Paradox

Nigeria’s position on ransom payments rests on a sound principle: Every ransom paid strengthens criminal organisations by financing the purchase of more weapons, and encouraging more kidnappings. Every naira handed to kidnappers today may finance tomorrow’s abduction.

Yet, another reality is far more uncomfortable. It is a reality experienced daily by families whose loved ones have disappeared into forests, insurgent camps, and criminal enclaves across Nigeria. The state asks them not to pay. The same state often cannot prevent the abduction nor guarantee the rescue of the victim.

For years, successive governments have urged Nigerians to reject ransom payments as a matter of national security. The argument is strategically sound. Kidnapping has evolved into one of Nigeria’s most profitable criminal economies, sustaining terrorist groups, insurgent groups, and organised kidnapping networks across several regions. Every successful payment reinforces that economy and makes future attacks more likely.

But public policy cannot exist only in theory. It must also survive contact with human reality.

For many women and girls held captive, every additional day increases the risk of rape, forced marriage, sexual slavery, and repeated abuse. Men and boys frequently endure forced labour, torture, starvation, beatings, and execution. Children lose months or years of their education while entire families descend into financial ruin attempting to negotiate for survival.

For parents, spouses, and siblings, this is not an abstract debate about national security. They know that every phone call may be the last and that every delay may carry irreversible consequences. It is therefore unsurprising that many families choose life over policy.

Critics often ask why families continue paying ransom despite repeated warnings, but the more humane question is whether society has offered them a credible alternative.

Military rescue operations have succeeded in some high-profile cases, and security forces continue to make sacrifices under extremely dangerous conditions. However, they remain the exception rather than the experience of most victims. Across vast areas of Nigeria, rescue is uncertain, negotiations are prolonged, intelligence is limited, and families are frequently left to navigate kidnappers alone. That gap creates an impossible moral burden.

The law tells a father not to pay, but his daughter remains in captivity and the government cannot tell him when, or whether, she will come home. What should he choose?

Many policymakers evaluate ransom through the lens of national security. Families experience it through the lens of survival. Both perspectives are legitimate, but they collide in painful ways.

The contradiction becomes even sharper where governments contemplate criminalising ransom payments. Such laws may satisfy an important strategic objective, but without dramatically improving prevention, intelligence, rapid response, and hostage rescue capability, they risk punishing victims twice. First, by failing to protect them. Second, by denying them the only option they believe remains.

No family should ever have to choose between financing organised crime and abandoning someone they love. The responsibility for breaking this cycle belongs to the state, not to traumatised families.

A credible anti-ransom policy requires far more than a legal prohibition. It demands professional policing, intelligence-driven operations, rapid hostage recovery capabilities, functioning emergency response systems, stronger border control, disruption of kidnapping finances, and sustained prosecution of those who organise and profit from this industry.

Only then can the government reasonably ask citizens to bear the enormous moral cost of refusing to pay ransom. Until that day arrives, Nigeria’s ransom debate will remain trapped between principle and reality. Ending ransom payments begins with ending the conditions that make ransom appear to be the only path home.

Venezuela is becoming increasingly important in Colombia’s presidential election, though not necessarily from a policy perspective. The three leading candidates are not offering radically new approaches toward Caracas. Instead, they broadly accept that Colombia will not shape Venezuela policy in a vacuum, but within a regional framework increasingly defined by Washington.

Even among the Colombian Right, the differences are narrower than the rhetoric sometimes suggests. Some candidates favor preserving parts of the thaw in relations initiated under Gustavo Petro, while others align themselves more openly with the Trump administration’s emerging three-phase approach toward Venezuela, combining pressure, negotiation, and eventual normalization while maintaining support for María Corina Machado and the democratic opposition.

The real competition is happening elsewhere.

As Bogotá increasingly adapts itself to strategic realities designed in Washington, Venezuela has become less a matter of concrete policy and more a source of symbolic legitimacy inside the Colombian Right. The question is no longer simply who has the best Venezuela strategy, but who is most closely aligned with the hemisphere’s most internationally legitimized anti-chavista figure.

