An examination of the growing distance between the security narrative advanced by the transitional authorities and the daily experience of communities exposed to armed attacks.

A promised rupture, an uncertain reality

They pledged to reclaim control. To restore safety. To return to Niger its sovereignty and its dignity. Three years on from the July 2023 coup d’État, the Conseil national pour la sauvegarde de la patrie (CNSP) continues to frame its seizure of power as a historic break with the past.

Yet far from Niamey, a different picture emerges.

In areas repeatedly struck by armed groups, residents continue to live with fear, uncertainty and, at times, the sense of having been abandoned to their own devices. Villages are hit, families displaced, livelihoods paralysed. And one question recurs with insistence: where are the leaders when the attacks come?

For it is perhaps here that one of the most troubling contradictions of this military transition resides.

Security as a promise, distance as a practice

Since taking power, the CNSP has made the security question one of the principal arguments for its legitimacy. The overthrow of President Mohamed Bazoum was justified, among other things, 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 shape the rhythm of daily life. Against this backdrop, one observation fuels questions: the officials who embody the transition rarely appear in the areas directly affected, at the moment when inhabitants are confronting the consequences of attacks.

The 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 see the damage? Who meets the affected families? Who explains what happened and what will be done to prevent it from happening again?

A power that has made security its principal justification cannot indefinitely content itself with discussing war from the offices of the capital.

Niamey under watch, the periphery under pressure

It is one of the most visible paradoxes of the system put in place 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, changes in the hierarchy and the multiplication of control measures testify to a power preoccupied with its own stability.

Meanwhile, far from the political centre, populations remain confronted with another insecurity: the kind that kills, displaces, closes schools, destroys the local economy 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 in the aftermath of the coup to translate concretely into their daily lives.

Sovereignty, however, should not stop at the gates of Niamey.

The price paid by those living through the war

Behind every military communiqué lies a reality that official figures rarely convey in its full dimension.

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 success or failure of the transition 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 that outstrips engagement with the ground

The CNSP has built a significant part 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 pillars of the regime.

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 genuinely feel more protected?

It is here that 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 zones.

And when attacks continue and populations remain exposed, slogans eventually collide with a reality far harder to disguise.

The silence of the ground, the echo of speeches

The question now facing Niger goes beyond the person of General Abdourahamane Tiani alone.

It concerns an entire system of governance.

Can one continue to justify a seizure of power by the former regime’s security failures without accepting, three years later, to be judged on the same ground?

Can one claim closeness to the people 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 be patient while the promise that served as the foundation of its arrival in 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 look his people’s suffering in the face.

To go where the state is expected.

To own failures as well as victories.

And to understand that a power 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 continue to strike, 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?

It is perhaps here that the true assessment of the transition lies.

Not in slogans.

Not in ceremonies.

Not in televised declarations.

But on those roads, in those villages and among those families who, when attacks occur, are still waiting to know whether the state will truly come to them.

For governing a country at war does not consist solely of protecting the power. It consists first of all of not leaving the people alone in the face of war.