Afrique XXI

DR Congo. The dangers of pushing through a new political order

Erik Kennes — 2026-07-01T09:21:41Z

In this article, the researcher questions Congolese President Félix Tshisekedi's determination to impose a new constitution against the backdrop of the war raging in the east of the country. In the absence of a clear consensus and legitimacy, the researcher fears that this plan could lead to a resurgence of violence.

The current war in East Congo has been going on for four and a half years. It is the sixth or seventh Rwandan aggression of the DRC, whereby each time local grievances in the DRC are manipulated by Kigali to implement its own security and economic agenda. This is as long as the previous and more comprehensive 1998-2002 war, and it has basically the same causes, putting a Rwandan expansionist military strategy against an ineffective management of the state and its army in the DRC. It seems that Mobutu, Joseph Kabila, and Felix Tshisekedi all seem to consider an efficient army as a potential threat to their personal power.

President Tshisekedi maintains consistently an anti-Kagame stance, earning him some popularity all over the country. His failure to make this a reality on the ground however creates doubts about his real intentions or at least about the realism of his strategy. Some observers say that President Tshisekedi takes advantage from the ongoing war to implement his personal political agenda - which unfortunately may throw the country into even deeper instability.

A new constitution in times of war?

Tshisekedi indeed wants to modify or to replace the current constitution, allegedly for technical flaws in the current text, dispositions allowing foreigners to appropriate DRC natural resources, or problems with decentralization of prohibiting efficient governance. None of these arguments currently justify a constitutional overhaul in a situation of war with the Rwanda-supported M23/AFC movement. The real objective is clearly the abolition of the limits to presidential mandates, which would allow the current president to remain indefinitely in power.

The regime in power goes ahead. A law proposal to organize a referendum is currently being approved in the DRC parliament, and it includes a procedure for constitutional modification or replacement starting with the preliminary creation of a consultative commission. This would be followed by the transformation of the current parliament into a constituent assembly which would approve the new constitutional text before submitting it to a referendum.

Legitimacy problems

Obviously, every people has the right to modify the constitutional rules. However, the adoption of a new constitution or substantially new constitutional order requires legitimacy, a broad consensus, and a climate of peace.

The current Parliament, which according to the law on referenda would become a constituent assembly, lacks the necessary legitimacy to engage in a reform as fundamental as the re-writing of the DRC Constitution. The 2023 legislative and presidential elections were indeed widely recognized as fraudulent and marred with many irregularities: the many fake votes falsified the result – which were never published in detail. The composition of the National Assembly reflects internal political arrangements among the political elite rather than the popular vote. The coalition in power is also dominated by members of the President's community of origin and support, reducing its representativeness in a country where balanced representation has always been key to its legitimacy. The many protests from civil society and the political opposition demonstrate that a consensus is lacking. The powerful Catholic Church, in its most recent statement dating from 19 June, reject this project fearing the permanent division of the country – with two different constitutions in government-controlled and M23-controlled areas – and even a civil war. The protestant churches declared the organization of a national and inclusive dialogue a necessary condition to introduce constitutional changes – which is refused by President Tshisekedi.

Instead, a state and party-led propaganda machine is currently trying to force through the reform in public opinion, with the help of imposed academic conferences, infiltrated WhatsApp networks, evangelic preachers turning a legal debate into an act of faith, media control, and repression of dissident opinions. A worrying evolution is the mobilization of violent party militias to intimidate opponents to a change, labeling these “traitors working for Kagame.” Violence is used not only against peaceful demonstrations but also targets the Catholic Church. The national police reportedly even cooperate with these militias.

What is at stake?

The implications of this operation may not be underestimated. The current constitution (art. 219) prohibits any modification in wartime or when there is a state of emergency; we have both at present. This disrespect of the constitution does not seem to be of concern to the authorities. More importantly, its replacement, or the modification of its key elements, implies abolishing the constitutional order introduced in 2006, approved by referendum. It also means terminating the political compromise on which it was founded, without reflecting it: the agreements of Sun City and Pretoria concluded between the parties who waged a four-year war in 1998-2002, and by a broad representation of the unarmed political opposition and civil society.

This provided a large support to the 2006 constitution which was drafted by a group of DRC constitutional experts1. One of its key objectives was to resolve the DRC legitimacy crisis since 1960 and to block any return to a Mobutu-like dictatorship. Its art. 220 thus includes a prohibition to touch on the number and duration of presidential mandates, which were fixed at two terms of five years. It includes a system of checks and balances and provisions to integrate and respect minorities. The 2006 constitution ensured political stability until today, even if it must be admitted that both the Kabila and Tshisekedi regimes hollowed out many of its provisions. In sum: this is not the time for an insufficiently representative regime to impose a new constitution when the country is territorially and politically divided.