Both Paloma Valencia and Abelardo de la Espriella have sought proximity to Machado, likely recognizing her growing political value among Colombian-Venezuelan voters and sectors of the Colombian Right that increasingly view her as a hemispheric democratic symbol after July 28, 2024. Early in the electoral cycle, both candidates publicized meetings with Machado and members of her team, presenting themselves as politically aligned with the Venezuelan opposition’s struggle. Valencia recently traveled to Panama to meet Machado personally, while De la Espriella has repeatedly emphasized his relationship with anti-chavista circles to position himself as part of a broader regional conservative realignment.

Yet the two candidacies embody very different political instincts.

Support from figures close to Machado, Trump-world Republicans, Miami exile networks, and conservative media ecosystems now carries political value extending far beyond Venezuela itself.

Valencia represents a more traditional conservative internationalism tied to institutional anti-chavismo, democratic legitimacy, and Atlanticist conservatism. De la Espriella, meanwhile, has increasingly embraced a far more populist style of politics, openly presenting himself as a Colombian version of Nayib Bukele that promises to build ten CECOT-style mega prisons in Colombia.

That contradiction becomes particularly striking when placed alongside one of the defining professional relationships of De la Espriella’s career: his representation of Alex Saab during the height of the CLAP era. Saab became one of the clearest symbols of late-stage chavismo’s corruption architecture, embodying the opaque financial networks, sanctions arbitrage, and humanitarian corruption that increasingly defined the Maduro era.

The irony of Saab’s former lawyer attempting to embody Colombia’s hardest anti-chavista and anti-corruption posture is difficult to ignore. But the contradiction also reveals something deeper about contemporary Latin American politics, where anti-establishment rhetoric and proximity to opaque power structures are no longer necessarily disqualifying contradictions.

The contradictions are perhaps most visible within parts of the Venezuelan opposition’s own media ecosystem. Some anti-chavista pundits spent years cultivating reputations as uncompromising anti-corruption crusaders, often accusing opposition figures of moral weakness, accommodationism, or hidden financial interests. Their enthusiastic support for Abelardo de la Espriella, despite his long professional relationship with Alex Saab during the height of the CLAP era, suggests that ideological affinity and political aesthetics are increasingly overriding the moral rigidity that once characterized parts of anti-chavista discourse.

Venezuela’s role in the Colombian election is not primarily about foreign policy. It is about political identity.

At the same time, other sectors of Machado’s broader international coalition appear more naturally aligned with Valencia’s institutional conservatism. The result is an increasingly visible fragmentation within the anti-chavista ecosystem itself, one that reflects broader tensions inside the Latin American Right between institutional conservatism, populist maximalism, and Bukele-style punitive politics.

Washington has only reinforced those dynamics. As the US once again becomes the principal external actor shaping Venezuela’s political future, different Colombian candidates increasingly compete to position themselves as the preferred interlocutors of the emerging regional order. Support from figures close to Machado, Trump-world Republicans, Miami exile networks, and conservative media ecosystems now carries political value extending far beyond Venezuela itself.

In that sense, Venezuela’s role in the Colombian election is not primarily about foreign policy. It is about political identity.

And perhaps more importantly, it may also offer a glimpse into the future political terrain of a post-transition Venezuela itself. If chavismo eventually collapses or evolves into some form of negotiated transition, the country will not emerge into a region defined by liberal democratic consensus. It will emerge into a hemisphere shaped by Bukele, Milei, Trumpism, social media maximalism, and deep public exhaustion with traditional political elites.

The rise of figures like De la Espriella suggests that the post-chavista Right may not necessarily resemble the liberal democratic opposition that spent decades fighting chavismo. It may instead reflect a harsher, more punitive, and more performative political culture, one forged not despite the region’s prolonged crises, but because of them.