give their children the names of absentee fathers, or that of a male member of their family to retrieve these certificates from the state. Citizenship is sexual, in the way that, it ‘empowers’ the genders that are beneficial to the state – men. In doing so, the state considers the man as the entity who is able to give life, and the woman’s role is reduced to a body that houses the uterus suitable to carry a (male) Nigerian child, but not confer citizenship upon that child.

Another way the state is implicit in fostering gendered power relations is in the refusal to enact policies to address forms of disempowerment such as protecting the rights of single women who are navigating the rental market in Nigeria. For decades, there has been an outcry of single women in the country with complaints of facing prejudice from property owners because “single women should not rent houses independently.” My first-hand experience as a single woman renting a home in 2014 lends credence to this conversation. My search for a home in Abuja, the country’s capital, was met with several rejections because of my status, but interestingly, this changed when I returned with a ‘hired partner’ and flaunted a shiny make-shift engagement ring. Surprisingly, the property owner was female. As noted by Sathiamma patriarchy is produced by a system, meaning that both men and women can be active gatekeepers of patriarchal norms and practices, albeit sometimes unknowingly. These attitudes are rooted in persistent patriarchal socio-cultural norms that view women as property belonging to men.

While national citizenship is relevant for macro-level discourses, a different form of citizenship also exists within the margins – state citizenship. This is perhaps the most challenging for Nigerian women to navigate. Identities within the Nigerian state are defined in a masculine way. As a Nigerian woman, your identity is often contested and changing in many ways. For instance, at the point of marriage, Nigerian women must pay a fee to the state to change their names to that of their new partner, while notifying the public through print media – in a change of name announcement – that her previous name (father’s name) has been abandoned. These changes must also be replicated across every identity document that she possesses – bank details, international passport, and state and local government identity documents. In the case that her state and local government of origin differs from her husband’s, she continues to be denied indigeneity (rootedness), never fully belonging to her father’s home or her husband’s.

Reflection

The redefinition of a state – as masculine and non-neutral – through a feminist lens provides the needed objectivity to ask critical questions on the state’s role in regulating the public and private lives of its citizens. By looking at how the Nigerian state interacts with Nigerian women through this lens, we can better understand its preconceived roles for female Nigerian citizens.

The Nigerian state is masculine and would continue to subject women’s identities to the whims and caprices of patriarchy whilst denying men who do not fit the ideals of masculinity the right to citizenship. This is operationalized in its administrative processes, how women can (or cannot) access basic needs like housing, and the way that women are treated when they participate in public affairs.

Unless we begin to interact with foundational institutions like the state using a feminist lens to dismantle the assumptions of its rationality, these current efforts at addressing gender inequality will not yield much.

Opinions expressed in Bliss posts reflect solely the views of the author of the post in question.

About the Author

Emaediong Akpan is a legal practitioner, called to the Nigerian Bar in 2015. She is currently pursuing a Master’s in Development Studies with a specialization in Women and Gender Studies at the International Institute of Social Studies ,Erasmus University Rotterdam. With extensive experience in the development sector, her work spans gender equity, social inclusion, and policy advocacy. Her research examines the effects of technology-facilitated gender-based violence on women and social movements, highlighting how digital spaces serve as sites for power contests and the policing of gender norms.

Border communities in Nigeria continue to remain unsafe: Are border security forces to blame?

By ISS Blog Bliss 23 March 20224 January 2025 5715 views

Imeko border town remains a significant border area in Nigeria, due to the sizeable economic activity that is carried out there, which contributes to the country’s revenue base. However, despite the economic benefit that the border area provides Nigerian states, it remains marginalised and in a state of heightened insecurity. This article argues that the large presence of various Nigerian security forces, has in no way, ameliorated the security situation in the border area. However, this anomaly can be addressed if proper monitoring of the border area is carried out by relevant authorities.

Marginalisation of border communities in Nigeria: the case of Imeko

Globally, border communities have a long history of marginalisation. These are communities situated on the edge of formal states. Inhabitants of these communities continue to remain the victims of various forms of criminality that occur at the borders, mostly because of a lack of police presence or failure of the security personnel posted to such locations to perform their duties. In Nigeria, border communities have faced various forms of marginalisation, which results mainly from the lack of basic infrastructure like schools, hospitals, health care facilities, potable water and, importantly, protection. Border regions in Nigeria are notoriously dangerous due to cross-border criminalities ranging from smuggling and trafficking activities to the presence of terrorist organisation i.e. the Boko Haram mainly found in the North-Eastern region of the country.