“Genuine nationalists” vs. “traitors”

To justify the abolition of the 2006 constitution, the current coalition in power considers the entire 1997-2018 period (regimes of Kabila father and son) as dominated by Kigali and thus illegitimate2. They argue that foreigners wrote the constitution and that Joseph Kabila is either Rwandan or at least subservient to Rwandan national interests. Kabila is suspected of supporting financially and politically the M23/AFC movement and was therefore condemned to death by a military tribunal, without tangible proof. The activities of his political party are prohibited and several of its leading officials were arrested. Criticism of the president is prohibited, and a service of digital surveillance identifies and arrests critics on the social media. An important number of military officers, mostly of Katangese origin and supposedly related to Kabila, have been arrested, causing a de-structuring of the government army. Many opposition leaders are in exile. Opponents to the constitutional change are depicted by UDPS militants as “traitors” and “working for Kigali.”

In contrast, the coalition in power portrays itself as genuine Congolese nationalists who redirect the country to its own roots, beyond any foreign influence. This implies a return to the situation in 1997 when Mobutu was forced to abandon power. In fact, the regime currently includes several references to practices reminiscent of the Mobutu regime.

More importantly, the current regime is heading back to the exclusion of the Tutsi population as existed by the end of the Mobutu regime, preparing the area for a new round of violence. Although the persecution of the Tutsis – cited as justification for the attack on Kigali – is not yet institutionalised or systemic, it represents a future threat implied by the stance of the Tshisekedi regime, which constantly refers to ‘true Congolese'. This is intimately tied to the fundamental division in the DRC between the Lingala-speaking West vs. the Swahili – speaking East: with the succession of Kabila by Tshisekedi, the balance tilted over from the East back to the West.

UDPS is beyond current constitutional order

The plan to introduce a new constitution can partly be explained by the history of the UDPS party. The UDPS was created in 1982 by a group of MPs3 and led by the charismatic Etienne Tshisekedi, father of the current president. Under the Mobutu regime it was the biggest, most representative, and most efficient opposition party against his dictatorial rule- but it failed to overtake power. The regime of Laurent Kabila which had come to power with military means, marginalized the UDPS and, during the 2001-2002 negotiations to end the war as well as during the 2003-2006 transition, the UDPS kept itself outside the negotiation process and missed several opportunities to influence the outcome. The party, because of the struggle it has been waging since 1982 first against Mobutu and then again against Laurent Kabila, always considered itself as legitimately entitled to power beyond any negotiation with other members of the political elite. The party also prided itself on its non-violence and refusal to engage in armed struggle. This means that they do not consider themselves as bound either by the 2002 political compromise nor by the constitutional process. They appealed to the population to vote against the 2006 constitution during the December 2005 referendum.

UDPS is no longer what it was

The ruling coalition also has an internal legitimacy problem. Even if the party claims it is legitimately entitled to power, the President ensured that it has limited impact on his own personal rule. The UDPS is currently led on behalf of the presidential family by a contested secretary general who uses party militia rather than experienced party officials to rule and to impose his views. Many long standing and experienced UDPS officials feel betrayed for their many years in struggle for ideals which are no longer respected and replaced by scandals of corruption and embezzlement. At the same time, the prospect of being able to remain in power may silence dissident voices inside the UDPS while many hope still to benefit from “their” regime.

Tshisekedi seems to be convinced that he can push through his political agenda in wartime thanks to the strong support from the USA which took painful sanctions against Rwanda's government army and leading officers from Rwanda and the M23 for failing to respect the peace agreement undersigned by both the Rwandan and the RDC presidents and imposed by Washington. These sanctions indeed seem to influence a withdrawal of support from Rwanda for the M23.

However, it is not certain that the USA will reap the expected benefits from its unilateral support for Tshisekedi. Its strategic partnership with the RDC includes a maximum of guarantees for the US to secure stable supply lines in CRMs, and the DRC is clearly willing to offer the USA maximum possible entrance into the DRC mining sector. However, the DRC mining sector is still dominated by Chinese interests, and Tshisekedi, in the hypothesis that he recovers East Congo, may easily reveal himself to be a much less trusted partner than expected: his many diplomatic reversals on the international scene are ill-reputed. The US support seems to be founded on a very shallow and short-term understanding of the complexity of the ongoing conflict.

