LESSONS LEARNED: APPLYING BEST PRACTICES TO BOKO HARAM
If someone says there is a military solution only to Boko Haram, they are being economical with the truth.
Governor Kashim Shettima, on the need for robust post-conflict social programming in Borno State1
As Nigeria and other affected countries grapple with the Boko Haram insurgency, there is an opportunity to apply the lessons learned from other conflicts in Africa and around the world to advance women’s position within society. This chapter focuses on the application of these principles in Nigeria, although many of the lessons are applicable throughout the region. Although the post-conflict era is not a tabula rasa in which history, cultural practices and political economies are erased, reforms made in this period can provide the foundation for more stable, less oppressive societies. Disarmament, demobilisation and reintegration (DDR) programmes, legislative reform and transitional justice programmes provide valuable venues for these reforms to be implemented.
Reconciliatory road maps: considering what works for post-conflict demobilisation and reintegration
At its core, DDR is a process of socialisation and rehabilitation; it is ‘not simply about coming home, but about defining new guiding social values and establishing corresponding relationships and institutions’.2 Although DDR programmes often focus on how to entice fighters to participate in these programmes, they must also consider how these former fighters will be received by their communities. As such, these programmes need to ‘integrate ex-combatants by dispelling gender stereotypes, building respect for all, and breaking destructive cycles’.3
DDR is a difficult process, but there are successful case studies to draw from and a set of internationally recognised best practices. The 2006 UN report Women, Gender and DDR noted that, when ‘those who do not fit the category of a “male, able-bodied combatant” are overlooked’, not only are programmes less efficient, they also ‘run the risk of reinforcing existing gender inequalities in local communities and making economic hardship worse for women and girls in armed groups and forces, some of whom may have unresolved trauma and reduced physical capacity as a result of violence experienced during the conflict’.4
Gendering demobilisation and reintegration
Across regions and countries, governments have also struggled to reintegrate female combatants and captives. A World Bank report by Nathalie de Watteville, Addressing Gender Issues in Demobilization and Reintegration Programs, concluded that ‘despite their varied roles, female ex-combatants seem to share one unfortunate characteristic: limited access to benefits when peace and demobilization come. This is also true for girls abducted for sexual services and the families of ex-combatants in the receiving community.’5 A particularly difficult issue involves how to resettle insurgent ‘families’ in the post-conflict era. While some women may choose to stay with their insurgent husbands following a ceasefire, other girls (particularly young abductees who were forced into marriage) may not want to be resettled with their partner.6 Verifying abduction, conscription and voluntary recruitment is difficult for both male and female insurgents, and becomes all the more complicated when attempting to provide services to the children of insurgents (which are typically channelled through the mothers) and to persuade women to engage in the reintegration process (which often centre on the traditional household breadwinner). Boko Haram’s mixture of enticement and abduction into the sect will make it extremely difficult to design and implement DDR programmes.
Demobilisation programmes frequently provide livelihood assistance and aid as a benefit for those who disarm (often by physically presenting a weapon), which generally end up benefiting men. Women are frequently excluded from these programmes because they lack weapons to exchange for aid. In addition, such demobilisation programmes overlook the centrality of women’s reproductive labour to insurgencies and thus fail to demobilise a significant contingent of insurgents. In instances where rehabilitative programmes are targeted at the household level, there is a healthy debate over how to provide benefits to insurgent families – there are advantages and hurdles to targeting both male and female combatants, with no clear-cut conclusion about which approach is the most useful. Clearly, identifying the factors that encouraged women to support insurgencies is critical to preventing a relapse into conflict; however, there is a reticence to engage critically with the multiple, often obscure, ways in which women contribute to insurrection.
Advancing women’s status without provoking a backlash is difficult – a number of reports find that improving women’s status within the home (or when men are displaced from their ‘breadwinner status’) can lead to increased domestic violence and household tension.7 The UN has released guidelines for incorporating both women and the broader community into DDR programming in a meaningful way, emphasising not only that female combatants should be given gender-specific opportunities, but also that the response of the community (which includes men and women of different social classes and status) to such programmes should be assessed.8 In addition to the UN’s guidelines, Nigeria can reflect on individual countries’ efforts to reintegrate fighters and promote social cohesion in the aftermath of conflict.