A case in point is the border town of Imeko in Nigeria. Imeko is a traditionally recognisable Yoruba town densely populated in southwest Nigeria, close to the country’s border with Benin. Most of its inhabitants are farmers, hunters, and traders who take part in predominantly informal cross-border trade (ICBT) activities, otherwise viewed by the government as smuggling, which hence serves as a justification for the deployment, by the government, of a Special Force, known as the Joint Border Patrol, at the border town to curtail such activities.

When I visited Imeko in April 2021 and interviewed inhabitants for my study on the perpetual marginalisation of Imeko border town, it became evident that this border area has been challenged in many ways, ranging from a lack of basic infrastructure to failure to protect the citizens of the border communities. Aside from the fact that they are neglected by the government, there are instances where projects are being approved in the community’s name at the national level, without the community leadership even being informed. As revealed by a local, who was also my guide, the majority of the few schools in the town were built by the community itself before the government took over their management. Yet, these schools are not in good shape, and are short-staffed. An example is the Nazareth High School, where the current Oba^[1] of Imeko taught before he became a traditional ruler.

The double burden of marginalisation and violence in Imeko

However, what is perhaps most concerning is how insecure the border area is. Given that Imeko is foremost an agrarian community, the presence of nomadic or semi-nomadic Fulani^[2] herdsmen, who roam the region with their cattle, has been a curse according to farmers I interviewed, who claimed that the cattle had destroyed their farmland. Complaints from the people to the security forces stationed in the community about this, and other issues, have fallen on deaf ears, even after the traditional ruler’s interventions. In fact, there have been accounts of complainants being arrested by police officers instead, on the grounds that they are not being accommodating of the Fulani herdsmen, and have also been made to pay for their release from police custody.

While the traditional ruler plays an important role in ensuring that the community mobilises its local resources and strategies to address issues facing the community, the constant state of insecurity puts a strain on the limited resources, given the failure of the police and other security forces, deployed in the border town, to ensure the security of life and property, and the prevention of various forms of cross-border criminalities. For example, Figure 1 and 2 below, show burnt vehicles and motorcycles, often used by the local guards when on a search mission for kidnapped persons in the forest.

Figure 1: Motorcycles burnt by their attackers

Source: My Guide, April 12, 2021(Imeko Town)

Figure 2: Cars burnt by their attackers

Without sufficient protection from the police and other security forces in the area, these acts of violence are likely to continue. It is also worth noting that such violence continues even though this border area is heavily securitised by the government due to cross-border activities that are carried out along the borders such as importation, smuggling, and human trafficking. In fact, at the time of my visit, there were more than fifty checkpoints manned by heavily armed security officers along the stretch of road between Kara (an area known for cattle market in Abeokuta), some 90 kilometres away from Imeko border town. This further confirms the assertion by various researchers of the entrenchment of the border guards and security personnel in the potent mix of poverty and corruption that plagues the border areas.

Are border security forces to blame?

Thus, this also raises the question about the role of the security forces towards addressing the issue of kidnappings of innocent civilians in the border area. Can their presence make a difference? Or are they complicit in the kidnappings? On various occasions, community members, traders, and skilled workers have been kidnapped. While some were released after paying huge sums as ransom, others were found dead.

Based on the interviews I conducted, I concluded that despite the presence of security forces, they are not likely to make a difference, as they are only focused on cross-border activities, while completely neglecting the problems that face communities in the border region. One would assume that the presence of the police and other security forces on the long stretch of road, and in the border town, should have brought some level of safety to the people, however, the opposite has been the case, as the border communities see the deployment of the security forces as part of the problem. Instead of protecting them, the security forces are perceived as aiding and engaging in smuggling activities themselves. According to some locals, while the locals who go to buy items such as rice, cereals, and vegetable oil for personal consumption across the border are stopped by security operatives and their items are confiscated, smugglers are known to offer and pay bribe to the same security forces, sometimes right in the presence of the locals, and are then allowed to drive off with impunity.

