By David Anderson

In recent months, social media has been flooded with alarming claims of a “Christian genocide” in Nigeria. These stories not only distort the truth but wound the soul of a nation built on shared struggle and mutual faith. Amplified by misinformed foreign commentators and doctored disinformation, such narratives paint Nigeria as a theatre of state-sponsored religious extermination. Yet the lived reality across this country tells a profoundly different story, one of resilience, compassion, and quiet heroism that transcends creed.

For instance, in a nation often mischaracterized as presiding over religious genocide, faith sheltered faith in June 2018, when the small community of Barkin Ladi in Plateau State was engulfed in violence. As attackers closed in, Imam Abdullahi Abubakar, then 83, faced a choice that tested his faith. Without hesitation, he opened the doors of his mosque and home to protect more than two hundred and sixty Christian neighbours from the rampaging mob. He hid some under his roof, others in his mosque, and stood before the attackers declaring, “They are my people.” His courage saved dozens of lives. For this act of selfless humanity, the Imam received national and international recognition, including honours from the United States government.
That moment in Barkin Ladi was not an exception. It was a reflection of a deeper moral code shared across Nigeria’s faiths. In July 2020, a Fulani Muslim man rescued two Christian missionaries who had been kidnapped and abandoned in the bush by criminals. He gave them food, shelter, and safe passage, refusing any reward. In a world eager to sensationalize division, such quiet acts of conscience rarely trend, yet they are the truest reflections of Nigeria’s soul.

Compassion, quite literally, built a mosque in Yola. In 2025, Bishop Stephen Dami Mamza, Catholic Bishop of Yola, did something extraordinary. Moved by the suffering of Muslims displaced by Boko Haram, he oversaw the construction of a mosque within the same camp that already sheltered Christian victims. It was not a gesture of politics or publicity. It was the gospel of humanity in action. In that camp, Christians and Muslims prayed, mourned, and rebuilt their lives together. “We are all children of God,” Bishop Mamza said simply, reminding Nigerians that empathy, not fear, defines true faith.

Catholic churches across conflict zones have followed this example. In the midst of violence, churches have sheltered thousands of fleeing Muslims, offering food, medical care, and safety without asking about religion. Relief projects run by Christian organizations in the North East continue to serve Muslim orphans and families displaced by insurgency. These acts, repeated quietly across towns and villages, are the heartbeat of a nation that the world too often misunderstands.

These acts, repeated in the shadows of crisis, form the quiet grammar of Nigeria’s coexistence. They remind us that beyond the headlines and hashtags, the moral majority of Nigerians, both Muslim and Christian, choose peace over provocation and compassion over vengeance.

It must be said plainly that the violence tearing through parts of Nigeria is not a clash of faiths, nor is it sanctioned by the state. These are acts of terror, not theology. They are crimes driven by extremists who exploit religion to divide communities and destabilize the nation.
Groups such as Boko Haram and ISWAP have long sought to desecrate both mosques and churches, turning neighbour against neighbour. When a village is attacked, it is often because of geography, ethnicity, or proximity to insurgent strongholds, not the prayers said in its houses of worship.

The graves of Nigeria’s victims hold no monopoly of faith. Muslims and Christians lie side by side, mourned by families who share the same soil and the same sorrow. To claim a “Christian genocide” is to fall into the trap these groups have set, to echo their propaganda, and to ignore the thousands of Muslim victims who have also perished in their brutality. Terrorism thrives on division. Nigeria’s people, by contrast, survive through solidarity.

Nigeria’s Constitution guarantees freedom of religion and equal protection for all citizens, regardless of faith or ethnicity. The nation’s laws are clear: the state protects the mosque and the church alike. In a country where interfaith marriages, mixed neighborhoods, and shared celebrations remain the norm, the idea of a government orchestrating religious persecution collapses under the weight of everyday reality.

Every Friday and Sunday across Nigeria’s cities, the air carries both the call to prayer and the sound of church bells, not in conflict but in chorus. In marketplaces from Kano to Enugu, Muslim traders break bread with Christian customers. During Ramadan, Christians share in Iftar meals. At Christmas, Muslims deliver gifts to Christian neighbours. This quiet coexistence, repeated millions of times across the nation, is the truest testament that Nigeria’s strength lies in her pluralism.

To call Nigeria a land of genocide is to erase the Imam who shielded Christians, the Bishop who built a mosque, and the millions who, in silence, choose peace. For every post that spreads fear, there are a thousand unseen acts of friendship, loyalty, and love that bind Nigerians together. The world must learn to listen not to the noise of hate but to the harmony of coexistence, the quiet testimony of a people who prove every day that faith beyond fear still holds this nation together.

*David Anderson wrote in response to the alarming claims of a ‘Christian genocide’ in Nigeria.

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