We must protect workers committed to alleviating the sufferings of vulnerable communities
While the World Humanitarian Day (WHD) 2026 being celebrated today is dedicated to honouring humanitarian workers and celebrating their incredible impact around the world, we must, as a nation, remember the people who have either been killed or injured in the course of serving the most vulnerable of our society. With the campaign theme of ‘Act for Humanity’, the focus for this year is on how to demand an end to attacks on aid workers and health personnel, while fighting the impunity of violations against International Humanitarian Law that are all too common in Nigeria.
On a day such as this, critical stakeholders should be concerned that the World Health Organisation (WHO) has listed Nigeria among countries where attacks on healthcare workers and facilities have been recorded over the past eight years, while disclosing that more than 10,400 such incidents have been reported globally since 2018. In its latest update published last weekend, the UN health agency listed Nigeria alongside Ukraine, Lebanon, the occupied Palestinian territory, Myanmar, Iran, Sudan, the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC), South Sudan, Russia and Syria among locations where attacks on healthcare workers had occurred this year.
These attacks, according to WHO, could leave patients without treatment, prevent ambulances from making referrals, keep healthcare workers away from work, and disrupt the delivery of medicines and other supplies. “When a hospital is attacked, the impact is not only on the people inside the hospital that day. It is the patient who cannot receive healthcare tomorrow. It is the ambulance that cannot make the next referral. It is the healthcare worker who cannot return to work, or medicine supply that can no longer reach facilities,” WHO Director for Humanitarian and Disaster Management, Altaf Musani, said. “Behind every damaged facility is a service lost. Behind every interrupted service is someone who will be left without healthcare.”
Only last week, the Nigerian Association of Resident Doctors (NARD) raised concerns over the safety and welfare of their members, while disclosing that no fewer than 30 doctors were assaulted across the country in the past 11 months. The assaults, according to NARD’s Second Vice-President, Kwarshak Kevin, were allegedly carried out by patients’ relatives and, in some cases, security personnel while doctors were attending to patients. Kevin called on the federal government to enact legislation prescribing penalties for anyone who assaults healthcare workers in the course of their duties. He also urged the establishment of a standard rapid-response protocol to enhance the protection of medical personnel.
In 2009, the United Nations General Assembly designated 19th August as WHD in honour of the 22 aid workers, including the UN’s top envoy in Iraq, Sergio Vieira de Mello, who were killed on 19th August 2003 when a truck bomb hit the Canal Hotel in Baghdad. But the WHD assumes a greater importance in Nigeria following the 26 August 2011 bombing of the UN Building in Abuja which claimed the lives of 18 people with dozens of others wounded. From the attack on polio vaccination teams in Kano which killed female health workers to the abduction and execution of two International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) in Borno State and several others, humanitarian work in our country has in recent years been a risky job.
As Nigeria therefore joins other countries to mark the 2026 WHD, authorities, at all levels, and critical stakeholders must work together to ensure that those who strive to alleviate the sufferings of vulnerable individuals and communities affected by conflicts, natural disasters, and humanitarian crises are protected. It is an emblem of shame that Nigeria consistently features among countries where humanitarian workers are routinely attacked.
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JASON ARDAY: THE COLOUR OF SCRUTINY
Standards must be maintained, but not through public pursuit that destroys careers and lives, argues PAT ONUKWULI
There is scrutiny, and there is siege. There is accountability, and there is annihilation. Professor Jason Arday, Cambridge’s youngest Black professor, is dead at 41. For many people of colour in Britain, the question is not whether the allegations deserved investigation. They did. The question is whether one Black academic’s flaws became a pretext for something larger: a demolition staged against an aggressive war on diversity, equity and inclusion.