Moreover, most robbery and kidnappings happen on the road which is manned by heavily armed security operatives. According to one kidnapping victim, who had been kidnapped in 2019, he was not only dispossessed of huge sum of money which he went to withdraw in Abeokuta, but he was also a witness to women being sexually assaulted, by those he identified as Fulani herdsmen. Therefore, the people in the border communities feel that if this has been happening over the years, and it has not been addressed, then the presence of the security forces manning various check points on the road is futile. During my time in Imeko, I also observed that as you move into the border town, immigration officers who check foreigners, mostly Fulani, were willing to take bribes from those who did not have any official identification. Even at the checkpoints for items such as rice, cereals, and vegetable oils, officers demanded bribes from the drivers and traders, and if they were unable to pay the bribe, their items were confiscated.

The way forward: what can be done?

The role of security agencies in border communities, therefore, cannot be overstated. As it stands, the communities have lost hope in the ability of the police and security forces deployed in their communities to secure life and property as they are perceived to only come in and engage in activities for personal gains. It is important to note here that this feeling is in no way different from what has also been documented in Nigeria cities. The people do not feel safe as police officers continue to extort money from them. This shows that there is a fundamental structural problem vis-à-vis the salaries/ wages of security personnel, which if paid on time and are a liveable wage, might also motivate them to do their job diligently and objectively. Security experts and concerned citizens have in the past, and continue to this day ,raise and stress this issue for the government to investigate and address.

It is in this light that I would equally add to their voices to say that it is imperative for the federal government to address this concern, as it is the common populace, and often those most vulnerable, who are bearing the brunt. The government, through coordination and leadership of various security organisations, must strictly monitor the activities of officers posted in the border area. In the case where special forces are deployed specifically for curtailing smuggling activities, they must be utilised and enforced to maintain and ensure security and order in the community, rather than waiting for special intervention from the state whenever there is a case of violence and kidnapping. Only when such measures are implemented with urgency, will the border communities, such as Imeko, be safe, and their confidence restored in the ability of the government to protect them.

^[1] An Oba is a traditionnal ruler who rules over a Yoruba town or city in southwest Nigeria.

^[2] A nomadic tribe found in Northern Nigeria.

Opinions do not necessarily reflect the views of the ISS or members of the Bliss team.

About the author:

Samuel Okunade is a borderlands scholar who researches on borders and migration most especially as it concerns human trafficking and migrant smuggling in Africa. He is also interested in thinking through ways in which social and ethnic cleavages in border communities could be used for economic integration and social cohesion in Africa. He equally advances the course of border communities that have an age long history of marginalization and neglect by the government.

Moving beyond women as victims in post-conflict peacebuilding efforts in Liberia by Christo Gorpudolo

By ISS Blog Bliss 27 January 202016 May 2020 2650 views

Liberia, a war-torn country for much of the 1990s, initiated several post-conflict peacebuilding programmes with the hope of building sustainable peace. But a study of the Palava Hut Program as a transitional justice mechanism showed that such efforts can be thwarted by the reduction of women to victims of war. The opportunity to rebuild gender relations damaged during wars can be missed in the process. Besides rethinking the link between women and victimhood, women’s inclusion in peacebuilding programmes based on lived experiences can help to equalize men and women in the peacebuilding process, argues Christo Gorpudolo.

Gender is one of the most damaged relationships during war. War and masculinity re-establishes gender hierarchies, and even after the end of wars such oppressive gender relationships persist. Several post-conflict peacebuilding efforts have been initiated in Liberia following two civil wars that occurred between 1989 and 2003. Most notable amongst these peacebuilding efforts have been the development of document called ‘A Strategic Roadmap for National Healing, Peacebuilding and Reconciliation and the National Palava Hut Program. These efforts are major achievements that have set the pace for peacebuilding in the country. Yet, as important as these peacebuilding efforts seem, how gender is viewed and incorporated within the country’s transitional peacebuilding programmes remains problematic for efforts to build sustainable peace.

Solhjell and Sayndee (2016) assert that Liberia has dominate-subservient gender power relations, which limits the participation of the female gender in public discourses and also affects their bodily integrity by limiting their movement from one social class to the other, especially in public decision-making processes (Solhjell and Sayndee 2016: 12). These general societal perspectives and/or biases of gender roles in Liberia have been key sources for policies informing the transitional justice process.