Lessons learned for demobilisation and reconciliation: Niger Delta and the FARC
There are a number of examples and cautionary tales from around the world that Nigeria can draw from as it designs its DDR programme. In particular, Nigeria’s own experience with amnesty approaches in the Niger Delta and the emerging demobilisation programme in Colombia provide particularly helpful examples, demonstrating the importance of considering the broader social context in which DDR occurs.
The Delta amnesty programme was initiated in 2009 by then-President Yar’Adua. The programme’s mandate was extremely limited, focusing mainly on demobilising combatants through a weapons exchange. The programme eventually extended into jobs training and livelihood development, and it was successful in its very narrow objective of putting an end to the bloody and economically disruptive insurgency. By 2016, however, new militant groups had emerged, bombing oil pipelines and criticising the government for not improving the livelihood opportunities for communities in the Delta and not protecting the environment from the devastating effects of drilling and spills.9
The programme also fell short in terms of addressing the needs of women and girls. To be included in the programme, people had to present a weapon to the government as proof of participation in the insurgency. Women were thus frequently excluded from the amnesty programme because their roles within the groups were largely unarmed positions.10 More than 20,000 people registered for the amnesty programme, but only 133 of them were women.11 Although women certainly did not constitute the majority of the Niger Delta militants, their contributions definitely amounted to more than 1 per cent of the effort.
There are undoubtedly a number of reasons why the Niger Delta amnesty programme did not produce a durable peace (including underdeveloped and impractical job training and flawed negotiation targets), but the systemic exclusion of women from the negotiating table and their overwhelming omission from the benefit programmes are certainly among them. The Delta militias, like so many other political and social phenomena, require the support (tacit or overt) of women – the resumption of violence in the Delta probably would have been more difficult if women were stridently opposed to it. Further, the marginalisation of women in the Delta is linked to the continued underdevelopment of the region. Given that the process of demobilising combatants in the north-east will also require de-radicalising them (a problem that the Niger Delta amnesty programme did not have to contend with), it is all the more important that women be brought into the fold – not just as mothers, sisters, daughters and wives, but also as fighters and ideologically committed members.
One possible model for a more effective incorporation of women into the DDR programme may exist in the innovative approach taken by the Colombian government in its fight against the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC). This effort, although nascent and undermined by the failure of a popular referendum on an agreement that would have brought about an end to the conflict between FARC and the government, has been lauded as a potential model for other countries. One of the most famous – and effective – aspects of this campaign was Operation Christmas. The campaign set up motion-sensor Christmas trees in the bush, so that when rebels passed by, the trees lit up with the message: ‘If Christmas can come to the jungle, you too can come home. Demobilise. At Christmas, everything is possible.’ Following this campaign, more than 300 fighters defected, an increase of more than 30 per cent from the previous year.12 The campaign also relied on the appeals of mothers telling their children to come home.
Important to the potential success of the Colombian DDR is the inclusion of women in the process. Not only are women critical to demobilising insurgents, they are also consultants on the construction of the programme. Stella Duque, the executive director of Taller de Vida, notes that female peace activists set the stage for the Colombian peace process to advance, organising in their communities and anticipating the looming questions of how to disarm and reintegrate the combatants. She observes that women’s ‘years of aiding and protecting communities on the frontlines of war gave them a distinct vantage point’, so that, even more than the representatives of the government and the rebel groups, ‘these women could speak of the needs and demands of their communities’.13 The inclusion of women in the negotiations between FARC and the government is a hard-fought victory for Colombian women. The proposed DDR programme recognises that women have played a variety of roles in the FARC, including as fighters. Although only time will tell whether the peace deal will eventually be accepted and how durable the Colombian peace will be, the process has already been ground-breaking and innovative, recognising the unique contributions of women to both conflict and peacebuilding.14
Drawing from the lessons learned from the Niger Delta amnesty programme and the ongoing process of demobilisation in Colombia, the DDR approach for northern Nigeria should emphasise the humanity of combatants, strive to include women as often as possible, and earnestly endeavour to differentiate between the motivations of participants. Further, the DDR programme must account for the attitudes of the population receiving these former fighters. As the referendum in Columbia illustrates, the resentment that civilian populations harbour can be a significant impediment to DDR programmes. Although the lack of incorporation of women and girls in the Niger Delta amnesty programme is not the only reason for its ineffectiveness, it is certainly a contributing factor. DDR programming in the north-east should acknowledge the importance of women in the insurgency and design initiatives that recognise the forms of support that women provided to the insurgents. Participation in the DDR programme should not depend on a woman’s relationship to a man, nor on her ability to present proof that she was a supporter in the form of a weapon.
