The commitment was unambiguous: reclaim control, restore security, and return to Niger its sovereignty and its dignity. Almost three years after the July 2023 coup d’état, the Conseil national pour la sauvegarde de la patrie (CNSP) still presents its seizure of power as a historic rupture with the past.

Yet far from Niamey, an altogether different reality has taken shape.

An examination of the growing divide between the security rhetoric of the transition and the everyday experience of communities exposed to armed attacks.

A promise of protection issued from the capital

Since taking power, the CNSP has placed the security question at the centre of its claim to legitimacy. The overthrow of President Mohamed Bazoum was justified, among other grounds, by the deterioration of the security situation. The pledge was simple enough: to perform better than those who preceded them.

In the regions most heavily exposed to violence, particularly in the western part of the country, attacks continue to dictate the rhythm of daily existence. As this reality persists, an unsettling observation gains ground: the figures who embody the transition are seldom seen in the areas that are struck directly, precisely when residents are dealing with the aftermath.

Statements from a distance, consequences on the ground

The authorities communicate from the capital. They announce operations, commend military successes and promise responses. For communities living near the most dangerous zones, however, the questions are considerably more concrete: who comes to assess the damage? Who meets the families affected? Who explains what occurred, and what will be done so that it does not recur?

A government that has made security its principal justification cannot, over the long term, confine itself to discussing war from the offices of the capital.

A capital kept under watch, peripheral regions under strain

This is among 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 distrust within the military apparatus itself, reshuffles in the hierarchy and the multiplication of control mechanisms all point to a power deeply preoccupied with its own stability.

In the meantime, far from the political centre, the population contends with a different form of insecurity: the kind that kills, displaces, shuts schools, dismantles local economies and disrupts ordinary life.

Two realities therefore appear to coexist. On one side, a power focused on its survival and on securing its own apparatus. On the other, citizens still waiting for the promise of protection made in the aftermath of the coup to take concrete form in their daily lives.

Sovereignty, after all, ought not to halt at the gates of Niamey.

The price borne by those living in the line of fire

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

• Families abandoning their villages.
• Farmers hesitating to return to their fields.
• Traders whose activity has been brought to a standstill.
• Children whose schooling has been interrupted.
• Whole communities living in expectation of the next attack.

It is precisely within these territories that the success or failure of the transition ought to be measured. Not merely in official ceremonies. Not solely in declarations about sovereignty. But in the capacity of the state to protect those who have neither escort, nor palace, nor dedicated security arrangement.

A political difficulty as much as a military one

The problem is not exclusively military. It is also political. When a population senses that its leaders are visible at ceremonies, in speeches and in announcements, yet absent when danger strikes, trust inevitably begins to erode.

Communication as a substitute for presence

The CNSP constructed a substantial part of its image on the break with the former system. New partners, a new diplomatic vocabulary, the denunciation of foreign influence: communication around sovereignty has become one of the pillars of the regime.

Yet communication does not replace presence. A state may announce victories. It may denounce its adversaries. It may mobilise the language of patriotism and resistance. But one question remains unanswered: do the populations genuinely feel better protected?

What sovereignty actually measures

This is where official discourse encounters its limits. Sovereignty is not gauged solely by the number of foreign partners expelled or welcomed. It is also gauged by the ability of a state to control its territory and to shield its citizens, above all 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.

The silence of the ground and the echo of official speeches

The question now confronting Niger reaches beyond General Abdourahamane Tiani alone. It concerns an entire system of governance.

Can a seizure of power continue to be justified by the security failings of the previous regime without accepting, three years on, to be judged on the very same ground? Can closeness to the people be claimed while leaving the inhabitants of the most exposed areas awaiting a more visible state presence? And above all, how long may a transition ask its population to be patient while the promise that underpinned its arrival in power remains largely unfulfilled?

Genuine patriotism is not measured by the strength of a speech. It is also measured by the capacity of a leader to look his people’s suffering in the face. To travel where the state is expected. To acknowledge failures as well as victories. And to grasp that a power does not protect a nation from the offices of the capital alone.

Where the transition will ultimately be judged

In Niger, the authorities continue to speak of sovereignty, of security and of rupture. But in the zones 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 each day with the consequences of insecurity?

This may well be 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 power. It means, above all, refusing to leave the people alone with the war.