Arday’s story was extraordinary enough to invite both admiration and suspicion. Autistic and non-verbal until late childhood, he overcame profound educational difficulties to become a professor at Cambridge. Then allegations surfaced about passages in his doctoral thesis, his CV, and parts of his personal story. Liverpool John Moores University examined the plagiarism concerns and cleared him. Arday admitted mistakes but denied plagiarism. Cambridge opened a fresh inquiry, and he resigned before it concluded. That should have remained an academic matter governed by evidence and proportion.
Instead, the story sparked a media feeding frenzy. Media-monitoring figures recorded 249 articles over 22 days, including 188 after his resignation. Even allowing for legitimate public interest, why such intensity? Race or skin colour may not explain every criticism, but it is difficult to believe it played no part in the scale of the pursuit. Academic misconduct should attract academic remedies. When scrutiny expands from scholarship to a man’s entire life, accountability becomes spectacle.
The ideological backdrop matters too. Nathan Cofnas, a self-described “race realist”, argued against racial diversity policies and suggested that, under a pure meritocracy, Black representation in elite institutions would collapse. Emmanuel College ended his fellowship, although Cambridge later treated his speech as protected expression. His argument illustrates the danger at the heart of anti-DEI politics: “merit” is presented as neutral, yet the conclusion echoes an old racial hierarchy. Equality is invoked to justify exclusion; objectivity becomes the language through which inherited advantage survives.
That is why Arday’s biography was politically combustible. If one believes that Black advancement in elite institutions is largely the product of DEI rather than talent, a young Black Cambridge professor with an inspirational story becomes more than an academic. He becomes a test case. His errors are no longer his alone; they become evidence against inclusion itself. This is the burden Black professionals often carry: when a White individual fails, it is an individual who has failed. When a Black individual fails, diversity is summoned to the dock.
Race should not grant immunity; however, there should be no double standards. Cambridge professor William O’Reilly faced plagiarism-related concerns and was ultimately found to have acted negligently rather than deliberately. His case attracted attention, but it did not become a national referendum on whether White academics are over-promoted. Therein lies the asymmetry: Black success signals progress, whereas a single Black failure is used to discredit it.
Cambridge itself cannot be separated from history. Its historical links to slavery include indirect benefits derived from wealth generated by enslavement and the slave trade. That history does not settle any allegation against Arday, but it sharpens the irony. Black labour once helped generate wealth without Black people entering elite institutions as equals. Now, when Black intellect reaches the summit, its presence can still be scrutinised as though it requires special explanation. Historical patterns may take new forms, but their underlying impulses often persist.
The wider assault on DEI, amplified in Donald Trump’s America, rests on the claim that inclusion corrupts merit. Yet genuine meritocracy should be the ally of minorities, since discrimination is anti-merit. Britain’s Equality Act 2010 permits limited positive action but does not impose broad racial employment quotas. Nigeria understands the principle differently, through Federal Character under Section 14(3) of the 1999 Constitution. The systems differ, yet both recognise that representation sometimes requires deliberate intervention where history has distributed opportunity unevenly.
The lesson should resonate in Nigeria, where ethnic, religious and regional rhetoric can turn difference into political weaponry. Figures such as Sheikh Jingir, Senator Fadahunsi and others who inflame sectional passions are part of a wider problem: societies become dangerous when identity is repeatedly framed as a threat. A country is not dismantled only by violence. It can be dismantled sentence by sentence, North against South, Christian against Muslim, Yoruba against Igbo, indigene against settler, until exclusion sounds like patriotism and prejudice masquerades as principle.
Now that he is gone, the questions are painfully human. What happens to the young family left behind after such relentless hounding? Will heads roll, and will anyone be held culpable? Will editors confront the human cost, and will universities better protect vulnerable minority staff, especially those from BAME backgrounds? Standards must be maintained, but not through public pursuit that destroys careers, reputations and lives. This tragedy reinforces why DEI must continue: not to lower standards, but to ensure minorities are neither excluded nor judged by harsher ones.
Dr. Onukwuli is a legal scholar and public affairs analyst. patonukwuli2003@yahoo.co.uk