It must be underlined that Tshisekedi does not respect the Washington peace agreement either. He still seems to believe in a military victory over the M23 movement, thanks to the use of drones, foreign mercenaries and the many armed groups which were outlawed before the war but are now officially part of a reserve force of the national FARDC army and known as patriots or wazalendo. The FDLR plays a key role in the government's offensive operations. Even if the government would reintegrate East Congo into the national realm, it will be confronted with a huge problem of generalized instability because of the armed groups it will no longer be able to keep in line, all claiming their due for the patriotic struggle. The government is currently already incapable of managing the many violent armed groups in Ituri and even in the vicinity of Kinshasa with the Mobondo. Imposing a new constitution in a divided country against resistance may easily increase instability rather than containing it. The increasing use of violent party militias may powerfully ignite more conflict and countermobilization which will be difficult to contain in a country where loyalty is most often monetized. It is thus highly likely that the imposition of a new constitution and the monopolization of power by the ruling coalition will lead to more instability and more repression.

IF the DRC president – as seems likely – is unable or currently unwilling to recover the occupied territories, a constitutional referendum will only be held in the parts of the country controlled by Kinshasa. The M23/AFFC will declare its support for the 2006 constitution, and we will be heading for a partition of the DR Congo.

The need for a broad national consensus

Thisekedi does not seem to realize that a new constitutional order can only be introduced if founded on a broad national consensus and minimal stability all over the country. Therefore, the Catholic and Protestant Churches, representing a substantial part of the population, suggest organizing an inclusive national dialogue with all relevant actors to reach a consensus on the way forward for the country. The dialogue would not be a self-interested conference of the political elite but a channel to let the population heard and the fundamental problems which led to the war put on the table, but In August 2025, the presidential staff had reached an agreement on the dialogue but a presidential decision for its organization was never issued. This proposal was also endorsed by the mediator in the conflict appointed by the African Union, the Angolan President Joao Lourenço. Unfortunately, President Tshisekedi chooses to impose his project at the price of diplomatic isolation in the region. He snubbed the initiatives taken by the African Union and regional organizations to solve the conflict despite declarations to the contrary. Tshisekedi in the African context appears thus as unreliable and dependent on US support. At the same time, this relative isolation is parallelled by the loss of support for the militaristic and expansionist president Kagame.

It is time for President Tshisekedi to implement the real ideals of the UDPS party for which many Congolese offered their life, instead of cementing the power of a presidential family and its community. If not, we will probably be heading for new cycles of violence and repetitive struggles for power which prohibit the country from building further on its past achievements.

Ronnie Kasrils. “One cannot overestimate the bravery of the Soweto generation”

Victoria Brittain — 2026-06-16T04:00:00Z

Fifty years ago, hundreds of South Africans were murdered by the apartheid regime during the famous Soweto uprisings. For the former chief of ANC's military intelligence, this event inspired a whole generation of new fighters and led, twenty years later, to the fall of the racist regime in Pretoria.

On June 16 1976 in apartheid South Africa 10,000 schoolchildren walked out of schools in Soweto heading to Orlando Stadium for a rally protesting the new law replacing teaching in English with Afrikaans. The move to “the language of the oppressor,” which neither black students or teachers spoke fluently, if at all, doomed their education's future level.

A brutal police attack in response, with batons, teargas and live ammunition, killed 176 children in Soweto, with uncounted hundreds wounded that day, and ignited months of rebellion across South Africa with hundreds more killed by police. The photograph by Sam Nzima of dying 12 year old Hector Pieterson, carried by distraught Mbuyisa Makhubo and his Hector's sister, Antoinette, running from police, became the symbol of the rebellion seen across the world. June 16 is a public holiday in South Africa, known internationally as The Day of the African Child.

Ronnie Kasrils joined the liberation movement at the age of 21, in response to the 1960 Sharpeville massacre by the police killing 69 people, and he became active in sabotage actions by the ANC underground in Durban. He was a founding member of MK, the ANC's military wing, was trained in the Soviet Union, was in action in Angola, Mozambique and Swaziland from the late 1970s and became Head of Intelligence in 1983.

He was in the ANC's National Executive Committee and the Central Committee of the South African Communist Party. After the overthrow of apartheid he headed three ministries, including Defence and Intelligence. He is the author of several books on the the struggle for South Africa's freedom from apartheid, and has witnessed up close the price paid by so many heroic unknown people.

Victoria Brittain: Let's start with where you were and how you heard about the Soweto massacre of school children. What was your first thought and who did you want to talk to first?

Ronnie Kasrils: I was in London, in a Hampstead pub, debriefing a comrade from South Africa. He was reporting that things were buzzing back home. Unbelievably, the TV news came through about the rebellion, and that the Apartheid police had opened fire, resulting in a score or so of school children killed and injured, in the initial police response. Naturally this elevated our discussion ten-fold. Our initial concern was about the likely level of police response.

Immediately the conversation honed in on the extent of the resistance and likelihood of it spreading. I rushed to discuss with Joe Slovo and Yusuf Dadoo who I served under. They were glued to the BBC World Service which had more thorough updates of that day's events. They were as anxious and elated as I was. I distinctly recall the feeling that a dramatic turning point back home was underway, and that my life was bound to change again.

