[OPINION] Ransomed by the police or with money?

By now, you must have read the story of the Al-Kadriyar family. Their five daughters and a female relative were kidnapped for ransom on January 2, 2024, following a gun battle that left several policemen and a relative dead. During their harrowing three weeks in the kidnappers’ den, those girls would become the face(s) of the Nigerian kidnapping crisis. Reports of abductions have become so normative there is no telling where and how one can be picked. People are abducted in their homes as much as they are taken on the highway. It is hard to hide from an evil that has grown omnipresent.

From the news reports, there is no specific type of victim. Virtually anyone is vulnerable. The kidnappers do not seem to have prior information about those they pick up. They demand an unreasonable sum of money from families to test how far they are willing to demonstrate their love and then calibrate the ransom figures accordingly. If not for the trauma and potential of death involved, one could say it is a transaction that carries no malice in its intent. It is just random. Talk of the banality of evil!

Accounts of people being abducted for money have steadily grown in the past years, and the numbers are unrelenting. There is a high probability that a significant number of the cases are unreported. So commonplace have the incidents become that people now go to church for thanksgiving after the incidents. I was stunned to listen to testimonies in a church where the speaker talked about getting their loved ones back safely after paying a ransom. There was a time when testimonies of abductions used to feature fantastic accounts of miraculous interventions. Now abductions have become so routine they no longer test our creative faculties to produce a story of divine intervention that edifies as much as it entertains. We have entered a new normal.

The father of the abducted girls, Mansoor Al-Kadriyar, was initially kidnapped along with his children but later released to source for money. When the deadline they gave him to raise the huge amount demanded passed, the kidnappers killed one of the sisters, 21-year-old Nabeeha Al-Kadriyar, to stimulate a sense of urgency in the fundraising. Thankfully, the remaining five girls in the kidnappers’ den have now been released. Following their return home are the conflicting narratives of whether they were rescued through the efforts of security operatives or whether their family paid a ransom.

On Sunday, the Police Command in the Federal Capital Territory released a press statement claiming that, in concerted efforts with the troops of the Nigerian Army, they rescued those girls the previous night. They claimed they “accomplished” the “successful rescue…following the relentless advancement of the Federal Capital Territory Police Command’s Anti-Kidnapping squad…” The Al-Kadriyar family, however, disputes the police version of the rescue account. BBC News quoted the girls’ uncle, Sheriff Al-Kadriyar, saying the family picked up the girls after paying the ransom. He said, “There’s nothing like rescue on this matter, we paid ransom – even though I can’t disclose how much for security reasons.”

The difference between the accounts has implications beyond the police’s using an unfortunate incident to steal credit to redeem its image after being serially embarrassed by its inability to curtail Nigeria’s insecurity problems. Whether ransom is paid or not in high profile (or highly publicised) cases goes a long way in determining future incidents and the tensile strength of a society’s moral resolve. That is because kidnappers do not just want money. Like terrorists, they also want to shake a society’s moral foundations to create an atmosphere of fear that not only makes us vulnerable but also makes society even more conducive to their operations.

The kidnapping crisis has degenerated to the point that the question is no longer about whether to pay or not to pay but whether to admit it publicly. It does not even help that an existing law explicitly proscribes ransom payments. The penalty is a jail sentence of 15 years minimum. In the history of poorly conceived (and therefore unimplementable) laws in Nigeria, this one must be one of the top five. Even the lawmakers who passed the law would spurn it if they—or their loved ones—were ever to be taken hostage. Really, what were the sponsors of that bill thinking? That people whose children are taken would worry about a 15-year jail term, or that abductors would understand that the families of victims were incommoded by a section of the constitution that forbids paying ransom?

One cannot, of course, blame the families that admit they paid. To ask them to redact the truth and let the police take the credit is also to demand they absorb more trauma. They would be bearing the weight of the lie in addition to everything they have been through. Equally important is that people who crowdfund for ransom cannot allow the police to get away with a story of ransom-less rescue because they must be accountable to the public that opened their hearts as well as their wallets.

Yet, one cannot dismiss the implications of admitting ransom payment. Somewhere right now, a bunch of criminally-minded people have been inspired by the Al-Kadriyar episode. Knowing that the public can even be moved to contribute toward a ransom means, every potential abductor will be hoping for a story that will go viral. Every life is of course important, but those kidnappers also know that people are more likely to respond to a type of victim quicker than others. In this case, society must be entirely desensitised not to be outraged by the abduction of six children. They use that sentiment to taunt us to prove our humanity by donating money. Even if it feels wrong to us that we are being wound up to join the abductors in putting a monetary value on human life, we still cannot look away. We cannot negate our own humanity; we must donate. Viscerally or vicariously, we all thus become victims.

Whether ransom is paid or not has crucial significance for society at large. Knowing that previous incidents ended with ransom payment emboldens kidnappers while also whittling society’s faith in the police’s ability to protect. Once a case becomes a national (or international) sensation, the kidnappers know they have the upper hand, and the stakes go up. Some people have suggested that public fundraising efforts should be downplayed so as not to play into the hands of the abductors, but how does one get people to donate money if the case is not sensationalised? How do you stampede government and security agents into taking urgent action if the case does not dominate the news cycle?

There are no simple solutions to the situation, but we are also not helpless tools in the hands of abductors. If there is any lesson the Chibok girls’ case taught us, it is the importance of discretion in how kidnapping is reported. The moment the United States First Lady Michelle Obama raised the “Bring Back our Girls,” placard on social media, it changed the game forever. Her action was in good faith but the global attention and the media campaign that followed practically legitimated the existence of Boko Haram (the abductors).

Going forward, the police and families of abductors should work together to craft a coherent (and less dramatic) account of how people are rescued. The Police Public Relations unit needs to be especially proactive and not merely leave the families talking to the press. They should work together with the family to shape the narrative that accompanies high-profile/highly publicised abductions rescue operations in a way that rightly balances the necessity of delegitimising the abductors while also factoring accountability to the public that donated money.

Culled from The Punch