What works for post-conflict female political empowerment
Scholar Aili Mari Tripp powerfully observes that ‘after the end of major conflicts from Uganda to Namibia, South Africa, Mozambique, Rwanda, Burundi, and Liberia women’s organizations vigorously pressed for increased representation, often in the form of quotas’, with great success.15 At the time of writing, 25 of the 48 sub-Saharan African countries have some form of gender quotas, a significant shift since 1995, when only six countries had such legislation.16 While international norms, such as the 1995 UN Conference on Women in Beijing, helped in raising awareness about women’s issues, it is clear that domestic features, such as activist constituencies and conflicts, were more directly responsible for egalitarian legislative reform after armed struggle. In fact, post-conflict countries in Africa have twice as many women in their legislatures than those countries on the continent without conflict. The demand for increased political power was often codified in peace agreements and legislative initiatives. A review of such agreements found that ‘women’s rights language was included in 78 percent of the peace agreements in Africa between 2000 and 2011 – more than any other region of the world’.17 This was possible, according to Tripp, because ‘women demanded seats at the peace talks, on electoral commissions, on constitutional commissions that drafted new constitutions, and in interim and newly formed governments’.18
Much of this space to advocate for women’s rights came from the social disruptions associated with conflict. Prior to conflict, women’s interests and groups were often marginalised or nascent. Tripp’s work found that, during conflicts, women are pushed into traditionally masculine roles, and their new positions as breadwinners, fighters and (eventually) peace-makers can serve as a catalyst for their broader empowerment in post-conflict societies. These societies enter into a virtuous cycle, in which women’s empowerment is normalised (both within society generally and within women’s self-conceptions) and social gains are institutionalised and built upon. Stephanie Burchard and Tiffany Barnes found evidence of female political representation catalysing attitudinal change; their research observed that increasing the number of women in parliament can increase women’s political engagement across society.19 These gains are not indefinite, nor are they linear. Susan Faludi has written powerfully about the ‘backlash’ against women’s empowerment in the United States, in which women’s progress has been met with strong social and political resistance – a phenomenon that has been observed in a number of countries.20 Institutionalising women’s empowerment through codification and legislation is critical to reducing the amount by which backlash can reverse the gains made by women.
The post-conflict environment appears to be especially receptive to political reform that incorporates women. Although legislative change is not necessarily accompanied by enforcement or changes in practice, the gap in the adoption of legislative pro-women reforms between post-conflict and non-post-conflict countries is suggestive. Consider that 75 per cent of post-conflict countries in the region have adopted legislation prohibiting violence against women, compared with only 50 per cent of countries that have not gone through conflict. Further, a review by Erik Melander found that female representation in the legislative branch leads to fewer rights abuses by the state’s security forces; he concludes that ‘these results hold when controlling for the most important factors known or suspected to influence human rights behavior: democracy, leftist regime, military regime, British colonial experience, civil war, international war, wealth, population, ethnic heterogeneity, and regime transition and collapse’, suggesting that women’s presence in the legislature is not merely cosmetic but has a tangible impact on the security and stability of states.21
Although ‘change between gender regimes can be uneven’, it seems that inroads in the political sphere can have ripple effects in other gender regimes.22 It is worth observing that increasing the number of women in political office does not necessarily translate to female-friendly policies. With regard to the situation in South Africa, Tina Sideris notes that: ‘Although increasing numbers of women have taken up positions in the political decision-making structures, and although the constitution protects the rights of women, it has nevertheless been difficult to transform those relations of power that sustain violence against women.’23 Similarly, although Rwanda has impressive levels of women in its parliament, the legislative branch itself exercises little power, making it difficult for women to enact change.
This is not to say that conflict itself is a transformative force that advances women’s rights. Rather, the shifts in social mores interact with pre-existing political institutions during conflict, creating in some instances conditions conducive for mobilising and supporting women’s empowerment. Multi-party democracies exhibit more ‘political space’ for women’s advocacy than autocracies – explaining why autocratic Angola, despite a brutal civil war, has not seen a rapid advancement in women’s rights.24
Gender quotas, Tripp provocatively argues, are an effective way of increasing women’s political representation and shifting social norms. Legislation for quotas helps to shift the gender regime in the political sphere. Nigeria currently has no quota system in place at the legislative or party level; however, post-conflict legislative reforms to encourage women’s participation at the local, state and national levels of the political system would benefit the country generally, and facilitate the stabilisation and redevelopment of the north-east.
