An examination of the growing disconnect between the transition’s security discourse and the daily experiences of communities exposed to armed attacks.
A promised break that has yet to reach the periphery
They pledged to reclaim control. To restore safety. To return to Niger its sovereignty and dignity. Three years after the July 2023 coup, the National Council for the Safeguard of the Homeland (CNSP) continues to frame its seizure of power as a historic rupture.
Yet far from Niamey, a different reality is taking shape.
In areas regularly struck by armed groups, communities continue to live with fear, uncertainty and, at times, the feeling of being abandoned to their own fate. Villages are hit, families displaced, livelihoods paralysed. And one question returns insistently: where are the leaders when attacks occur?
This may well be one of the most troubling contradictions of the military transition.
Security as a founding promise, distance as a persistent fact
Since taking power, the CNSP has made security the central pillar of its legitimacy. The overthrow of President Mohamed Bazoum was justified in part by the deterioration of the security situation.
The promise was clear: to do better.
Yet in the regions most exposed to violence, particularly in the west of the country, attacks continue to dictate the rhythm of daily life. Against this backdrop, a persistent observation fuels questions: the officials who embody the transition rarely appear in the areas directly affected, at the very moment residents confront the aftermath of attacks.
Authorities communicate from the capital. They announce operations, hail military victories or promise responses. But for populations living near the most dangerous zones, the question is 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 primary justification cannot indefinitely content itself with discussing war from the offices of the capital.
Niamey under watch, the periphery under pressure
This is one of the most visible paradoxes of the system established since the coup.
At the top, the regime’s security has become an absolute priority. Signs of mistrust within the military apparatus itself, changes in the hierarchy and the multiplication of control measures all point to a power preoccupied with its own stability.
Meanwhile, far from the political centre, populations remain confronted with a different insecurity: one that kills, displaces, closes schools, destroys local economies and upends daily life.
Two realities appear to coexist.
On one side, a power focused on its survival and the securing of its apparatus. On the other, citizens still waiting for the promise of protection made after the coup to translate concretely into their daily lives.
Sovereignty, however, should not stop at the gates of Niamey.
The human cost borne by exposed communities
Behind every military communiqué lies a reality that official figures rarely capture in full.
There are families leaving their villages.
Farmers hesitating to return to their fields.
Traders whose activities are paralysed.
Children whose schooling is disrupted.
And entire communities living in anticipation of the next attack.
It is precisely in these territories that the transition’s success or failure should be measured.
Not only in official ceremonies.
Not solely in speeches about sovereignty.
But in the state’s capacity to protect those who have neither escort, nor palace, nor special security detail.
The problem is not merely military. It is also political.
For when a population feels that its leaders are visible for ceremonies, speeches and announcements but absent when danger strikes, confidence inevitably begins to erode.
Communication as a substitute for presence
The CNSP has built much of its image on a break with the former system. New partners, a new diplomatic discourse, denunciation of foreign influences: communication around sovereignty has become one of the regime’s pillars.
But communication does not replace presence.
A state can announce victories. It can denounce its adversaries. It can mobilise the vocabulary of patriotism and resistance.
Yet one question remains: do populations truly feel more protected?
This is where official discourse meets its limits.
For sovereignty is not measured solely by the number of foreign partners one expels or welcomes. 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.
When attacks continue and populations remain exposed, slogans eventually collide with a reality far harder to disguise.
The silence of the field, the echo of speeches
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 former regime’s security failures without accepting, three years later, to be judged on the same ground?
Can proximity to the people be claimed while leaving populations in the most exposed areas waiting for a more visible state presence?
And above all, how long can a transition ask the population to wait while the promise that underpinned its rise to power remains largely unfulfilled?
True patriotism is not measured by the power of a speech.
It is also measured by a leader’s capacity to confront the suffering of his people directly.
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.
The real test
In Niger, the authorities continue to speak of sovereignty, security and rupture.
But in the areas where attacks persist, another 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 may be where the true assessment of the transition lies.
Not in slogans.
Not in ceremonies.
Not in televised statements.
But on those roads, in those villages and among those families who, when attacks occur, still wait to know whether the state will truly come to them.
For governing a country at war is not only about protecting power. It is first and foremost about not leaving the people alone in the face of war.