Gender can be viewed as a social institution that establishes patterns of expectations for individuals, orders the social processes of everyday life, and is built into the major social organizations of society such as the economy, ideology, the family and politics. It is an entity in and of itself (Lorber 1996). In the case of Liberia’s peacebuilding efforts, gender is constructed mostly in terms of women’s numerical inclusion in post-conflict peacebuilding activities. This is based on the generally accepted notion that women form a large portion of those victimized in the civil wars. Therefore, policy makers assume that they should be integrated into the Palava Hut talks numerically to share their stories of survival and receive apologies for the crimes committed against them. Although this assertion could be true, viewing women’s participation based on the lens of victimhood also poses a danger.

As part of my Master’s research at the ISS, in 2019 I conducted a case study of Liberia’s National Palava Hut Program as a transitional justice mechanism. Using Scriven’s argumentation analysis, I examined national policies that included the Palava Hut Program documents, related program evaluations and implementation reports, and the Strategic Roadmap for National Healing, Peacebuilding and Reconciliation. I specifically looked at issues of gender, including women’s representation in such policies. I found that victims in the studied documents generally referred to women and children. Based on this perception of women and children as victims, the documents advised that women should form part of the Palava Hut Talks to protect their rights that had been violated during the civil war and to address the ‘dishonour’ brought against them by the civil wars.

As important as those statements might sound, this fails to recognize the key role women played in ending direct violence in Liberia. Thus, women should be incorporated into the Palava Hut Program as significant stakeholders in Liberia’s peacebuilding process, not as victims. Viewing women as victims and men as perpetrators within the peacebuilding process can prevent the full realization of sustainable peace through peacebuilding efforts and hinders the possibility for the transitional era to be used as an opportunity to redefine existing gender relations. According to scholars like Catherine O’Rourke (2013), the extreme social disruption caused by political violence that a transitional justice era seeks to address can within the transitional era allow for some loosening of gender norms and create space for women to take up atypical gender roles. This can help reshape gender relations.

A way of approaching peacebuilding in Liberia in order to achieve a gender-just peacebuilding process would be to incorporate both men and women in the peacebuilding process based on their lived experiences—as equals and not necessarily according to a victim-perpetrator dichotomy. Considering lived experiences may help shift the focus of the Palava Hut Program past victims and perpetrators, thereby creating a deeper understanding of the conflict. This would also provide an opportunity to change gender-damaged relationships that persist in post-conflict societies, particularly Liberia.

References:

Lorber, J. (1996) ‘Beyond the Binaries: Depolarizing the Categories of Sex, Sexuality, and Gender’, Socological Inquiry 66(2): 143-160.

O’Rourke, C. (2013) Gender Politics in Transitional Justice. Routledge.

Solhjell, R. and T.D. Sayndee (2016) ‘Gender-Based Violence and Access to Justice: Grand Bassa County, Liberia’

About the authors:

Christo Z. Gorpudolo is a graduate of Development Studies, Social Justice Perspectives (SJP) from the International Institute of Social Studies (ISS).

Striking at the glass ceiling: a tale of seven judges (and a lawyer) by Ubongabasi Obot

By ISS Blog Bliss 22 May 201818 May 2020 3059 views

Memories came racing back for Ubongabasi Obot during a recent book launch at the ISS. The book’s theme? Breaking through the glass ceiling as an African woman. Obot’s own journey to become a female lawyer in Nigeria had been fraught with challenges, and she identified with the seven female Africans who are now judges in international tribunals and whose stories are captured in the book. Here she reflects on the launch, and on trying to make it in a male-dominated sector.

I remember the day that I was called to the Nigerian Bar Association as an admitted attorney. How happy and proud I was. But after graduating, people around me already began giving me unsolicited advice. Get a job in a private company! You should join the civil service and push the ranks! Get married, have children and build a good home! I wanted to engage in legal practise, and by that I mean litigation. A courtroom-style kind of life is what I yearned for. However, it was already made clear to me that litigation was men’s turf and that the perception existed that you could not be a successful litigation lawyer and a good wife.

I began practising as a lawyer in a private law firm. I also engaged in voluntary work for non-governmental associations, pursing my passion. Not too long after, I got married and moved to a different state. I became engaged in voluntary work, again while looking for a paid job. Oh, how tough and glaring it became. This was now the survival of the fittest, and by fit, I mean you had to be a “man”!

I wrote examinations for many private legal firms. I wanted the best, so I applied to those. I had the grades to match it. I passed the written examinations, moved to the oral interviews, and then the rejections kept on coming. I was broken. How was I ever going to get to the top? I had bills to pay, too. It was better to work in good law firms, as this would help me acquire more knowledge, build my clientele, and I could be on big profile cases. If I did well, worked with the right crowd and won the right cases, I could eventually be recommended for the position of a judge.