Some types of quota have been seen to be more effective than others; if Nigeria decides to institute a gender quota system, it must decide which approach is best suited to the Nigerian political system. Tripp identifies three types of gender quota systems, the first two of which have been instituted frequently in sub-Saharan Africa:
1) Reserved seats, mandated by constitutions or legislation or both, set aside seats for which only women can compete, guaranteeing from the outset that a predetermined percentage of seats would be held by women. 2) Voluntary quotas adopted by parties, regardless of whether there is a legal mandate. 3) Compulsory quotas, which legally require all parties to include a certain percentage of women on their candidate lists.25
Some argue that, even in the case of gender quotas, women’s empowerment is not compatible with Islam. This suggestion has implications for north-east Nigeria, as the majority of the population is Muslim. However, Tripp’s work with Alice Kang found that ‘many of the countries that have adopted quotas in Africa have significant Muslim populations, including Tanzania, Mauritania, Senegal, Eritrea, Sudan, Niger, and most recently Somalia. This trend has now continued in all the countries in the Maghreb, including Libya, Algeria, Tunisia, Mauritania and Morocco.’26 More important than the religion of the country is the political system in place – proportional representation systems are more conducive to women’s inclusion than majoritarian systems, and countries with term limits are also generally more inclusive of women.27 Thus, arguments against women’s political inclusion in Nigeria based on the large Muslim population are unfounded.
Unfortunately, the implementation of these changes requires that women be empowered and well-organised enough to advocate for themselves. This presents an obstacle to gender-sensitive programming and women’s political integration. Scholar Miki Caul found that political parties are more likely to adopt gender quotas when women are already in positions of power within the party.28 In many contexts, such as north-east Nigeria, this can create a negative feedback loop that is difficult to disrupt: women’s rights are not a priority because there are few groups ‘at the table’ advocating for them, which means that women are marginalised all the more. Although international support can be of some use, Tripp’s work found that international norms supporting women’s empowerment are insufficient to ensure post-conflict pro-women policies. There must be a significant domestic constituency to make demands of their politicians. She observes that ‘it was rarely, if ever, donor influences alone that made a difference. It was a combination of their efforts together with local women’s rights activists that were critical in bringing about change.’29
In Nigeria, there are cultural and structural hurdles to women’s political participation. Although women have been pushed into traditionally masculine roles, most notably acting as heads of households, as a result of the Boko Haram conflict, it is unclear whether the backlash against these changes will wash away the opportunity for social change. Additionally, the female franchise is still relatively new in northern Nigeria – recall that only in 1976 were women in the region given the right to vote.30 Lawyer and gender rights activist Oby Nwanko notes that, despite having the right to participate in politics, women are ‘discouraged from seeking political offices by discriminatory attitudes and practices, family and child care responsibilities, and the high cost of seeking and holding public office, socialization and negative stereotype, reinforcing the tendency for political decision making to remain the domain of men’.31
The problems of northern Nigeria’s nascent civil society and lack of female political representation are not insurmountable. In Sierra Leone, Sudan and South Sudan, international influence over ceasefire and peace agreements carved out spaces for women’s groups, despite the fact that ‘there was a weak history of women’s activism prior to the conflict’.32 Tripp observed in an interview that the drawing down of a conflict was often an opportunity for women’s movements to emerge and advocate for more egalitarian and peaceful societies. Uganda, which has shown a remarkable increase in women’s status, saw the emergence of women’s activism only following conflict.33
However, some existing legal barriers make it difficult for Nigeria to advance women’s political participation. Structurally, the Nigerian legislature is elected through a majoritarian, ‘first past the post’ system that has been found to be resistant to female inclusion.34 During the most recent general election, in 2015, women’s performance in the Nigerian political system declined. According to data collected by the national electoral commission, women’s representation in both the House of Representatives and the Senate in the Fourth Republic has been on the decline since the 2007 peak of 7.2 per cent and 8.3 per cent respectively.35 In the 2015 elections, only 87 women ran for the offices of Governor and Deputy out of the 380 seats available in those positions.36 Even in a regional context, this level of representation is dismal. In 2016, roughly 10 per cent of Ghana’s parliament was female and, in Niger, just under 15 per cent of parliamentarians were female.37
Furthermore, Nigerian political parties are still largely ‘boys’ clubs’. The prominence of ‘godfatherism’ (described as ‘the practice of having rich male political sponsors who control political party nominations’)38 in the Nigerian political system disadvantages women by subverting meritocracy.39 The parties that have featured female inclusion, such as the KOWA party, which fielded the only female presidential candidate in the 2015 election, are typically new and lack influence in the political system. KOWA’s candidate received fewer than 0.1 per cent of the votes cast.40 These characteristics of the Nigerian electoral and political system limit women’s ability to stand for office, with some proposing gender quotas as a solution to this system. A paper published by the country’s electoral commission observed that ‘legislation on quota may guarantee the initial boost that women need to break the long-time barriers against their political empowerment’, and ultimately advocated for a temporary quota system to be paired with affirmative action and inclusive legislation to advance women’s status.41 The identification of sympathetic legislators and the prioritisation of women’s political inclusion by major political parties are crucial steps for Nigerian women to take in the post-conflict era.
