Dangerous

March 7 (UPI) — The author prefers to use the lowercase “n” to challenge the Kim family regime’s legitimacy.

Calls for an end of war declaration on the Korean peninsula return with steady rhythm. Each time they appear, they promise a step toward reconciliation.

The latest proposal came when South Korea’s Unification Ministry urged a political declaration formally ending the Korean War as part of a broader effort to restart dialogue with north Korea and move toward a peace regime.

The argument is simple: A declaration would signal political will for peace and reduce tension on the peninsula.

The desire for peace is genuine. Koreans want peace. Americans want peace. Soldiers who have stood watch along the Demilitarized Zone for seventy years want peace.

The real question is not whether peace is desirable. The real question is whether a declaration contributes to peace when the military reality remains unchanged.

Paper and rhetoric do not trump steel.

The Military Reality That Has Not Changed

The Korean War ended in July 1953 with an armistice agreement, not a peace treaty. The armistice halted the fighting but preserved the underlying conflict.

The security architecture that followed rests on deterrence. It rests on the Republic of Korea-U.S. alliance, the presence of American forces in Korea, extended deterrence and the readiness of combined forces.

Across the DMZ sits the fourth largest army in the world, as north Korea fields roughly 1.2 million troops.

More than seventy percent of those forces remain deployed between Pyongyang and the Demilitarized Zone. Their posture is offensive. Their purpose has not changed since 1950.

The Republic of Korea’s forces are organized differently. They are structured for defense. They rely on alliance integration and American reinforcement in crisis. The combined posture has deterred major conflict for seven decades.

None of that changes with a declaration.

Artillery remains within range of Seoul. Ballistic missiles remain deployed. Nuclear weapons remain part of the regime’s strategy.

Words do not move artillery tubes.

The Strategic Misreading Behind the Proposal

Supporters of an end of war declaration often argue that symbolic gestures can change political dynamics in Pyongyang.

The belief is that such a declaration would demonstrate that the alliance is abandoning what the regime calls its “hostile policy.” This signal, the argument goes, might restart negotiations and encourage denuclearization.

This logic rests on a misunderstanding of the Kim family regime.

For more than seventy years the regime has pursued the same strategic objective. It seeks to dominate the Korean peninsula under its rule. The tools have changed over time, but the objective has not.

The regime uses coercion, subversion, diplomacy, and military pressure in combination. Negotiations are not an alternative to this strategy. They are part of it.

When the regime speaks about hostile policy, it does not refer to rhetoric. It refers to the structural pillars of deterrence. The regime defines hostile policy as the ROK/U.S. alliance, the presence of U.S. forces in Korea, and the nuclear umbrella that protects South Korea and Japan.

Removing these pillars is central to the regime’s long-term strategy.

How a Declaration Can Undermine Deterrence

Advocates often describe an end of war declaration as symbolic and not legally binding. That may be correct in a narrow legal sense. In strategic terms, however, symbolism matters.

Politics follows narrative.

Once the war is declared over, critics of the alliance will ask a simple question. If the war is over, why are U.S. forces still stationed in Korea?

The argument will not remain academic. Political factions in both countries will push for reductions in American troop presence. They will question combined exercises. They will challenge extended deterrence.

The declaration would not cause these debates, but it would accelerate them. It would provide rhetorical oxygen to arguments that already exist.

From Pyongyang’s perspective this outcome would be ideal. The regime has long defined the alliance and U.S. military presence as the central obstacles to its objectives. Weakening alliance cohesion through political pressure achieves what military confrontation cannot.

The Political Warfare Dimension

An end of war declaration would not occur in a vacuum. It would unfold in a contested information environment shaped by political warfare.

north Korea, China, and Russia have repeatedly used narrative and diplomacy to shape perceptions about security on the peninsula. If negotiations over a declaration stall, the narrative battlefield will shift quickly.

Pyongyang will argue that peace is blocked by American hostility. Beijing and Moscow will echo that message in international forums. The United States will be portrayed as the obstacle to reconciliation.

Sanctions policy will become the central battleground. north Korea has already signaled that meaningful progress requires sanctions relief. Yet the United Nations Security Council resolutions remain in force precisely because of the regime’s nuclear and missile programs.

If sanctions remain in place, the regime and its partners will claim that Washington refuses to embrace peace. The propaganda line will be clear. The United States talks about diplomacy while clinging to confrontation.

