Dear Editor,
I greet you warmly, and I write not to cast blame, but to make a heartfelt appeal from one patriot to another. I also write not as a critic, but as a fellow Nigerian: concerned, thoughtful, and deeply pained. As someone who has served this nation in uniform and who continues to engage in national security matters, I understand both the gravity of our times and the vital role the press plays in shaping public consciousness.
Over the years, Punch Newspaper has earned its voice among the nation’s most influential platforms. It has been a mirror to our society, sometimes clear, sometimes cracked, but always relevant. That is why I write with the hope that my concern will be received in the same spirit in which it is sent: with empathy, respect, and deep love for our country.
Sir, I came across your recent headline:
“Insecurity: Stop Sacrificing Our Children – Parents of Military Personnel Tell FG.”
…and its viral companion on social media platforms, particularly this link: https://www.instagram.com/p/DJyV1pbIljy/?igsh=MTFuOG91MzAwbXRoeg==
I must confess, those words, spoken and published, sank like stones in my chest. Not because the concerns of the parents are invalid. Far from it. As a veteran, I know the weight every mother bears when her child wears that uniform. I’ve stood in places where goodbyes were never certain. But I also know the power of words. And what may be intended to spark national attention may also, unintentionally, inflame despair, not only among families but among the very troops who still hold the line.
Let’s pause and ask: would The New York Times, The Globe and Mail (Canada), The Guardian (UK), or even Russia’s RT News publish headlines that suggest their country is “sacrificing” soldiers, in the middle of a conflict? These are democracies too: places where press freedom is vigorously protected. Yet, they exercise restraint during periods of war or national insecurity. Not because they fear the truth, but because they understand the deeper responsibility of nation-building.
In the U.S., during deployments to Iraq or Afghanistan, it was not uncommon to see media-led campaigns to send care packages to troops. Fundraisers were held. Letters were written. The media helped lift spirits, not bury them. In Canada, newsrooms work closely with military families to tell stories of resilience. In Britain, tabloids and serious papers alike never forget to label their troops as heroes, even in criticism, there is care. So I ask: why not here? Why not our own?
Our soldiers, overstretched and under immense pressure, deserve encouragement. They are securing oil infrastructure in the Niger Delta, containing violence in the North Central, holding fragile lines in the North West and North East, and deploying surveillance on threats yet unseen. They are sentinels at Nigeria’s gates. And still, they march on. Yet, we amplify headlines that suggest their lives are being wasted. Such words do not just hurt morale; they hand ammunition to the very enemies we fight. Terror groups monitor narratives. Their psychological warfare thrives on doubt and fear. When our media platforms echo their despair, we unwittingly extend the reach of their influence. You may never know how many young Nigerians decide not to enlist after reading such a piece. Or how many mothers burst into tears, worrying if their child is next. Or how many soldiers at the frontline wonder whether their nation has already given up on them. In the foreign media mentioned, you will see front pages filled with soldier profiles, national fundraising appeals, and moving human-interest stories that unify rather than divide. They understand, as we must too, that “a nation that discourages its defenders risks having to defend itself without defenders.”
Let us remember what our people say: “The wall that refuses to stand becomes a path for the enemy.” And again, “When the drums of war beat, the entire village must be mindful of the rhythm.”
Even in disagreement, we must protect the hearts of those who protect us. It’s not censorship I’m calling for. It’s responsibility. It’s nationhood. Let’s not become accidental foot soldiers in the enemy’s propaganda war. How do we expect recruitment to thrive when the prevailing message is that wearing a uniform is a death sentence? How do we hope to win this war when the home front, unintentionally or not, echoes the enemy’s narrative? Will we wait until every volunteer walks away, until there’s no one left to serve, and then start debating the idea of conscription? When everyone runs, who do we expect to stay and fight?
The Yoruba say, “If the wall doesn’t crack, the lizard cannot enter.” And another proverb reminds us: “The fire that burns the village starts from the spark no one paid attention to.” Words carry power. Headlines shape perception. And perception shapes resolve. The wives of these soldiers read your papers. Their children do too. So do the soldiers at the frontlines, some under trees, in trenches, tired but determined. What message are we sending to them? That they are abandoned? Disposable? Alone?
Yet it is their sacrifice that gives this country the fragile peace we still enjoy. Without them, there would be no safe newsroom, no freedom to publish, no evening broadcast. We owe them not just logistics and policy, we owe them dignity, respect, and encouragement.
Dear Editor, the freedom that allows you to publish daily is guarded by the sacrifice of these same soldiers. The peace in which your offices sit is preserved by their blood, sweat, and vigilance. These are not abstract ideas, they are real people, living among us, dying quietly for us. And their families carry a burden heavier than most of us can imagine. So I ask, humbly and urgently: Let us report with truth, but also with wisdom. Let our pens lift as well as expose. Let our words heal as well as probe.
Because in the end, our soldiers are not just government agents. They are our brothers, our sisters, our children, and ultimately, the keepers of the nation’s soul.
With deepest respect and concern,
PTO Aro mni
Gen (rtd)
Veteran & National Security Analyst