In addition to the obstacles to female political inclusion presented by the structural factors of the Nigerian electoral system, the geographically limited scope of the conflict may prevent nationwide reform. Nigeria is the largest country in sub-Saharan Africa, by population and economic influence. Although Boko Haram has devastated the country’s north-east, those in the south have been largely unaffected by the crisis.
These barriers are formidable, but, if they are recognised in a timely fashion, the international community can intervene in the process of recovering from Boko Haram in a gender-progressive fashion. UN agencies and bilateral partnerships can provide support for women’s civil society groups, press for women’s inclusion in peace deals, advocate for the incorporation of egalitarian terms within peace agreements, and facilitate the expansion of these norms and legislative advances throughout the country. Although female participation in politics in the north is rare, figures such as Hajia Sawaba, an active member of various political parties in the north from pre-independence through to her death in 2001, can be used to inspire confidence in northern women’s ability to advance their interests through the party system. Using Hajia and other strong female figures in the history of the region as a way of normalising female empowerment may be a way of circumventing culturally justified objections to women’s empowerment.
Using transitional justice and legal reform to address sexual assault and land tenure
Transitional justice is the process through which ‘countries emerging from periods of conflict and repression address large scale or systemic human rights violations so numerous and so serious that the normal justice system will not be able to provide an adequate response’.42 It will be critical to resolve two particular issues in post-conflict legal reform and transitional justice, largely because of their effects on social norms and development in post-conflict Nigeria: sexual violence and land rights. The scope and scale of the abuses that have been committed during the course of this insurgency demand redress in the post-conflict era. Transitional justice, in all its forms, is an increasingly popular way to address instances of mass violence. It is particularly useful in instances where the formal legal system is overburdened, as is the case in Nigeria. As with all other post-conflict interventions and programming, transitional justice provides a valuable opportunity to reshape social mores. The natural desire to revert to ‘how things were before’ is tempting, but is likely to replicate the marginalisation and oppression that gave rise to conflict in the first place. Gender-sensitive transitional justice provides an opportunity to reconcile communities to the atrocities they perpetrated, suffered and witnessed, while also laying the groundwork for a more egalitarian and peaceful society. Although it is a daunting task, addressing the scope and scale of sexual violence in Nigeria is not impossible; initiatives undertaken in the aftermath of conflict throughout sub-Saharan Africa offer models worthy of consideration.
Addressing gender-based violence
Given the ubiquity of gender-based violence in the north-east, both during the Boko Haram crisis and predating it, the lessons learned from legal reform and transitional justice programming in the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC) may be applicable. The DRC, particularly in the east, has been (controversially) dubbed the ‘rape capital of the world’ because of the prevalence of sexual violence during the region’s multi-decade conflict.43 The transitional justice programme in the country, unfortunately, has not brought about the end of conflict. However, it has resulted in convictions in sexual violence cases and helped to reduce the stigma associated with sexual abuse. Valuable lessons learned and cautionary tales can be gleaned for other countries from the DRC’s experience. Despite different colonial traditions and cultural backgrounds, both the DRC and northern Nigeria have suffered from armed groups that engage in sexual violence; the way in which the DRC altered its legislative framework to address these violations may guide Nigeria as it examines its own legal system and considers how to address sexual and gender-based violence.