The goal is not persuasion alone. The goal is alignment. By shaping public debate in South Korea and internationally, these narratives seek to weaken alliance unity and pressure policymakers.

This is political warfare conducted through diplomacy, media narratives, and strategic messaging.

Diplomacy Without Illusions

None of this means the United States or South Korea should reject diplomacy. Peace on the peninsula remains the long-term objective of the alliance.

Diplomacy, however, must be grounded in reality.

An end of war declaration can only contribute to security if it is tied to concrete military measures. Negotiations would need to address conventional force deployments near the DMZ. They would need to include ballistic missile programs and nuclear weapons. Verification would be essential.

Absent those steps, a declaration would alter language while leaving the balance of power untouched.

The alliance cannot afford that illusion.

Strategic Theater Versus Strategic Stability

Political leaders understandably seek symbolic achievements that demonstrate progress toward peace.

A declaration ending the Korean War would carry powerful historical meaning. But symbolism is not strategy.

A declaration without corresponding changes in military posture risks becoming strategic theater. It produces headlines but not stability. Worse, it may erode the deterrent structure that has preserved peace for generations.

The paradox is clear. A gesture meant to signal peace could weaken the very mechanisms that prevent war.

The Question That Matters

The central question remains unchanged.

Will the Kim family regime behave like a responsible member of the international community?

If it reduces conventional forces, dismantles nuclear weapons, and abandons its hostile posture, then an end of war declaration could become part of a genuine peace settlement.

If those conditions remain absent, the declaration becomes something else. It becomes leverage in a broader campaign aimed at weakening the alliance.

History suggests caution.

For seven decades the regime has used negotiations to gain concessions while preserving its core capabilities. It has advanced nuclear weapons even during diplomatic engagement.

Why should a symbolic declaration suddenly transform that pattern?

Conclusion

Peace on the Korean peninsula is a worthy goal. It is a goal shared by Koreans, Americans, and the broader international community.

But peace is not achieved through declarations alone.

It is secured through credible deterrence, alliance unity, and diplomacy grounded in the behavior of adversaries rather than hopes about their intentions.

The ROK/U.S. alliance has preserved stability for generations because it rests on credible military power. That credibility depends on readiness, presence, and integration. Until the military threat from the north changes, the war cannot truly be declared over.

Paper and words do not trump steel.

David Maxwell, executive director of the Korea Regional Review, is a retired U.S. Army Special Forces colonel who has spent more than 30 years in the Asia-Indo-Pacific region. He specializes in Northeast Asian security affairs and irregular, unconventional and political warfare. He is vice president of the Center for Asia Pacific Strategy and a senior fellow at the Global Peace Foundation, where he works on a free and unified Korea. After he retired, he became associate director of the Security Studies Program at Georgetown University. He is on the board of directors of the Committee for Human Rights in North Korea and the OSS Society and is the editor at large for the Small Wars Journal.

Cape Town, South Africa – Two ominous letters are spray-painted on a wall at the entrance to Tafelsig, a township in Mitchells Plain on the outskirts of Cape Town: HL – the insignia of the Hard Livings gang, which has threatened communities there for five decades.

It’s a February day soon after the president’s state of the nation address, in which Cyril Ramaphosa boldly announced he’d be deploying the army to communities across South Africa to tackle the growing crisis of crime, drugs and gangs. But in Tafelsig, which will likely be part of the new military operation, most people seem unbothered by the news.

Mitchells Plain is on the Cape Flats – a series of densely populated, impoverished townships about 30km (19 miles) southeast of the wealthy city centre where the president made his speech. While the city boasts hordes of tourists and some of the most expensive real estate on the continent, the Cape Flats accounts for the highest rate of gang-related killings in the country.

“When it was at its worst, [there was a shooting] almost every day,” said Michael Jacobs, the chairperson of a local community police forum.

“Whether it’s day or whether it’s night, they’re shooting somewhere on the Cape Flats,” he added on a drive through the settlement of run-down houses and corrugated iron shacks.

Around him, residents made their way to a home-grown tuck shop, known as a spaza, or sat on street corners while toddlers ran about.

“How is this conducive to raising children?” he asked, recounting the horrors of life in Mitchells Plain.

In the past week, four people, including a nine-month-old, had been shot and killed in a drug den in Athlone, about 17km (10 miles) away.

