THE INVISIBLE UNIFORM: WHY SOUTHEAST YOUTHS SHUN MILITARY SERVICE IN NIGERIA
By Daniel Okonkwo
> "If there is to be reconciliation, first there must be truth. Empathy is a necessary step for truth and reconciliation."
The question, “Why don’t Southeast youths join the military?” is more than rhetorical — it carries the weight of history, a deep scar left by past events, and an indelible mark on Nigeria’s consciousness.
For someone like me, born after Nigeria became a unified nation, the marginalization of the Igbo people remains both perplexing and painful. I have never witnessed an Igbo person entrusted with the nation's security leadership — until former President Olusegun Obasanjo's administration — and that absence is telling.
Even the startling revelations by former military president Ibrahim Badamasi Babangida (IBB) about the Civil War have done little to change the dynamics. When national sacrifice is demanded, the Igbos suddenly become part of Nigeria. Yet, when it is time to enjoy the fruits of the nation, the divisions become glaring — and Igbo voices are drowned in the politics of exclusion.
After the Biafran Civil War, the Igbo people faced profound challenges. They were systemically excluded from the military, subjected to economic and political marginalization, and left to grapple with the psychological trauma of war and betrayal. Even those born after the war are still paying for a conflict they did not witness.
These wounds have not healed. Instead, they have fueled ongoing tensions and a pervasive sense of injustice — contributing to the reluctance of Igbo youths to enlist in the military or other law enforcement agencies.
This is not speculation; it is a lived experience. Numerous Igbo youths have historically been denied the opportunity to serve their country — not only in the military but also in the police and other security services. The rejection has not always been explicitly stated, but its effects are unmistakable.
This systemic denial has propelled the rise of alternative self-reliance systems like the Igba-Boi apprenticeship model — evidence of the Igbo spirit of adaptability and entrepreneurship. Over the past fifty years, this model has yielded tremendous socio-economic benefits. It’s like hunting without arms.
The lingering effects of post-war marginalization still echo today. The military’s concerns confirm it. Brigadier-General Chima Ekeator, leader of the 2025 Army Recruitment Enlightenment Team and himself a Southeast native, recently expressed concern about the region’s poor enlistment rates.
At a town hall meeting with local government chairpersons and traditional rulers, he revealed a startling contrast: while Kaduna State recorded over 3,000 applications in the ongoing 2025 recruitment, Enugu State struggled to hit 100 — despite being allocated 200 slots.
> “This has also become a recurring decimal in other states in the South-East,” Ekeator lamented.
Such statistics are not anomalies; they are symptoms of a deeper malaise. Since the end of the war, Nigerian leaders have largely excluded Igbo people from positions of power and influence. Many who fought in the Biafran army were never reintegrated. The so-called policy of “no victor, no vanquished” became a smokescreen — an attempt to paper over a civil conflict without addressing its root causes or recognizing the distinct political and cultural identity of the Igbo people.
Were the economic and political structures designed to limit Igbo advancement? Access to key sectors was denied. Political influence was deliberately curtailed. This systematic marginalization has persisted for over five decades — a period during which Nigeria has mostly been governed by northern leaders, except for President Obasanjo’s tenures.
It is an undisputed fact that the North has dominated Nigeria’s leadership and consistently enjoyed support from other regions — both during military regimes and under democratic rule.
Yet, despite their toughness, the Igbo have been told in both subtle and overt ways that their contributions do not matter. That they are good enough to pay the price, but not to enjoy the rewards. That they may die for the flag, but never lead those who carry it.
This is why Southeast youths do not flock to military recruitment centers. It is not because they are unpatriotic — far from it. It is because they are aware of a history that tells them their service may never be recognized, their loyalty may never be rewarded, and their sacrifices may forever be forgotten.
Decades ago, the Igbo were begging to join the military without being enlisted — and that wasn't too long ago.
If Nigeria is truly one nation, then we must act like one. Reconciliation cannot remain a word used in speeches; it must become a policy, a practice, and a promise. Only then can we begin to rebuild the trust that was shattered decades ago. Only then can Southeast youths see the military not as an institution of exclusion, but as one of unity and opportunity.
Until that day comes, the uniform might remain invisible in the Southeast — not for lack of bravery, but for lack of justice.
We want to believe that we are one Nigeria. Reconciliation often explores themes of forgiveness, healing, and restoring broken relationships. Some highlight the importance of truth and justice in the reconciliation process, while others emphasize the journey of healing and growth.
Daniel Okonkwo is a Human Rights Advocate and the founder of Profiles International. He writes on justice, policy, and national cohesion.
THE INVISIBLE UNIFORM: WHY SOUTHEAST YOUTHS SHUN MILITARY SERVICE IN NIGERIA
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