Oppression does not pacify, it inflames. Children who grow up amid rubble and funerals do not forget. They inherit grief, and with it, rage. What future can be built upon such soil? What peace can be negotiated with those whose humanity has been discarded?
Not long ago, Nigerians awoke to the harrowing news of a brutal massacre in Uromi, Edo State, where sixteen able-bodied men, reportedly hunters of northern Nigerian origin, were violently killed. Preliminary reports suggest that their ethnic identity as Hausa-Fulani may have played a decisive role in their tragic fate. It appears the attackers, driven more by emotion than reason, allowed the victims’ cultural and linguistic affinity with the criminal elements terrorizing the region to distort their moral judgment. In their misguided pursuit of justice, they tragically discarded the foundational principle that every individual is presumed innocent until proven guilty.
The atrocity was met with widespread condemnation and a genuine outpouring of grief that transcended Nigeria’s ethnic and religious divides. Among those who spoke out was my friend, Professor Farooq Kperogi, who penned a poignant piece on the incident. His post sparked a flurry of responses on social media, and it was within one of those comment threads that I came across a particularly troubling reaction that inspired this reflection.
A Facebook user operating under the name “Arewa News,” with a following exceeding twenty thousand, decried the killings, rightly so, but then pivoted, bizarrely, to blaming “Igbo settlers in Uromi” for the violence, whatever that may mean. Let’s be clear: this atrocity did not occur in Enugu, Onitsha, or Aba. Yet somehow, the Igbo, convenient and perennial scapegoats in Nigeria’s fraught national discourse, were once again invoked as the root of the problem, supposedly deserving of retribution. As grotesque, dangerous, and bewildering as this deflection is, it nevertheless reflects what has become Nigeria’s recurring “Igbo problem.”
In his characteristically no-nonsense manner, Prof. Kperogi promptly deleted the comment and issued a stern warning against Igbophobia and all forms of ethnic bigotry. Still, the concern remains: in a climate as volatile as ours, even indirect incitement can have catastrophic consequences. It doesn’t take much for a mob, already steeped in historical grievances and inflamed by ethnic rhetoric, to erupt in violence. One shudders to imagine a scenario where extremists, emboldened by that post, launch reprisal attacks: burning shops, looting property, or even taking innocent Igbo lives in cities like Kano or Kaduna, all in the name of a fabricated grievance.
In the pre-dawn hours of Tuesday, March 18, as Israeli mediators were engaged in delicate ceasefire negotiations with Hamas, the skies over Gaza once again erupted in violence. In a move that blatantly undermined the spirit of diplomacy, Israel launched a ferocious wave of strikes from warplanes and naval vessels, shattering a fragile truce that had held since January 19. One Israeli official admitted that the deception was intentional and the offensive was designed to catch Hamas leadership off guard. But how can Palestinians be expected to trust that Israel is capable of negotiating in good faith in the future?
The initial phase of the ceasefire had lasted 42 days, during which Hamas signaled its willingness to proceed with the next step as outlined in the agreement. This second phase would have required Israel’s complete withdrawal from Gaza and a binding commitment to a permanent cessation of hostilities. In return, Hamas would release all remaining living hostages.
But Israel balked. Instead, it proposed a revision, hostage releases in exchange for Palestinian prisoners, without any obligation to end the war or retreat militarily. This impasse, however, tells only part of the story.
The true fulcrum of Israel’s shift lies in the machinations of its far-right coalition. Hardline elements have long decried the ceasefire as a betrayal, viewing any negotiation with Hamas not as pragmatism, but as capitulation. Their objective is unambiguous: the total erasure of Palestinian presence in Gaza and the reestablishment of Israeli settlements dismantled in 2005.
Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s political survival hinges precariously on this bloc. Minister Itamar Ben Gvir resigned in outrage over the ceasefire, while Bezalel Smotrich threatened to withdraw his party’s support unless hostilities resumed. The collapse of Netanyahu’s governing coalition loomed,making renewed warfare not merely a military decision, but a political imperative.
