They pledged to reclaim control. To restore security. To give Niger back its sovereignty and its dignity. Three years after the July 2023 coup d’État, the Conseil national pour la sauvegarde de la patrie (CNSP) continues to present its assumption of power as a historic rupture.
Yet far from Niamey, a very different reality has emerged.
In zones regularly struck by armed groups, communities keep living with fear, uncertainty and, at times, the sense of having been left to their own fate. Villages are hit, families are displaced, livelihoods are paralysed. And a question returns with insistence: where are the leaders when the attacks occur?
It is here, perhaps, that one of the most troubling contradictions of this military transition lies.
Security as a promise, distance as a practice
Since taking power, the CNSP has made the security question one of the central pillars of its legitimacy. The removal of President Mohamed Bazoum was justified, among other things, by the deterioration of the security situation.
The commitment was unambiguous: to do better.
And yet, in the regions most exposed to violence — particularly in the west of the country — attacks continue to set the rhythm of daily life. Against that backdrop, one observation fuels widespread questioning: the officials who embody the transition are rarely seen in the areas directly affected, at the very moment when residents are confronting the aftermath of an attack.
Communication is issued from the capital. Operations are announced, military successes are praised, responses are promised. For those living close to the most dangerous zones, however, the questions are far more concrete: who comes to assess the damage? Who meets the families affected? Who explains what happened and what will be done to prevent it from happening again?
A regime that has made security its principal justification cannot indefinitely confine itself to discussing war from the offices of the capital.
A capital under watch, outlying areas under strain
This is among the most visible paradoxes of the system established since the coup d’État.
At the top, the protection 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 mechanisms all point to a power preoccupied with its own stability.
Meanwhile, far from the political centre, citizens face a different form of insecurity — the kind that kills, displaces, closes schools, destroys local economies and upends everyday life.
Two realities therefore appear to coexist. On one side, an authority 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 take concrete form in their daily lives.
Sovereignty, after all, should not stop at the gates of Niamey.
The human cost concealed behind official statements
Behind every military communiqué lies a reality that official figures rarely capture in full.
- Families leaving their villages.
- Farmers hesitant to return to their fields.
- Traders whose businesses have been brought to a halt.
- Children whose schooling has been disrupted.
- Entire communities living in anticipation of the next attack.
It is precisely in these territories that the success or failure of the transition ought to be measured.
Not solely 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 dedicated security arrangement.
The difficulty is not military alone; it is also political. When a population feels that its leaders are visible at ceremonies, in speeches and in announcements but absent when danger strikes, confidence inevitably begins to erode.
When messaging outweighs engagement with the ground
The CNSP has built a substantial part of its image on a break with the previous system. New partners, a new diplomatic discourse, the denunciation of foreign influence: communication around sovereignty has become one of the regime’s mainstays.
But communication does not replace presence.
A state may announce victories. It may denounce its adversaries. It may mobilise the vocabulary of patriotism and resistance. One question nonetheless remains: do people genuinely feel better protected?
This is where official discourse encounters its limits. Sovereignty is not measured only by the number of foreign partners expelled or welcomed. It is also measured by a state’s capacity to control its territory and to protect its citizens, especially those living in the most vulnerable areas.
And when attacks persist while communities remain exposed, slogans eventually collide with a reality far harder to disguise.
Questions that a 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, that one should be judged by the same standard?
Can closeness to the people be claimed while the populations of the most exposed areas wait for a more visible state presence?
And above all, how long can a transition ask its people to be patient while the promise that underpinned its arrival in power remains largely unfulfilled?
Genuine patriotism is not measured by the force of a speech. It is measured by a leader’s capacity to look the suffering of his people in the face, to travel 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, 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?
That may be where the true record of the transition lies. Not in slogans. Not in ceremonies. Not in televised declarations. But on those roads, in those villages and alongside those families who, when attacks occur, are still waiting to know whether the state will truly reach them.
For governing a country at war is not merely a matter of protecting the government. It means, above all, refusing to leave the people alone in the face of war.