The ferment affected all Soweto, young and old, students and workers. It spread across the country, drawing in entire communities, particularly in Johannesburg, in Cape Town where many were killed, and many in the Cape among the so-called Coloured or mixed-race youth.

To underline the point that the uprising was not confined to school students, I want to point out that state pathologist reports show that in the two months following the 16 June killings, over 50 per cent of those killed were over 20 years old, and 20 per cent over 30. In that period three protest strikes took place. (Statement of the SACP, April 1977, African Communist, No. 70). The International Defence and Aid Fund (IDAF) calculated 619 were slaughtered between June 16 to the end of 1976.

Victoria Brittain: Were you then expecting this level of resistance from the school children to the law enforcing teaching only in Afrikaans?

Ronnie Kasrils.

Ronnie Kasrils: When something as dramatic as this happens, one is stunned by the magnitude, but in fact there had been signs of mounting challenges to apartheid rule. We had had reports from our underground structures of mounting resentment by high school students of that new law the previous year enforcing the Afrikaans language in black schools. It was clearly an ideological tool for submission – part of the Bantu Education policy designed to train Africans for inferiority and servitude. The English language was considered too liberal.

Along with other manifestations of protest, the demonstration of June 16 was called by a barely noticed South African Schools Movement (SASM), which had emerged to campaign against the Bantu Education Act. This national organisation had emerged alongside the Black Consciousness Movement (BCM) popular among university students. The South African Students Organisation (SASO) too was formed in this environment of growing worker protests, including a militant strike wave in 1973. A radical group of students provided important research for the workers. The increase in strikes reflected the worsening economic conditions of the black population. An economic slump was underway following a boom in the late 1960s, with a rise in inflation particularly affecting black households, linked to the constraints of the apartheid system, a fall in the price of gold, and the rising defence budget.

A key factor was the collapse of Portuguese colonialism in 1974, and the huge significance of the liberation of Mozambique and Angola in 1975. Imagine then the rise in courage and anticipation that liberation was coming to South Africa, and the impact on those suffering oppression. In response, violent repression by the state intensified. The shooting of protesting strikers, and deaths in police custody, heightened the expectations of state violence. In fact, this was an everyday reality and underlines the courage it took to confront the police and the military.

Then came the forced retreat of the South African Defence Force (SADF) from Angola in January 1976, after Cuban forces had come to Angola's assistance, following the Apartheid regime's invasion the previous year, (supported by Washington) to prevent the MPLA coming to power. We all had dramatically heightened expectations that change was coming.

The signs were there that the apartheid system would be challenged by the black workers and masses, and in the liberation movement we always had an optimistic outlook. But to be frank, I can't say that the catalyst for a turning point at the level of high school students could have been forecast. The expectation of state violence was another matter. In a racist, settler colonialism system, such as apartheid, extreme state terror over the indigenous people supported by a fearful settler community, was always the norm, and we certainly were not naïve about that. This is exactly why armed struggle for change had been adopted at the time of the Sharpeville massacre of 1960. Soweto in 1976 demolished the myth that the apartheid security forces were able to destroy the people's fighting spirit.

Victoria Brittain: Looking back now, how do you assess that 1976 moment as a key marker in the long struggle to end apartheid. Where does it rank with, for instance, Kliptown and the Freedom Charter in 1955; Sharpeville in 1960; the Rivonia trial 1963/64; the Morogoro conference in Tanzania and the launch of Revolutionary People's War by MK 1969?

Ronnie Kasrils: You certainly cite key inflexion points that have transformed and shaped South Africa's history, both policy highlights and contextualised events, advances and setbacks, of enormous significance. Each one of these examples ushered in a new period in the national liberation struggle against white domination.

The Freedom Charter, based on grass roots demands and mobilisation, reflected the aspirations of an oppressed people for a non-racist, democratic country and is the root of our democratic Constitution. The Sharpeville massacre marked the parting from non-violent struggle and the turn to armed methods. The Rivonia arrests, trial and imprisonment of the Mandela leadership, aimed to smash the liberation movement, but saw its survival and recovery from exile. The strategy and tactics of the Morogoro Conference began the long process of that recovery, but faced enormous difficulties, particularly being far from the country and the people, and with an organised internal presence that had been crushed.

Hector Pieterson, shot dead, in the arms of Mbuyisa Makhubo, and Hector's sister, Antoinette, all three fleeing the apartheid police on 16 June 1976 in Soweto.