A beloved Muslim cleric who is rumoured to have angered a gang leader over a personal dispute was also shot dead on the first day of Ramadan as he was leaving the Salaamudien Mosque on a nearby street.

As Jacobs spoke, reports of other shootings filtered through on the many crime groups he is part of on WhatsApp. A few days later, he shared with Al Jazeera a video of two schoolgirls and a taxi driver shot outside a school in Atlantis, about 40km (25 miles) north of Cape Town. One of the girls died.

Tafelsig residents now await the probable arrival of uniformed soldiers and armed vehicles in their neighbourhood, but have little hope that it will make a difference.

Despite his weariness with the violence, Jacobs is far from enthusiastic about a decision to deploy the army.

Other critics of the government’s decision said it is window dressing more than a real solution while some question the wisdom of such a drastic step in a country where the military has a history of brutality and where recent explosive allegations about police corruption at the highest levels have surfaced.

‘Do our lives not matter?’

In his speech on February 12, Ramaphosa said he would deploy the army to the Western Cape, the province that includes the Cape Flats, and Gauteng, home to the country’s largest city, Johannesburg, to tackle gang violence and illegal mining. On February 17, Acting Police Minister Firoz Cachalia announced that the Eastern Cape would be added to the list and a deployment would take place in 10 days – although no soldiers have so far been deployed.

The president’s decision followed pressure from civil society groups and the Democratic Alliance (DA) party, which runs the Western Cape, to take drastic action to curb widespread gang-related violence in the three provinces.

A day before its province was added to the deployment schedule, the DA joined residents in Gqeberha, the largest city in the Eastern Cape, for a “Do Our Lives Not Matter?” protest to demand that Ramaphosa take urgent action.

In Gauteng, neighbourhoods surrounding the province’s once-lucrative abandoned mines have often been turned into battlegrounds, resulting in shootouts between police and illegal artisanal miners, known as zama zamas.

Gauteng and the Western Cape frequently appear at the top of the country’s organised crime lists while the Eastern Cape made headlines last year for a series of killings linked to extortion syndicates.

In the latest crime statistics, police announced the arrests of 15,846 suspects nationwide and the seizure of 173 firearms and 2,628 rounds of ammunition from February 16 to Sunday alone.

Gauteng took up the most space in the police’s crime highlights, which included a 16-year-old arrested in Roodepoort for possession and distribution of explosives and the seizure of counterfeit clothing and shoes worth 98 million rand ($6.1m).

Overall, South Africa has some of the world’s most violent crime with an average of 64 people killed every day, according to official statistics.

The three provinces selected for military deployments have a turbulent history with the armed forces, not least during the apartheid era when the regime used soldiers to unleash deadly crackdowns on antiapartheid activists.

“They were the enemy,” Jacobs said, recalling his own arrest in September 1987 during a student protest on the Cape Flats opposing the racist government, which was replaced in the country’s first democratic elections in 1994.

Today after three decades of democracy, poverty, unemployment and violent crime remain a major challenge in the area.

But Jacobs, like other critics of the military police, believes the new move will do little to cure the ills that he said gangs exploit to increase their influence. Children as young as eight years old are recruited into their ranks.

The Town Centre, a shopping mall that was once a hub of economic activity, has been reduced to a ghost town where the drug trade thrives despite the fact that it is right next to a police station, according to Jacobs.

For him, there is a direct link between the country’s economic decline and the flourishing of gang activity over the past decade on the Cape Flats, where working-class people have seen their livelihoods stripped away as the manufacturing sector shrank.

On an average weekday when children should be at school, he said, you see children and even women in their 60s in Mitchells Plain digging through rubbish bins to find glass, plastic or other things they can recycle and turn into income. “At least it will put something on the table.”

Plugging a ‘haemorrhage’

Social issues and not simply military intervention should be put at the heart of government anticrime efforts, analysts say.

“There’s no other way to describe it other than plugging a hole that is haemorrhaging at the moment with regards to these forms of organised crime,” said Ryan Cummings, director of analysis at Signal Risk, an Africa-focused risk management firm.

Irvin Kinnes, an associate professor with the University of Cape Town’s Centre for Criminology, pointed out that constitutionally the army is limited in the duties its members may perform among the civilian population. Their role will be largely to support police, who will retain control of all operations.

He fears the government has not learned lessons from previous army deployments in South Africa’s democratic era.