Like the Nigerian system, ‘the Congolese legal system is severely under-resourced and underfunded’, in addition to being ‘plagued by both petty corruption and political manipulation on a grand scale’.44 Despite these limitations, a coalition of domestic and international advocates has been able to lobby for the adoption and application of laws against sexual abuse. For example, in 2006, the country amended its penal code to criminalise ‘insertion of an object into a woman’s vagina, sexual mutilation, and sexual slavery’ and defined ‘any sexual relation with a minor as statutory rape’.45 The government even draws a distinction between rape and systemic rape in its legal code.46
According to a review by Milli Lake, the conviction of officers in rebel groups and the national army can be traced to the efforts of this coalition. She notes that ‘many NGOs have pioneered programs to ensure that hard copies of relevant DRC laws are distributed among lawyers and magistrates’, to raise awareness about the existence, scope and language of pertinent legislation.47 This coalition has been so successful that in 2012 an estimated 70 per cent of inmates in Goma’s main prison ‘were alleged SGBV [sexual and gender-based violence] perpetrators, and that SGBV offenses formed the bulk of offenses tried by the courts’.48 Clearly, partnerships between international advocates and domestic groups can result in legislative reforms and successful education campaigns that reduce impunity for wartime crimes. Given the number of forced marriages and assaults in camps during the Boko Haram crisis, this sort of distinction and reform could be helpful in punishing those who have sexually assaulted women.
Within the Nigerian context, the legislative framework already exists to engage in prosecutorial transitional justice focused on gender-based violence, though how readily it will be enforced is questionable. The country signed and ratified the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination against Women (CEDAW) in 1985; in 2015, the Nigerian Senate passed a bill approving life sentences for those convicted of rape or statutory rape of a child under 11 years old.49 The legislative commitment also extends to the sub-national level. Section 282 of the penal code in northern Nigeria prohibits rape in the following language:
A man is said to commit rape who … has sexual intercourse with a woman in any of the following circumstances:- (a) against her will; (b) without her consent; (c) with her consent, when her consent has been obtained by putting her in fear of death or of hurt; (d) with her consent, when the man knows that he is not her husband and that her consent is given because she believes that he is the man to whom she is or believes herself to be lawfully married; (e) with or without her consent when she is under fourteen years of age or of unsound mind.
What remains to be done is to educate women about their legal rights, endow them with the resources to make claims, and perhaps establish special forums to cope with the widespread sexual violence associated with the Boko Haram crisis. Important throughout this process is ensuring that the incentives for bringing a claim are not misaligned and that incidences of sexual violence unrelated to Boko Haram are not overlooked.
Experiences in Zambia suggest that gender sensitisation programmes could be useful for shifting social norms without straining the legal system. Certainly, such programming (which includes ‘workshops for parliamentarians on gender-based violence, training for community leaders in low-income areas, peer education in schools, radio discussion programmes, as well as school lessons on gender equality’) would be a valuable complement to prosecutions.50 In Zambia, the civics curriculum in secondary schools includes discussions of the ‘social construction of gender roles and responsibilities, as well as the laws and customs that discriminate against women’.51 An alternative model also emerges from Uganda’s adoption of ‘gender-responsive reparations’ in 2014 for those impacted by the LRA’s violence in the north.52 While this model comes with a number of problems and the potential for manipulation, reparations could be a way not only of recognising the effects of the violence, but also of helping kickstart economic recovery.
As Milli Lake concluded in her review of the interaction between the International Criminal Court and domestic legal institutions in the DRC, ‘although good laws may be passed, if the political will or institutional foundations to support that legislation are lacking, then laws will, at best, go unused and, at worst, be manipulated for political ends’.53 Although Lake raises an important point, it is also worth observing that where there is legislation that ‘specifically addresses domestic violence’, mortality rates for both women and children under five are lower, suggesting that gender-sensitive legislation has ripple effects, improving women’s lives in at-times unexpected ways.54 Laws can be manipulated, but they can also have wide-reaching effects on social norms and behaviour. Further, inaction is action in its own right. The failure to pass any legislative reforms relating to sexual violence and assault would have serious implications. In post-war Sierra Leone, ‘a complicated constellation of rape laws in the statutory system ensures minimal prosecution of rape’; the laws governing the prosecution of rape still place more weight on the virginity of the girl and the ‘injury to family honor’ rather than on the violation against the woman as an individual.55 Laws, while imperfect and subject to manipulation, are a valuable step towards a more gender-equitable society.