Sam Nzima

It was the Soweto Uprising which spread throughout the country, first as a student rebellion, but soon drawing in the involvement of the broader masses, particularly the working class and trade union movement, minority groups, grass roots communities and faith-based entities, providing the social forces of the People's War that the Morogoro strategy articulated, but failed to implement in the pre-Soweto period.

The immediate aftermath of the Soweto events was a flood of recruits, hundreds and then thousands, of overwhelmingly young people, primarily black African, but including mixed race and those of Indian descent, as well as some white youth, joining uMkhonto weSizwe (MK was the ANC's armed wing, jointly formed in 1961 by the ANC and SACP).(PSE NOTE this spelling of the name is Correct!) This coincided with the favourable conditions of Angolan and Mozambican independence, and the provisions of vital training bases in Angola, and further afield in the socialist countries. One cannot underestimate what this meant in terms of revitalising MK and enabling the ANC to enter the rising people's struggle within the country, with trained military-political cadres and organisers.

It is relevant to stress that it was heroic military operations, albeit at a low level of capacity, in unfavourable circumstances, which contributed to and reinforced what developed into an almost insurrectionary mass uprising. It was that political factor, the masses, united and politically led, inspired by armed actions, that was our primary strength, reinforced by armed struggle, a growing underground network and international solidarity – what we called The Four Pillars of Struggle. This dialectical interconnection forced the apartheid regime into negotiations at the insistence of big business and the Western powers. They feared a Red Revolution.

In retrospect then, I would assess what you refer to as “ the 1976 moment,” not only as a key marker in the long struggle to end apartheid, but as a main turning point at the time. I qualify that, as I said, with the fortuitous fact that it coincided with the liberation of our neighbouring countries, Angola and Mozambique.

That opened the way for the surge of the internal struggle reinforced by regional and international events. Bear in mind that 1975 saw the victory of the Vietnamese over US Imperialism; 1980 the independence of Zimbabwe; 1987-88 the victory of Cuban-Angolan forces over the Apartheid forces at Cuito Cuanavale; the subsequent independence of Namibia in 1990; the 1990-94 breakthrough in South Africa – legalisation of the liberation movement, release of Mandela, the first democratic election. Undoubtedly, the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991 also provided the South African and Western powers an incentive to proceed with their reforms, but there is no denying that South Africa broke politically free from apartheid rule.

We are now at another stage of struggle, a most complex one given both internal and international challenges, but June 16^th has a very particular relevance to the opening of a stage that was reached by previous sacrifice, and an ongoing struggle for full socio-economic liberation – the unfinished transformation.

Victoria Brittain: Much has been written/said by Mandela and others of the ANC old guard in Robben Island about the initial impact of the young arrivals in the Island after Soweto, and about the culture clash with Black Consciousness. Mandela would say later that,“To be perceived as a moderate was a novel and not altogether pleasant feeling.” But Mandela asked some of the leaders of the Black Consciousness movement like Saths Cooper of the BPC and Strini Moodley of SASO, to give lectures to the older men. Mandela saw it as the greatest test of his political skills to relate in Robben Island to these impatient, angry young men – and he was deeply impressed by the fortitude of so many of them who had been tortured by the police, as he never had.

Ronnie Kasrils: Don't get carried away by Mandela only mentioning the BCM names. The ANC/SACP had established protracted and significant political classes and had its own newer prison contingent bringing news and contributing to the education programme.

Victoria Brittain: Post Soweto, tens of thousands of youths fled South Africa wanting to join the ANC in exile and fight. As an MK leader, how did you deal with the impact of this incoming shift of experience and ideology in the camps in the following years? Were this new generation also then trained in the Soviet Union and East Germany, like yours?

Ronnie Kasrils: This was an exceptional challenge for the ANC and Communist Party, and the MK stalwarts of the 1960s. In the crushing of organised structures at home, which had been set to receive their re-infiltration, they had tackled the difficult task of organising the struggle from far off Tanzanian exile, in dogged attempts to re-enter the country, after training initially in Egypt and Algeria, but mainly in the Soviet Union. That generation had participated in the guerrilla incursions into Zimbabwe in 1967-68, been involved in the Morogoro Conference of 1969, kept the ANC alive through MK as a fighting force in the frontline states, survived the prolonged exigencies of camp life, and were ready to shoulder responsibilities and tasks of leading and training a new generation of recruits who knew very little about the earlier struggles.

South Africa was a very changed place at the time of the Soweto uprising, compared to 1960, when the economy had been in the doldrums, and the ANC publicly prominent. Considerable investment by Western countries following the Sharpeville crisis and absence of organised labour, had seen the modernisation of the economy, development of infrastructure, prosperity of the white community, and increased repression to control black labour and silence the voice of resistance. The formulation of the Bantustan system aimed to confine black aspirations and unity into ethnic “independent” statelets, while, as I said, Bantu Education was to prepare the youth for servitude.