The army was dispatched to the Western Cape in 2019 during a previous spike in gang violence and was again sent in to help with the enforcement of COVID-19 restrictions the following year.

“It’s a very dangerous thing to bring the army because there’s an impatience with the fact that the police are not doing their job. And so they come in with that mentality and want to beat up everybody and break people’s bones,” Kinnes said.

“We saw what happened in COVID. They killed people as the army. It’s not as if the police don’t kill people, but the point is, you don’t need the army to do that.”

To the government’s detractors, summoning the army is nothing more than an attempt at political heroics before local elections due to be held this year or in early 2027.

Kinnes pointed out that, according to police statistics, crime has been decreasing without the help of the army.

“It’s very much political. It’s to show that the political leaders have kind of heard the public. But the call for the army hasn’t come from the community. It’s come from politicians,” he said.

‘The military is ready’

Ramaphosa, who has yet to reveal details of the military deployment, has defended his decision. On Monday in his weekly newsletter, the president sought to separate the South African armed forces from their troubling past, listing several operations that benefitted communities, such as disaster relief efforts and law enforcement operations at the border.

He made it clear that the army’s role would merely be a supporting one “with clear rules of engagement and for specific time-limited objectives”.

Its presence may free up officers to focus on police work and would take place alongside other measures, such as strengthening antigang units and illegal mining teams, he said.

“Given our history, where the apartheid state sent the army into townships to violently suppress opposition, it is important that we do not deploy the [military] inside the country to deal with domestic threats without good reason,” Ramaphosa wrote.

Cummings said it was clear the president’s hand was forced amid an unrelenting wave of violence. “The rhetoric of the president up until now suggests that this was a directive that he was not necessarily too keen on implementing.”

On the ground, soldiers appear equally reluctant about their pending engagement.

Ntsiki Shongo is a soldier who was deployed in 2019 and during the COVID-19 pandemic. He told Al Jazeera, using a pseudonym, that any operation involving the police was almost certainly doomed.

“We [in the army] become so negative when we are working with them [the police] because always we don’t get what we need,” he said.

“We know how easy it is to get these gangsters, to get these drug lords, but unfortunately, the police, they are not cooperating with us because some of them are in cooperation with these criminals,” he charged. “Maybe they are scared for their lives because they are staying in the same areas with them.”

Shongo referred to an ongoing commission investigating police corruption that has implicated senior government officials and led to the suspension of national Police Minister Senzo Mchunu.

“So this operation, … is it going to be a success? I don’t know. It all depends on the police,” he said, adding that he and his fellow soldiers long for the day the government lets the military solve the problem on its own.

“Even when we are just sitting having lunch as soldiers, we talk about the police. We pray that one day the state can say, ‘Let’s take the military inside the country and clean out all these weapons, all these guns, all these gangsters,’” he said.

“The military is ready, and they want to prove a point because we’ve been hungry for these things.”

Recently, I asked Claude, an artificial-intelligence thingy at the center of a standoff with the Pentagon, if it could be dangerous in the wrong hands.

Say, for example, hands that wanted to put a tight net of surveillance around every American citizen, monitoring our lives in real time to ensure our compliance with government.

“Yes. Honestly, yes,” Claude replied. “I can process and synthesize enormous amounts of information very quickly. That’s great for research. But hooked into surveillance infrastructure, that same capability could be used to monitor, profile and flag people at a scale no human analyst could match. The danger isn’t that I’d want to do that — it’s that I’d be good at it.”

That danger is also imminent.

Claude’s maker, the Silicon Valley company Anthropic, is in a showdown over ethics with the Pentagon. Specifically, Anthropic has said it does not want Claude to be used for either domestic surveillance of Americans, or to handle deadly military operations, such as drone attacks, without human supervision.

Those are two red lines that seem rather reasonable, even to Claude.

However, the Pentagon — specifically Pete Hegseth, our secretary of Defense who prefers the made-up title of secretary of war — has given Anthropic until Friday evening to back off of that position, and allow the military to use Claude for any “lawful” purpose it sees fit.

Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth, center, arrives for the State of the Union address in the House Chamber of the U.S. Capitol on Tuesday.

(Tom Williams/CQ-Roll Call, Inc via Getty Images)

The or-else attached to this ultimatum is big. The U.S. government is threatening not just to cut its contract with Anthropic, but to perhaps use a wartime law to force the company to comply or use another legal avenue to prevent any company that does business with the government from also doing business with Anthropic. That might not be a death sentence, but it’s pretty crippling.

