By Abdul Lauya
For decades, the United States has styled itself as the world’s moral compass, lecturing others on democracy, human rights, and rule of law, while frequently acting outside the same international norms it demands from others.
From Iraq to Libya, America’s military interventions have left entire societies fractured, economies ruined, and millions displaced—all without genuine approval or consensus from the United Nations Security Council.
In 2003, the U.S. invaded Iraq on the false pretext of weapons of mass destruction, despite global opposition and without clear UN authorization.
The war toppled Saddam Hussein but unleashed chaos that birthed years of sectarian conflict and the rise of extremist groups like ISIS.
Similarly, in 2011, the U.S. and NATO launched airstrikes in Libya under the banner of humanitarian intervention, turning a once-stable North African nation into a war-torn arena of militias and mercenaries.
Both interventions were carried out in defiance of the principle of collective security that the U.S. often invokes when chastising other countries.
The irony is a nation that often wages war without external accountability but dictates moral terms to others under the guise of the Leahy Law.
That law, named after Senator Patrick Leahy, prohibits the U.S. government from providing arms or training to foreign security forces accused of gross human rights violations.
While it sounds noble on paper, in practice the Leahy Law has often been used as a diplomatic tool to pressure or punish countries whose policies don’t align neatly with Washington’s interests.
Nigeria’s experience offers a vivid case study in this double standard.
In January 2017, during the height of the war against Boko Haram, a Nigerian Air Force jet mistakenly bombed an Internally Displaced Persons (IDP) camp in Rann, Borno State, killing dozens of civilians and aid workers.
The tragedy, which the Nigerian military admitted was a mistake, sparked outrage at home and abroad, drawing condemnation from human-rights groups and aid agencies.
Citing the Rann airstrike and similar allegations of abuse, the Obama administration invoked human-rights concerns to block Nigeria’s request to purchase 12 A-29 Super Tucano attack aircraft.
Yet, barely two years later, the Trump administration approved the same sale, underscoring how U.S. policy often shifts not on principle but on political expedience.
Analysts observed that Washington’s sudden change of heart had less to do with Nigeria’s rights record and more to do with strategic competition, particularly fears of China and Russia expanding defense ties in Africa.
This inconsistency exposes the selective morality at the heart of U.S. foreign policy: when interests align, the law bends; when they don’t, the law bites.
Even more troubling, America continues to cite the Leahy Law to lecture Nigeria on conduct while its own wars, from Afghanistan to Iraq, have left uncounted civilian deaths with little accountability.
The U.S. never faced sanction for the bombing of hospitals, schools, and weddings in conflict zones, yet it withholds arms from nations fighting insurgencies on their own soil.
Recently, U.S. President Donald Trump reportedly hinted at sanctions and interventionist rhetoric against Nigeria, framing domestic governance and security issues as matters of “global concern.”
Such posturing challenges Nigeria’s sovereignty and reeks of condescension, implying that Washington reserves the right to police the world’s democracies while remaining immune from external oversight.
Nigeria’s internal security crises, terrorism, separatism, and communal conflicts, are complex, but they are first and foremost domestic issues that fall under its sovereign jurisdiction.
The U.S. would never tolerate another nation dictating how it conducts counterterrorism operations on its own soil, yet it assumes that privilege over others.
By weaponizing the Leahy Law, America has blurred the line between promoting human rights and projecting power.
For many Nigerians, this hypocrisy is unmistakable: a country that claims moral leadership but repeatedly undermines international law when it suits its own agenda.
The lesson is clear, moral authority cannot coexist with selective accountability.
Until the United States subjects its own military actions to the same scrutiny it demands of others, its lectures on human rights will remain hollow.
Nigeria’s fight against insurgency deserves genuine partnership based on respect, not the patronizing conditionality of a self-appointed global enforcer.
For all its talk of justice and human rights, the question still echoes through the ruins of Iraq, Libya, and Afghanistan: who holds the world’s policeman accountable?
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