A new generation was deprived of knowledge of black struggle and history, with the older generation generally silent and sullen owing to intimidation and the vast network of spies and informers. The Black Consciousness Movement (BCM), strong on identity politics, raising pride and belief, and the incipient underground movement of the ANC-SACP, struggled from different ideological standpoints, to raise levels of awareness to some effect. It was material conditions, everyday indignity, injustice, persecution and repression, experienced at a race and class level, and sporadic efforts by ANC and SACP activists, the sacrifice of those on trial and imprisonment, that kept alive the historic spirit of freedom.

In the wake of the Soweto events, the question arises why the vast majority of youth who left the country, sought the ANC, rather than the BCM and PAC exiled structures? After all it had been black consciousness advocates, some extremely brave and outspoken such as Steve Biko, who had been publicly visible. Of course I do not minimise the role of ANC firebrands such as Winnie Mandela, Dorothy Nyembe, Harry Gwala, Lilian Ngoyi, Adelaide Sisulu, John Nkadimeng, Mac Maharaj, Joe Qabi, Jacob Zuma and others, who had been in and out of detention or under banning orders - the latter three released from Robben Island prior to 1976. They strongly influenced key younger activists in Soweto and around the country.

There were some who were partly drawn into liberation politics by making contacts with the ANC across the borders before June 1976, later to become leaders of the struggle, but most of that enormous recruitment were new to politics. They sought the ANC because it was the best organised in neighbouring Botswana, Lesotho and Swaziland, with organised leadership structures in Zambia, Mozambique and Tanzania. It had the infrastructure, the logistics, the safe houses, the routes north, the experienced cadres.

Above all the ANC had a rear training base in newly independent Angola able to accommodate over time thousands of recruits. The Soviet Union, with its considerable resources and willingness, had been the main source of advanced training from the early 1960s, for all the liberation movements, and was ready and able to continue that assistance at a higher level. Cubans provided training on the spot in Angola, with specialised courses in Cuba itself. Of note was the GDR promptly stepping in to provide excellent guerrilla and underground training from 1975 onwards. An initial batch of pre- June 1976 recruits was speedily trained, with some units infiltrating the country to carry out operations in the immediate wake of the uprising.

The first question new recruits raised was whether the ANC could give them guns so that they could immediately return home to “ kill the boers”. The previous generation, seasoned in struggle, were instinctively able to respond to that, whether full time cadres or not, some simply family members. It was the level of political experience. Response was universal. The need to understand what the struggle was about, the need for political as well as armed preparation, who the enemy was, who our allies were, the protracted nature of the struggle, the relevance of the Freedom Charter etc. What was surprising was how quickly those youngsters caught on. There was impatience, but they readily adapted to the long haul, whilst some were earmarked for what we called “crash courses,” and a swift turn around, to strike the enemy with acts of armed propaganda. Examples were firing bazookas into police stations or planting bombs at enemy targets. ANC teaching, that the enemy was a system that needed to be destroyed and not a skin colour, sank in.

In time, significant targets such as the bombing of the SASOL oil refinery, sabotage at the Koeberg nuclear plant, and missiles fired at police stations, including the SADF military headquarters, rocked South Africa. As much as we relied on socialist countries to provide training and the weaponry to wage armed struggle, we had our own military and political instructors providing training as well. A political curriculum, centred on the history of the liberation struggle, international guerrilla struggles, colonialism and imperialism, and Marxism was received with enormous enthusiasm.

I don't wish to provide this account by glossing over problems related to the difficulties of infiltrating cadres back home, the errors and casualties we suffered, the vast network of informers employed by the enemy, the infiltration into our ranks of spies, the betrayals and setbacks.

Despite all this, victory was won because of the justice of the cause, the overwhelming involvement of the masses in South Africa, and international support. One cannot overestimate the bravery, audacity, sacrifice and commitment of the Soweto generation, which stormed the ramparts of the apartheid system and white supremacy.

Victoria Brittain: And in a later period, when so many of you long time exiles were finally able to return to a new South Africa with so many complexities and so many secrets of history to come to terms with, do you think the Soweto generation retained some group identity? Or had that been subsumed in the ANC? And has the passion for education, which the Afrikaans teaching law was meant to kill, but which instead lit a fire, remained strong with South African leadership up to this very different era?

Ronnie Kasrils: Undoubtedly, they are a proud generation, and rightly so. Within the liberation movement, and especially MK, they exhibited the remarkable esprit de corps universally present in all revolutionary movements. Solving the problems of the people remains their cherished cause. It is vital that the younger generation, to which the baton of freedom has been passed, is educated and motivated for the next phase of revolutionary challenge.