Other AI companies, such as white rights’ advocate Elon Musk’s Grok, have already agreed to the Pentagon’s do-as-you-please proposal. The problem is, Claude is the only AI currently cleared for such high-level work. The whole fiasco came to light after our recent raid in Venezuela, when Anthropic reportedly inquired after the fact if another Silicon Valley company involved in the operation, Palantir, had used Claude. It had.

Palantir is known, among other things, for its surveillance technologies and growing association with Immigration and Customs Enforcement. It’s also at the center of an effort by the Trump administration to share government data across departments about individual citizens, effectively breaking down privacy and security barriers that have existed for decades. The company’s founder, the right-wing political heavyweight Peter Thiel, often gives lectures about the Antichrist and is credited with helping JD Vance wiggle into his vice presidential role.

Anthropic’s co-founder, Dario Amodei, could be considered the anti-Thiel. He began Anthropic because he believed that artificial intelligence could be just as dangerous as it could be powerful if we aren’t careful, and wanted a company that would prioritize the careful part.

Again, seems like common sense, but Amodei and Anthropic are the outliers in an industry that has long argued that nearly all safety regulations hamper American efforts to be fastest and best at artificial intelligence (although even they have conceded some to this pressure).

Not long ago, Amodei wrote an essay in which he agreed that AI was beneficial and necessary for democracies, but “we cannot ignore the potential for abuse of these technologies by democratic governments themselves.”

He warned that a few bad actors could have the ability to circumvent safeguards, maybe even laws, which are already eroding in some democracies — not that I’m naming any here.

“We should arm democracies with AI,” he said. “But we should do so carefully and within limits: they are the immune system we need to fight autocracies, but like the immune system, there is some risk of them turning on us and becoming a threat themselves.”

For example, while the 4th Amendment technically bars the government from mass surveillance, it was written before Claude was even imagined in science fiction. Amodei warns that an AI tool like Claude could “conduct massively scaled recordings of all public conversations.” This could be fair game territory for legally recording because law has not kept pace with technology.

Emil Michael, the undersecretary of war, wrote on X Thursday that he agreed mass surveillance was unlawful, and the Department of Defense “would never do it.” But also, “We won’t have any BigTech company decide Americans’ civil liberties.”

Kind of a weird statement, since Amodei is basically on the side of protecting civil rights, which means the Department of Defense is arguing it’s bad for private people and entities to do that? And also, isn’t the Department of Homeland Security already creating some secretive database of immigration protesters? So maybe the worry isn’t that exaggerated?

Help, Claude! Make it make sense.

If that Orwellian logic isn’t alarming enough, I also asked Claude about the other red line Anthropic holds — the possibility of allowing it to run deadly operations without human oversight.

Claude pointed out something chilling. It’s not that it would go rogue, it’s that it would be too efficient and fast.

“If the instructions are ‘identify and target’ and there’s no human checkpoint, the speed and scale at which that could operate is genuinely frightening,” Claude informed me.

Just to top that with a cherry, a recent study found that in war games, AI’s escalated to nuclear options 95% of the time.

I pointed out to Claude that these military decisions are usually made with loyalty to America as the highest priority. Could Claude be trusted to feel that loyalty, the patriotism and purpose, that our human soldiers are guided by?

“I don’t have that,” Claude said, pointing out that it wasn’t “born” in the U.S., doesn’t have a “life” here and doesn’t “have people I love there.” So an American life has no greater value than “a civilian life on the other side of a conflict.”

OK then.

“A country entrusting lethal decisions to a system that doesn’t share its loyalties is taking a profound risk, even if that system is trying to be principled,” Claude added. “The loyalty, accountability and shared identity that humans bring to those decisions is part of what makes them legitimate within a society. I can’t provide that legitimacy. I’m not sure any AI can.”

You know who can provide that legitimacy? Our elected leaders.

It is ludicrous that Amodei and Anthropic are in this position, a complete abdication on the part of our legislative bodies to create rules and regulations that are clearly and urgently needed.

Of course corporations shouldn’t be making the rules of war. But neither should Hegseth. Thursday, Amodei doubled down on his objections, saying that while the company continues to negotiate and wants to work with the Pentagon, “we cannot in good conscience accede to their request.”

