I am worried. I am worried about the gradual mainstreaming of religious extremism in Northern Nigeria. I am worried that this vast region, with its multi-ethnic and multicultural landscape, is being captured by a cohort of fanatical clerics and morally bankrupt politicians to whom the end always justifies the means.
I have never felt so despondent about the future of the region as I currently feel. Those of us who grew up in the ’70s and ’80s have seen how traditional Islam, a term I borrow from Seyyed Hossein Nasr, has gradually lost some of its former influence. In its place, a seemingly innocuous version, judging by its central focus on fighting bid’ah and enthroning the Sunnah, has gained ground. Its acceptance among sections of the Northern Muslim elite has helped make it appear to be the most sanctified creed.
In the ’80s, many of us were attracted to Izala by the simplicity of its message and the force of its arguments. As young adherents of Izala in our teens, we always countered our adversaries by asking them to support their ‘innovative’ practices with a Qur’anic verse or hadith. We were not learned in Arabic or the Islamic sciences, but we were quick to retort in any argument with a passage from the Qur’an or a hadith we had memorised to help us win arguments. We were made to see Islam as a contest of ‘us versus them’, as a zero-sum game.
The attraction to Izala in those days was not just due to its simple, literal interpretation of the sacred texts of the Qur’an and hadith. We also saw it as more modern, with youthful, ebullient men in their crisp brown uniforms serving in its first-aid corps. There were seemingly new cars with blaring loudspeakers mounted on their roofs, broadcasting preachings; neat mosques; and large crowds of supporters attending weekly local preachings, and national preaching sessions. Their style appealed to traditional rulers, the rich, the poor, artisans and many others.
As the movement grew, a binary division between people identified as Ahlussunnah and ‘yan bidi’a emerged. Within this division, the Ahlussunnah were the adherents of Izala, while the label ‘yan bidi’a was applied to followers of Sufi orders and other traditional Islamic scholars, including those who avoided polemics. Yet Ahlussunnah is not a designation exclusive to Izala, and many Sufis also belong to Sunni Islam.
Members of the emerging Islamic Movement, who called themselves Muslim Brothers or ‘yan uwa, were also placed in this category and labelled Shia by their opponents. The movement did not begin with a uniform Shia identity. Its Shia orientation became more pronounced over time, under the influence of the Iranian Revolution.
The intellectual progenitor of Izala was Sheikh Abubakar Mahmud Gumi, who served as Grand Khadi of the Northern Region during the time of the revered Premier, Sir Ahmadu Bello, Sardauna of Sokoto. The Sardauna was assassinated during the first military coup in 1966. Izala was formally founded in Jos in 1978 by Sheikh Ismaila Idris, a disciple of Sheikh Gumi. Many of its early adherents were influenced by the teachings of the Sheikh.
The appeal of the group to sections of the Northern elite can partly be understood in the light of the relationship between its intellectual progenitor and the Sardauna. The role played by Northern institutions, particularly Radio Nigeria Kaduna, in popularising the sermons and teachings of Sheikh Gumi also helped extend its influence.
More broadly, religion has long been manipulated by sections of the Nigerian ruling establishment to achieve political ends and maintain control over the levers of the economy. In my view, this manipulation is particularly pronounced in the North, where vestiges of the old feudal order persist. Yusufu Bala Usman examined this problem in The Manipulation of Religion in Nigeria, 1977–1987. Lawan Danbazau addressed related questions of religion and political power in Politics and Religion in Nigeria.
The rhetoric of some Izala preachers against Sufis, Shia and other non-Izala Muslims became vicious. In the ’90s, the return of a new generation of scholars trained at the Islamic University of Medina added another dimension to these debates. Although Izala already had a Salafi orientation, some of these scholars adopted a more explicit Salafi identity and operated beyond its organisational boundaries. Some were firebrands in their polemics.
This is the point at which, in my view, it got worse. Some of these preachers showed intolerance towards followers of other schools, including Izala members who remained attached to the Maliki school or shunned their polemics. I am particularly concerned about attempts to deny others the right to practise their religious beliefs according to their understanding, and about the use of state authorities to achieve such ends. Any preacher who advocates the killing of individuals over theological or other disagreements crosses from religious argument into incitement.
A preacher may advocate obedience to leadership and still promote hostility towards fellow citizens. The penchant of some preachers for verbal duels, and their bifurcation of the community into Ahlussunnah and ‘yan bidi’a, can deepen that hostility. The label ‘yan bidi’a means people accused of religious innovation. It does not automatically mean unbelievers, nor is it interchangeable with kafir, munafiq, zindiq or mushrik. The danger arises when such labels are used to portray others as enemies who deserve neither respect nor protection. In my view, this rhetoric contributes to the contemporary tragedy of religious extremism, sectarian hostility and interfaith conflict in the North.
Even more tragic is the penetration of the state and its institutions by such sectarian interests, and the exploitation of that influence to promote acrimony.
Dehumanising individuals or groups can be a first step towards legitimising violence against them. Extremist groups exploit this process. When religious labels are used to strip people of their dignity and make injustice against them appear acceptable, they can help create conditions in which violence becomes easier to justify. Militant groups can take this further by invoking takfir, the declaration that a professing Muslim is an unbeliever, to justify attacks on those they condemn.
Salafism, however, is not a single, uniform movement. Many Salafi clerics have opposed Boko Haram and its violence, and some have themselves been targeted by militants. This distinction matters. It does not remove the need to challenge sectarian rhetoric wherever it occurs.
We cannot have a peaceful North, and Nigeria by extension, unless state authorities take concrete steps to curb incitement and sectarian hatred in religious teaching and preaching, including among Salafi preachers. Such measures must protect freedom of belief and apply fairly across religious groups.
Saudi Arabia and Egypt have both taken steps to supervise preaching and counter extremist rhetoric. Their approaches differ, but these efforts show that claims of religious authority need not place preachers beyond public scrutiny.
I am, however, worried about whether Nigeria can take similar steps, considering the embrace of these intolerant tendencies by sections of the elite. Some may lack a deeper understanding of Islam and its history. Others may fear that these preachers will use their preaching platforms to portray them as enemies of Islam for resisting their activities. Still others may deliberately exploit religious loyalties to preserve their political influence and economic privileges
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