Let us end with an example you have written about, illustrating the bravery, dignity and sacrifice of that Soweto generation and its links to earlier days: Nomkhosi Mini joined MK after the Soweto uprising and was assassinated by apartheid agents while on a secret mission to Maseru in Lesotho in 1985. She was the daughter of Vuyisile Mini, Port Elizabeth dockworkers' leader, singer, early MK leader and among the first ANC members to be hanged. In 1964 Mini, aged 44, sang freedom songs all night and as he walked to the gallows. He left an infant daughter, Nomkhosi.

Africa-France. Do you speak french army ?

Raphaël Granvaud — 2026-05-31T10:25:28Z

Security issues were barely discussed at the “Africa Forward” summit held in Kenya on 11–12 May 2026. Yet Kenya has become one of France's preferred partners in military cooperation. This relationship is no longer confined to the traditional Francophone “pré carré”. A closer look.

The official programme of the first Africa–France summit ever held in an English-speaking country, on 11–12 May 2026, did not include military issues. Yet it is easy to imagine that security matters were not entirely absent from informal discussions between certain heads of state. Moreover, the decision to hold the summit in a country such as Kenya was no coincidence, coming at a time when Nairobi and Paris have significantly deepened their military and security cooperation. This development has been presented as something new, although in reality it is not. France's military presence beyond its historic sphere of influence—the famous “pré carré”—has a long history.

To begin with, it is worth recalling that French military cooperation serves a variety of objectives, prioritised differently depending on the partner country: training military personnel at various levels of the hierarchy; providing assistance ranging from intelligence sharing to operational support in combat; promoting the French defence industry and, at times, other economic interests; or giving practical expression to strategic alliances decided by political authorities. Paris openly presents it as one of its main instruments of influence in Africa.

Arms sales and massacres

Since President Emmanuel Macron stopped there before the summit, let us begin with Egypt. Military cooperation between the two countries is longstanding, but its strengthening under the dictatorship of Field Marshal Abdel Fattah al-Sisi is a direct consequence of major French arms contracts signed in recent years: Gowind corvettes, multi-mission frigates, Dassault's first export contract for Rafale fighter jets in 2015, as well as armoured vehicles—even though some of those vehicles had already been used during the massacre that accompanied the military's seizure of power in July 2013, when nearly 1,000 people were killed.

The French embassy in Egypt is quite explicit on its webpage devoted to bilateral cooperation: “Initiated following the signing of the major arms contracts of 2015, the acceleration of Franco-Egyptian military cooperation took concrete form in 2017 with the creation of a High Military Committee.” Since then, “the defence relationship has become dense and military cooperation between the two countries has diversified”, resulting in “close and frequent relations between senior political and military authorities and, since 2023, the establishment of a bilateral strategic dialogue (DGRIS).”

Documents revealed in November 2021 showed that the French military hierarchy deliberately took advantage of the coup to promote French equipment and encourage political authorities to turn a blind eye to the new regime's ruthless repression. A few weeks later, Disclose also revealed the extent of France's involvement in Operation Sirli, a secret mission “launched in 2015 by the French army to provide aerial intelligence to the dictatorship of Field Marshal Abdel Fattah al-Sisi. Under the pretext of counter-terrorism, this intelligence was used to conduct a campaign of systematic bombings against civilians suspected of smuggling in the Western Desert along the Libyan border.” This criminal cooperation continued with the approval of Presidents François Hollande and Emmanuel Macron despite warnings from certain French officers. Franco-Egyptian rapprochement also benefited from a convergence of interests in the Libyan civil war, with both countries, alongside the United Arab Emirates, supporting Field Marshal Khalifa Haftar's attempt to seize power.

Mixed results

Under Emmanuel Macron, efforts to promote French military equipment have not diminished and help explain attempts to strengthen ties with Angola. In 2018, the two countries signed a defence cooperation agreement. Already a customer of Airbus helicopters, Angola hinted that it might also purchase French warships. Yet cooperation struggled to gain momentum, to the point where there was even talk for a time of closing the defence mission attached to the French embassy in Luanda, before it was simply downsized. Among the programmes implemented were French-language training courses for members of the National Police and the Angolan Armed Forces (FAA), intended to prepare participants for peacekeeping operations or exercises conducted in French. Such limited arrangements exist in many other non-Francophone countries.

France has had little more success in Ethiopia, where relations appeared promising after Abiy Ahmed came to power in 2018 and was controversially awarded the Nobel Peace Prize the following year. Emmanuel Macron's March 2019 tour of Djibouti, Ethiopia and Kenya provided an opportunity to strengthen security and economic cooperation and to sign a defence partnership agreement, accompanied by a substantial package of development aid. The objectives included rebuilding an Ethiopian navy and developing the country's air force.