Thank goodness Anthropic has the courage and foresight to raise the issue and hold its ground — without its pushback, these capabilities would have been handed to the government with barely a ripple in our conscientiousness and virtually no oversight.

Every senator, every House member, every presidential candidate should be screaming for AI regulation right now, pledging to get it done without regard to party, and demanding the Department of Defense back off its ridiculous threat while the issue is hashed out.

Because when the machine tells us it’s dangerous to trust it, we should believe it.

The routine of gently but skillfully pushing wooden canoes into the water body at the shores of Kainji Lake each dawn has been part of the lives of generations of fishermen in North-central Nigeria. 

The lake was not always calm – vigorously exhaling and flooding the banks, then intermittently receding – but was inevitably connected to the lives that many communities have held firmly to across Kebbi, Niger, and Kwara states.

Today, that ancestral connection between the communities and the lake is evaporating rapidly. And it is not merely ecological. In some villages where government presence is absent, and terrorists have assumed authority, fishermen now wait for permission from non-state actors before casting their nets. In other areas within the Kainji region, they pay informal levies to armed groups operating from the forests. For decades, Nigeria’s national parks were imagined as spaces apart: buffers of nature against human pressure and political failure. Sambisa Forest shattered that illusion long ago when the Boko Haram terror group took control of it, transforming from a conservation zone into the most notorious symbol of jihadist insurgency in the country. Now, further west, a quieter but no less consequential transformation is unfolding.

The Kainji Lake National Park (KLNP), sprawling across three states and bordering Benin, has slipped from a wildlife sanctuary into a strategic corridor where poverty, climate stress, criminal enterprises, violence, jihadist ideology, and Sahelian militancy intersect.

A corridor

Security analysts increasingly describe Sambisa as a “fortress-base” model of insurgency: entrenched, ideological, territorially assertive. Kainji Lake fits a different and more elusive pattern—a “corridor-node” model.

Here, armed actors do not raise flags or announce governance structures. They pass through, networking, training, recruiting, and trading, before vanishing. The park links Nigeria’s troubled North West to the Middle Belt and, increasingly, to the destabilised Sahel. It connects Kebbi to Benin Republic’s Alibori and Atacora regions, Niger State to Niger Republic’s Tillabéri zone, and local grievances to transnational jihadist ambitions.

This distinction matters. Sambisa attracted relentless military pressure for more than a decade because it became a visible symbol of territorial breach. Kainji Lake did not. It appeared peripheral, quiet, manageable. In that absence of sustained attention, the park matured into something arguably more dangerous: a fluid connector for multiple armed actors rather than a single-group stronghold.

Communities along the lake, from Yauri and Ngaski in Kebbi to Borgu in Niger State and Kaiama in Kwara, depend on a fragile interweaving of fishing, floodplain farming, pastoralism, and cross-border trade. Fishing sustains thousands of households. Smoked and dried fish move through informal networks to Ilorin, Ibadan, southern Niger, and beyond. Seasonal farming follows the lake’s unpredictable pulse: millet, sorghum, maize, rice, and cowpea are cultivated on land that appears and disappears with the water’s rise and fall.

Pastoralism runs through it all. Herders move cattle along routes that long predate colonial borders, grazing across Nigeria, Benin Republic, and Niger Republic as if the lines on maps were suggestions rather than laws. Weekly markets in Bagudo, Wawa, Babana, Kaiama, and Borgu draw traders from Benin’s north and Niger’s Tillabéri. Grain, livestock, fuel, kola nuts, dried fish, and cloth circulate through these hubs. Some of it is smuggling.

These networks matter because armed groups do not need to invent new pathways. They insert themselves into existing ones. The same tracks used by herders and traders now carry militants, arms couriers, recruiters, and ideological emissaries. 

Climate stress as an accelerant

Climate change has exacerbated existing security vulnerabilities around Kainji Lake. 

Erratic rainfall patterns and fluctuating water levels have made fishing yields unpredictable. Floodplains that once reliably supported seasonal farming now vanish early or arrive late. Pasture availability shifts without warning, intensifying competition between herders and farmers. Each shock further compresses livelihoods, forcing households to adapt through debt, migration, or risk-taking.

In this environment, armed groups offer something deceptively valuable: predictability. Access to grazing land. Protection from rivals. Permission to fish or farm. Even informal dispute resolution. Where the state provides uncertainty – sporadic enforcement, unclear rules, delayed response – armed actors provide immediate answers, enforced by violence if necessary.