Women’s access to land is particularly important because of the ‘direct relationship between accessing land resources, having secured land rights, achieving food security and overcoming poverty’.56 In conflict and post-conflict situations, women’s landlessness becomes an especially critical issue – a report prepared for the World Bank documented widespread landlessness among women in post-conflict Sierra Leone, Sudan and Libya, and even following the 2007–08 electoral violence in Kenya.57 This is not only an entrenching of discrimination against women, but also an issue for economic growth, since there are rarely enough men to return agricultural production to pre-conflict levels. Several cautionary tales emerge.58
In these contexts and others, one of the most common problems is that legislation ensures women’s access to land but not control over land. This shortcoming is manifest in Rwanda’s post-conflict legislative reform. As Marie E. Berry notes, ‘despite the world’s highest percentage of women in parliament, some of the strongest state-led efforts to promote women, and an entire government apparatus designed with gender equality in mind, profound impediments to women’s equality are deeply entrenched and appear unlikely to dissipate any time soon’.59 Berry continues, observing that, although ‘as a purely legal matter’, women have access to land and a number of legal rights and resources, ‘they can only fully access these rights if they are granted permission to do so by husbands, fathers, community members, and others, or if they possess the necessary tools or resources to do so on their own’.60 Circumventing women’s de facto marginalisation in contexts of de jure gender parity ‘requires women’s participation at policy formulation and at level of implementation on an equal footing with men in order to ensure [a] gender-equitable land tenure system’.61 It also requires socialisation and education initiatives so that women know their rights relating to land access and so that communities do not ostracise women for exercising those rights.62
The goal of post-conflict land tenure reform should be to overcome oppressive historical legacies that have prevented marginalised groups from reaping the benefits of control over land. Doing so, particularly in agrarian contexts, sets the stage for the sort of broad-based economic growth typically assumed to be a bulwark against violent instability.
The current land tenure regime in northern Nigeria is, in theory, conducive to egalitarian land access and ownership. Thus, the process of drafting and adopting more equitable secular laws is not necessarily the most pressing concern in the region. Ensuring that women know their rights, have access to forums to exercise them, and feel comfortable asserting their ownership rights is the larger challenge. Although relatively gender-neutral land laws exist in Nigeria, the formal land tenure regime is not well known across the north (and women are even less aware than men of their rights under the current legal system). Customary land tenure systems, which frequently disadvantage women, are likely to continue to dominate the region for the foreseeable future. Thus, the process of improving women’s access to land in the post-conflict atmosphere must engage traditional leaders. Some high-profile leaders, such as the Sultan of Sokoto and the Emir of Kano, have been public advocates for women’s empowerment.63 However, many of the lower-ranking traditional leaders, and the customary traditions they govern over, are less receptive to women’s rights. A rapid assessment of the gender politics of traditional leaders in Nigeria concluded that: ‘Religious and traditional structures in Nigeria (and in many other contexts) are male-dominated, and often actively discourage the involvement of women in decision-making.’64 Further, even the women who work in the same political space as traditional rulers ‘are mostly excluded from religious hierarchies and decision-making structures and processes’.65 These organisations, ideally, would become more than just advocates for social change, but also venues by allowing women to rise through their ranks.
The powerfully entrenched, largely male traditional systems and repressive gender norms in the region are compounded by the lack of dedicated women’s organisations. This means that the international community will likely have to play a more intentional role in the process of promoting women’s advocacy and empowerment than in other contexts. Groups such as Voices 4 Change, run by the UK government, are a testament to the international community’s willingness to engage with such issues; however, as discussed previously, the dearth of grassroots, domestic movements promoting women’s rights is a disadvantage. Women have expressed their political preferences through activism on the issue of sharia law in largely peaceful groups such as the ’Yan Izala, and through their contribution to destructive groups such as Boko Haram and its predecessors; it is important for social stability to cultivate forums for women to advocate on political issues more directly.
The issues of prosecuting sexual and gender-based violence and increasing women’s access to and control over land through transitional justice programmes demonstrate that gender-equitable legislation is a necessary but insufficient step towards empowering women in the aftermath of conflict. Even following the passage of such legislation, powerful coalitions of women (and their international and domestic partners) are necessary to ensure proper implementation and to help shift oppressive gender norms. One of the most critical – and historically, most feasible – means of facilitating both of these objectives is to increase women’s representation in the political system. Women’s marginalisation was a key factor in enabling Boko Haram to become such a destructive force; the post-conflict era must recognise that women’s security is integral to national security.