However, I did not get the big law firm jobs. I never understood why until one day, I received a call from one of the law firms I had applied to. ‘Hello is this Ubongabasi,’ I replied. ‘Yes, oh, I thought you were man,’ said the recruiter on the other line. You see, my name is quite masculine, which some may feel is misleading, but I do not apologise for that. The recruiter continued, ‘we received your application. Are you single or married?’ I answered, ‘I am married.’ The recruiter responded, ‘I’m sorry, but we cannot give you the job.’ No other explanation. I was denied the job by reason of being female and married. Therefore, in their opinion, I could not be a good lawyer.

I received the next blow from a regional manager of one of the top banks in Nigeria. Here, I did have connections. The manager and my uncle were friends. He mentioned that they had a vacancy for a legal / loan recovery officer. My uncle told him he knew a young and intelligent lawyer who fitted that profile. He asked that I send him my CV. Not bad, I thought—I could still go to court. The manager later called my uncle after and said I could not get the job, stating: ‘a married woman could not do that kind of job.’

The importance of sharing narratives

Thus when, on 7 May 2018, the book International Courts and the African Woman Judge: Unveiled Narratives was launched at the International Institute of Social Studies (ISS) in The Hague, the stories of the powerful women resounded with me, and resided with me. I had dreamed of a life in the courts, but my reality was different. It is so important for those who did make it to share their journeys through such books. And it is equally important those who didn’t make it to do the same.

The book launch was attended by numerous dignitaries from the International Courts and other organisations, was sponsored by the African Foundation for International Law, the ISS, and the Institute for African Women in Law. Edited by Dr. Josephine Jarpa Dawuni and Akua Kuenyehia, this book narrates the lives of seven female African judges who, through hard work and determination, now sit as judges of International Tribunals. Drawing on legal theories, feminist legal theories, post-colonial feminism and feminist institutionalism, it provides an intersectional analysis of how gender, geography, class, politics of the judiciary and professional capital contributed to shaping the lives of these women. Dawuni, who attended the launch, explained how the book celebrates the lives and laudable achievements of great African women judges.

The launch was followed by a panel discussion, beginning with Judge Julia Sebutinde of the International Court of Justice. She remarked on a number of questions that people ask her. Questions such as: ‘what you regard as the most important achievement of your life?’ This, she said, is a “curious question”, insinuating that women who did well in their careers had to sacrifice their family life to get to the top or that connections secured their jobs.

Listening to Dawuni’s and Sebutinde’s words, I knew I was in the right place! Daniela Kravetz talked about the Gqual campaign and their strategies to promote gender parity in international tribunals and bodies. When Judge Liesbeth Lijnzaad, the third and final panellist of the International Tribunal on the Law of the Sea, later referred to the books on the shelves of her library, there were four books on how to succeed in the legal career—and none was written about women. All were about men who had succeeded in the legal field.

The book is thus also an important contribution to scholarship. The personal narratives of successful women in the legal sector have not been systematically written about. Women often find it very difficult getting to the top of their careers and if they do so, many in society immediately draw a number of presumptions. For example: they ‘had connections’; or ‘it was just by a stroke of luck’; or ‘they are not doing well as family women.’

We will see each other at the top!

I am glad that I attended this event. The words of these women continue to resonate in my head. As Lijnzaad offered me a bitterbal and smiled at me at the reception, I asked her, ‘how can I make it to the top?’ She answered, ‘become an expert in your field, work hard, and you will be able to play with boys on the same field. You will shine.’

I agree with her, but thought about how, in addition, some structural and cultural factors work against some women especially in less developed societies. These factors can be challenged through legal recourse, and through continuous and consistent exhibition of the works and achievements of successful women in all fields. We can also create movements to pressurise the government to create/implement laws against discrimination of married women in this and other professions.

Women should not be discouraged. These women judges have made it to the top, and there are other women who are extremely successful in their careers, too. We need to read about them more often. Every young girl or woman can make it if they put their mind to it. We will work hard, and we will see each other at the top!

An ebook has been made available to students of Erasmus University

About the author:

Ubongabasi Obot is a practising lawyer from Nigeria who is currently on leave to complete her MA in Development Studies at the ISS.