What does peace mean to a people who have buried too many sons?
In Anambra today, Governor Charles Soludo’s amnesty for six repentant gunmen has stirred both relief and rage. Some call it a path to healing; others, a dangerous gamble before the elections. But beneath the political theatre lies a deeper question — can peace survive without truth?
According to security data from SBM Intelligence, the South East recorded over 450 violent deaths between January 2023 and mid-2024, with dozens linked to separatist-linked violence and reprisal killings. Behind those numbers are faces — sons turned fugitives, mothers who sleep with one ear open, traders who no longer open shops after dusk. The figures may have reduced slightly this year, but the fear remains heavy in the air like harmattan dust that refuses to settle.
I recall one old woman in Orsumoghu telling journalists, “We no longer count the dead; we only count who is left.” Her words echo louder than any government press release. Amnesty may give ex-fighters new tools and new trades, but can it give victims closure? Can a peace built on silence last longer than the next election cycle?
Mike Arnold’s recent global fact-finding report on Nigeria didn’t mince words — “Denial sustains conflict; acknowledgment begins healing.” His team found that in many post-conflict regions, peace lasted only where truth commissions faced victims directly, not behind microphones. The South East cannot be an exception. We cannot sanitize the bloodstains of insecurity with press statements and photo ops.
Soludo’s move deserves commendation — it’s a bold step. But boldness without transparency is a ticking time bomb. The people have the right to know: Who are these “repentant” individuals? What crimes did they confess to? Where is the framework for reconciliation and restitution? Because real peace does not hide in shadows. It breathes in the open, where wounds are cleaned, not covered.
Every community in the South East has its story of loss. Yet, within those same communities lies the strength to rebuild. Imagine a public truth forum — a mother faces the boy who burned her shop, a priest mediates, the state documents, and together they choose to rebuild. That is not weakness; it is wisdom. That is not politics; it is healing.
So yes, the South East stands at a crossroads. One path leads to another cycle of violence wrapped in political rhetoric. The other — to genuine healing through truth, transparency, and justice.
Let every act of amnesty become an act of healing.
Let every policy become a promise to rebuild lives — not reputations.
Because peace is not declared in Awka or Enugu — it is built in the hearts of those who suffered most.