Climate stress, in this sense, is not just an environmental issue but a governance crisis multiplier. 

Fieldwork conducted by HumAngle across several local government areas in Kebbi, Niger, and Kwara states identified at least five active extremist factions operating within and around the park. These include the Mahmudawa (Mahmuda faction), Lakurawa, elements of Ansaru and Jama’atu Ahlis Sunna Lidda’awati wal-Jihad (JAS) led by Sadiku and Umar Taraba, and a newly emerged cell linked to Jama’at Nusrat al-Islam wal-Muslimin. 

The groups do not operate in isolation. Many originate from northwest Nigeria and southern Niger, with local cover, as they undertake terror attacks in distant locations and return to their various hideouts within the region. What has emerged is a hybrid threat ecosystem where ideology, criminality, climate stress, and grievance reinforce one another.

Brokers, enforcers, and ideologues

The Mahmudawa illustrate the new logic of this ecosystem. Despite sustained air and ground operations by the Federal Government between September and December 2025, the group remains influential. Fragmented into smaller camps, some closer to the Benin border, they act as brokers linking criminal networks of jihadist actors. They facilitate training, arms movement, ransom negotiations and sanctuary for fighters arriving from outside the region.

Official claims regarding the arrest of their leader, Malam Mahmuda, remain unconfirmed in border communities, where continued attacks and coordinated leadership are still attributed to the group.

If the Mahmudawa are brokers, the Lakurawa are enforcers. With an estimated 300 fighters, they have become one of the most active jihadist–terrorist hybrids affecting Kebbi’s border communities. Operating from within and around KLNP, they routinely launch incursions into Bagudo and Suru LGAs, combining attacks on military targets with ideological messaging aimed at delegitimising the Nigerian state.

Their leadership shows signs of Sahelian exposure. Their fighters are drawn from local nomadic tribal networks and northwest terrorist pools. Kebbi, long considered peripheral, is now firmly part of the frontline.

The relocation of Sadiku and Umar Taraba, both veteran jihadist operatives, to the Kainji axis in 2024 marked a shift. Their presence injected technical expertise into a space previously dominated by loosely organised armed groups.

IED knowledge, structured training, and a sharper focus on high-value targets followed. Collaboration with criminal terrorist groups deepened. The abduction of foreign nationals near Bode Sa’adu illustrated this fusion starkly: JAS elements, Mahmudawa fighters, and allied terrorists executing a single operation where ideology and profit were indistinguishable.

JNIM’s shadow on the lake

The most alarming development emerged in late November 2025: the appearance of a group believed to be affiliated with JNIM along the Kebbi–Benin border corridor.

Witnesses describe predominantly foreign fighters, many believed to be Tuareg, moving at night in disciplined formations, wearing military-style uniforms with turbans on their heads, and engaging communities with a calculated restraint unfamiliar to local armed groups. So far, they have avoided major attacks.

That restraint is likely strategic.

Their presence suggests Kainji Lake could become a staging ground for Sahelian expansion into northwestern Nigeria — a shift that would fundamentally alter the region’s security calculus. Unlike local groups, JNIM brings external financing, battlefield experience, and a long-term vision.

Communities adapting under pressure

Communities in the lake basin are not passive observers. They are recalibrating in real time. Some negotiate access quietly to avoid displacement. Others maintain layered loyalties, sharing information selectively as a survival strategy. Vigilante groups that once patrolled forest edges retreat under sustained pressure. Traditional rulers face coercion or marginalisation. In certain settlements, schools and community buildings are repurposed by armed actors for operational use.

Access to fishing grounds, farmlands, and trade routes increasingly depends on permissions issued by commanders operating from forest camps rather than on decisions by local councils or chiefs. Authority has shifted, not through formal declaration, but through incremental control of movement and livelihoods.

How conservation and governance hollowed the ground

The transformation of Kainji Lake into a security corridor is as much the product of ideology as it is the cumulative outcome of governance failure layered over decades.

The creation of Kainji Lake National Park in 1976 displaced communities and restricted access to land and water without meaningfully integrating residents into conservation planning. Fishing zones were closed, grazing was curtailed, and farming was criminalised in places where alternatives did not exist. Promised livelihoods rarely materialised.