There was also the claim that Israel only agreed to a temporary cessation of hostilities due to dwindling military hardware and supplies, as it awaited resupply. Thanks to U.S. President Trump, who didn’t just come to their rescue but effectively handed them a blank check.
What ensued was catastrophic. Over 400 lives were extinguished in a single day, the deadliest in Gaza in over a year. Since the war’s inception on November 7, 2023, triggered by Hamas-led attacks that killed 1,200 Israelis and captured more than 200 hostages, Israel’s military campaign has taken nearly 49,000 Palestinian lives including rescue workers, the overwhelming majority of them women and children.
But beyond the harrowing statistics lies a deeper tragedy: these civilians were already captives of Hamas’s oppressive rule. Now, they suffer doubly—crushed by their rulers and bombarded by their occupiers. This is the dark and damning legacy of collective punishment: the morally bankrupt doctrine that punishes the many for the sins of the few.
This practice is not merely unethical, it is explicitly prohibited under international humanitarian law. The Fourth Geneva Convention is unequivocal: “No protected person may be punished for an offense he or she has not personally committed.” Yet, in pursuit of vengeance or the illusion of security, this principle is routinely abandoned, transforming innocent lives into expendable currency in a geopolitical game.
Israel claims its aim is the dismantling of Hamas. But the devastation it has wrought extends far beyond militant infrastructure. Residential neighborhoods have been flattened. Hospitals, schools, and refugee camps, sanctuaries under the laws of war, have been razed. Basic necessities, clean water, electricity, medical supplies have been deliberately severed. These are not strategic targets. These are the vital organs of human survival.
History reminds us that collective punishment has never brought peace, only devastation. Between May and October 1966, thousands of Igbos and other Easterners were massacred in Northern Nigeria. These killings were not random eruptions of violence but coordinated pogroms, carried out with military complicity. An estimated 10,000 to 30,000 perished, and over a million fled. The catalyst? A military coup falsely ascribed to an entire ethnic group. When the federal government failed to act, Colonel Odumegwu Ojukwu declared the independence of Biafra, a desperate assertion of dignity against systemic persecution.
Time and again, whether under emperors, autocrats, or democrats states have reached for collective punishment as a blunt instrument of power. It is a tool of fear, of control. But it is also inherently unjust, for it punishes the blameless, extinguishes hope, and corrodes the moral fabric of society.
Strategically, it is disastrously short-sighted. Oppression does not pacify, it inflames. Children who grow up amid rubble and funerals do not forget. They inherit grief, and with it, rage. What future can be built upon such soil? What peace can be negotiated with those whose humanity has been discarded?
Some defenders of this tactic argue that Hamas embeds itself among civilians, leaving Israel no choice but to strike indiscriminately. But this rationale abdicates any moral responsibility. If the inability to distinguish between combatants and non-combatants becomes a license for wholesale slaughter, then the very foundation of humanitarian law collapses.
And the damage is not confined to bodies. It seeps into the psyche. In Gaza, a generation is coming of age amid trauma, deprivation, and profound disillusionment. They are denied not just physical safety, but the basic recognition of their innocence and humanity. What does this tell the world about the value of Palestinian lives?
To oppose collective punishment is not to deny a nation’s right to self-defense, it is to demand that defense be bound by ethics, guided by law, and constrained by a reverence for human life. It is a call to conscience to remember that behind every casualty count lies a child, a mother, a future forever lost.
Peace cannot be born from a graveyard. It must rise from justice, from truth, and from a shared commitment to human dignity. As Gaza smolders under the weight of bombs and broken promises, the world must answer a searing question: Will we continue to tolerate a world where the innocent perish for the crimes of the guilty or will we finally summon the moral courage to say: no more?
Osmund Agbo is a medical doctor and author. His works include, Black Grit, White Knuckles: The Philosophy of Black Renaissance and a fiction work titled The Velvet Court: Courtesan Chronicles. His latest works, Pray, Let the Shaman Die and Ma’am, I Do Not Come to You for Love, have just been released.
