An enquiry into the growing gap between the security discourse of Niger’s transitional authorities and the lived reality of populations confronted with armed attacks.
They had promised to take back control. To restore security. To return to Niger its sovereignty and its dignity. Three years after the coup d’état of July 2023, the Conseil national pour la sauvegarde de la patrie (CNSP) still presents its seizure of power as a historic break with the past.
Yet far from Niamey, a different reality has taken shape.
In areas regularly struck by armed groups, communities continue to live with fear, uncertainty and, at times, the impression of having been left to fend for themselves. Villages are hit, families displaced, economic activity brought to a standstill. And one question keeps returning: where are the leaders when the attacks come?
This is perhaps where one of the most troubling contradictions of the military transition lies.
Security as a founding justification, put to the test beyond the capital
Since taking power, the CNSP has made the security question one of the central pillars of its legitimacy. The overthrow of President Mohamed Bazoum was justified, among other reasons, by the deterioration of the security situation.
The commitment was unambiguous: to do better.
In the regions most exposed to violence, particularly in the west of the country, attacks nonetheless continue to dictate the rhythm of daily life. Against that backdrop, an observation fuels growing questions: the figures who embody the transition rarely appear in the areas that are directly hit, at the very moment their inhabitants are dealing with the aftermath.
Announcements issued from a distance
The authorities communicate from the capital. They announce operations, salute military successes or promise responses. For the populations living close to the most dangerous zones, however, the questions are far more concrete: who comes to assess the damage? Who meets the affected families? Who explains what happened, and what will be done to prevent it from happening again?
A government that has made security its principal justification cannot indefinitely content itself with discussing war from the offices of the capital.
A guarded centre, a pressured periphery
This is one of the most visible paradoxes of the system established since the coup d’état.
At the summit, the security of the regime has become an absolute priority. Signs of mistrust within the military apparatus itself, reshuffles in the hierarchy and a multiplication of control arrangements all point to a power preoccupied with its own stability.
Meanwhile, far from the political centre, the population faces a different kind of insecurity: the kind that kills, displaces, closes schools, destroys local economies and upends everyday life.
Two realities appear to coexist. On one side, a government focused on its survival and on securing its own apparatus. On the other, citizens still waiting for the promise of protection made after the coup to translate into their daily lives.
Sovereignty, after all, should not stop at the gates of Niamey.
The price that exposed communities continue to pay
Behind every military communiqué lies a reality that official figures rarely convey in full.
- Families leaving their villages.
- Farmers hesitating to return to their fields.
- Traders whose businesses have been paralysed.
- Children whose schooling has been disrupted.
- Entire communities awaiting the next attack.
It is precisely in these territories that the success or failure of the transition ought to be measured. Not only in official ceremonies. Not solely in speeches about sovereignty. But in the state’s capacity to protect those who have no escort, no palace and no special security detail.
A political failure as much as a military one
The problem is not exclusively military; it is also political. When a population feels that its leaders are visible at ceremonies, in speeches and in announcements, yet absent when danger strikes, confidence inevitably begins to erode.
Sovereignty proclaimed versus sovereignty exercised
The CNSP has built a substantial part of its image on a break with the previous system. New partners, a new diplomatic discourse, denunciation of foreign influence: communication around sovereignty has become one of the regime’s cornerstones.
But communication is no substitute for presence.
A state may announce victories. It may denounce its adversaries. It may mobilise the vocabulary of patriotism and resistance. One question nevertheless remains: do populations genuinely feel better protected?
This is where official discourse meets its limits. Sovereignty is not measured solely by the number of foreign partners expelled or welcomed. It is also measured by a state’s capacity to control its territory and protect its citizens, particularly those living in the most vulnerable areas.
And when attacks continue and populations remain exposed, slogans eventually collide with a reality far harder to disguise.
Questions the transition cannot defer indefinitely
The question now facing Niger goes beyond the person of General Abdourahamane Tiani. It concerns an entire system of governance.
Can a seizure of power continue to be justified by the security failures of the previous regime without accepting, three years later, to be judged on the same ground?
Can proximity to the people be claimed while populations in the most exposed areas wait for a more visible state presence?
And above all, how long can a transition ask the population to be patient while the promise that founded its arrival in power remains largely unfulfilled?
True patriotism is not measured by the force of a speech. It is also measured by a leader’s capacity to look his people’s suffering in the face, to go where the state is expected, to acknowledge failures as well as victories, and to understand that a government does not protect a nation from the offices of the capital alone.
Where the real assessment will be made
In Niger, the authorities continue to speak of sovereignty, security and rupture. But in the areas where attacks persist, a different reality imposes its own questions.
Can a regime present itself as the saviour of a people without going to meet those who live daily with the consequences of insecurity?
This is perhaps where the true record of the transition lies. Not in the slogans. Not in the ceremonies. Not in televised statements. But on those roads, in those villages and alongside those families who, when attacks occur, are still waiting to learn whether the state will genuinely reach them.
For governing a country at war does not consist solely of protecting the government. It consists, above all, of not leaving the people alone in the face of war.