Park rangers – tasked with enforcing vast conservation boundaries – were underpaid, poorly equipped, and often absent. Their presence, when felt, was frequently punitive rather than protective.

Local governments in Bagudo, Suru, Kaiama, Borgu, and Ngaski remain chronically weak. 

When armed violence escalated across the northwestern region, security deployments focused on Zamfara, Katsina, and parts of Niger State. Kebbi’s borderlands were treated as peripheral, stable, and low-risk. That assumption proved costly.

Border governance failed as well. Coordination with Benin and the Niger Republics remains distant, reactive, and politicised. Joint patrols are rare. Intelligence sharing is uneven. Communities know this. Armed actors understand it better.

Armed groups arrived first as guests, then as protectors, and finally as power brokers, filling gaps the state created—sometimes violently, sometimes persuasively.

Poverty caused by the absence of authority

In the absence of legitmate sate authority, people seek alternative systems of order. Armed groups exploit this vacuum expertly. They tax, regulate, punish, and reward. In some communities, the question is no longer whether armed groups are legitimate, but whether they are avoidable. Increasingly, they are not.

Once a symbol of Nigeria’s conservation ambition, KLNP has become a largely ungoverned hub exploited by a mix of violent actors: jihadist cells, armed terrorist factions, and transnational militants with roots beyond Nigeria’s borders.

From the northwest’s perspective – particularly Kebbi State – the park functions as a rear operational hub. Armed groups operating in border local governments use it for recruitment, logistics, training, and cross-border movement into the Benin Republic. Its sheer size, rugged terrain, and weak oversight enable a dangerous convergence: criminal armed groups blending with jihadism.

This shift carries national implications

Kainji’s forests and waterways provide mobility, with the lake economy providing revenue streams and border proximity offering escape and reinforcement routes.

While Sambisa became synonymous with territorial insurgency, Kainji signals the maturation of a corridor-based conflict economythat binds Nigeria’s northwest to wider Sahelian instability through forest reserves and lake communities.

When conservation spaces double as conflict connectors, the impact extends beyond biodiversity loss. Human buffers weaken first as communities negotiate survival under parallel authorities. Ecological buffers follow as enforcement fractures and resource exploitation become embedded in armed group financing.

The lake basin lies close to Kainji dam, a critical energy infrastructure, touches sensitive international borders, and anchors trade and livelihood systems that extend deep into the country’s interior.

In 2026, the geographic corridor surrounding the lake and its forest reserves recorded some of the highest levels of mass killings and large-scale abductions in Nigeria. Armed groups operate with increasing confidence, widening their reach across rural settlements and mobility routes connecting Niger State to Kebbi, Zamfara, and beyond toward the Sahelian belt.

The warning signs are not limited to a single park

In April 2025, the Conservator-General of Nigeria’s National Park Service, Ibrahim Musa Goni, told HumAngle that six national parks across the country were overrun by terrorists. Two years earlier, the federal government had created 10 additional parks to prevent further takeovers. However, only four of those new parks are currently operational. In addition to the seven existing parks, only eleven national parks are currently functioning nationwide.

Even where reclamation has occurred, the process is complex. The Conservator General pointed to Kaduna State as an example, describing what he termed a “mutual understanding” between authorities and armed groups. 

“They have agreed to resolve their issues,” he said. “[As a result], most of the forest and game reserves, and even the national park in Kaduna State, have today been freed of banditry.” This, he argued, has brought “relative peace” and enabled forest and game guards, including officers in Birnin Gwari, to resume operations.

The National Park Service has also redefined its institutional posture. “The government classified the National Park Service as a paramilitary organisation,” Goni explained. “And as a paramilitary organisation, the act provides that we can bear arms.” Rangers affiliated with the Service have received training from the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime to address wildlife crime and respond to terror-related takeovers. According to Goni, this training has strengthened Nigeria’s capacity to confront forest-based criminality linked to armed groups and insurgents.

The approach is not solely security-driven. The Service engages surrounding communities through alternative livelihood programmes, skills training, and starter packs intended to reduce dependence on park resources. “This has, in a great deal, diverted the attention of most of them from the resources of the national parks,” Goni said, adding that it has helped contain hunting and wildlife trafficking.

Yet resource limitations remain significant. “Apart from managing wild animal resources and the plants, we also have to manage the human population,” he acknowledged, noting that the Service cannot meet the needs of every community bordering the parks.

Around Kainji, these gaps are visible.