However, by the time the agreement was ratified by the Ethiopian parliament in June 2021, the war in Tigray was raging and war crimes committed by Ethiopian forces had already been documented. At the time, Mediapart had “questioned, as early as January 2021, the nature of French defence cooperation with Ethiopia” and its future. The Ministry of the Armed Forces responded “only five months later, on 18 May, after eight written reminders”, the investigative outlet reported, falsely claiming that it had supplied no weapons to Addis Ababa.

Given the situation and the numerous atrocities committed by the Ethiopian army, France ultimately chose to suspend the military agreement in August 2021. It does not appear to have been reactivated to this day, despite Macron's return visit in December 2024 and another stop in the country on 13 May 2026 after the Nairobi summit. One possible reason is the geopolitics of the Horn of Africa and the contentious issue of Ethiopia's access to the sea, with France having other alliances to preserve in the region, notably with Egypt and Djibouti.

The Indian Ocean in focus

Further south, by contrast, economic and military ties between France and Kenya have continued to expand. President Uhuru Kenyatta had already hosted the “One Planet Summit”, dear to Macron, in March 2019. In 2023, the two countries signed a maritime cooperation agreement. As Africa Intelligence noted in May 2024, “since 2004 Paris has trained Kenyan officers at the Joint Defence College (CID) in Paris.”

At the end of 2025, a defence cooperation agreement was finally concluded, focused primarily on maritime cooperation and intelligence sharing. Peacekeeping training for participation in United Nations and African Union missions continues, as it does with other regional forces. It is provided by personnel from the French Forces in Djibouti, France's last major military base on the continent. Joint maritime exercises are also planned with the Armed Forces of the Southern Indian Ocean Zone (FAZSOI), based in Réunion and Mayotte, which also conduct exercises with South Africa.

It is worth noting that the cooperation agreement was substantially amended by Kenyan parliamentarians. French lawmakers enjoy no such privilege—and, with a few rare exceptions, do not even demand it. Kenyan public opinion has been deeply affected by unpunished abuses committed by British soldiers stationed in the country.

For Kenya, which ratified the defence agreement with France alongside four others—with the Czech Republic, China, Ethiopia and Zimbabwe—the objective is above all to diversify its partnerships at a time when British troops have a poor reputation and relations with the United States are seen as unpredictable. It may also be a way, as in Djibouti, to leverage a strategically important maritime position coveted by foreign military powers. Italy and Germany are likewise pursuing similar agreements.

The profitable business of the “war on terror”

Several years earlier, in 2010, France had already discreetly cooperated with Kenya to support its operations against Al-Shabaab in Somalia. The “war on terror” has in fact been a major driver of French rapprochement with certain countries during two distinct periods.

The first phase occurred under François Hollande. As Operation Serval in Mali evolved into Operation Barkhane in 2014, covering Mali, Burkina Faso, Niger, Mauritania and Chad, signs of strategic overstretch were already apparent. Hollande nevertheless sought to expand the geographical scope of French military operations and offered French assistance to Nigeria as early as 2015. At the beginning of 2016, he travelled to Abuja and, according to Le Monde, “positioned himself as the military patron of the fight against Boko Haram”. The jihadist group also threatened Niger and Chad, where French troops were deployed, as well as Cameroon, another country within France's traditional sphere of influence. France provided Nigeria with aerial and satellite intelligence as well as training conducted by the Military Intelligence Directorate (DRM).

Later that April, Defence Minister Jean-Yves Le Drian travelled to Nigeria to sign a letter of intent paving the way for a future military cooperation agreement, which was also expected to include efforts to combat maritime insecurity in the Gulf of Guinea, an important oil-producing region. “France has considerable influence over all the Francophone countries in the region,” the Nigerian defence minister remarked in explaining the agreement. The initiative was also intended to address operational difficulties within the Multinational Joint Task Force, which brings together neighbouring states to fight Boko Haram and which France hoped to strengthen.

Naturally, arms sales were also part of the equation. “We are going to help them identify their needs and acquisition procedures,” a French source told AFP. “Nigerian forces have often struggled to procure equipment, notably because of their poor human-rights record and corruption problems,” observed defence journalist Laurent Lagneau on Opex360.com. France, which maintains a permanent maritime operation in the Gulf of Guinea under Operation Corymbe, later conducted several joint exercises with Nigeria and made the country its second-largest arms customer in the region after Senegal. Nevertheless, the defence partnership agreement never materialised.

Reconfiguring beyond the “pré carré”

The second phase began when France was forced to withdraw its troops from several sub-Saharan countries: Mali in 2022, Burkina Faso and Niger in 2023, and Senegal and Chad in 2025. Paris then sought to “reconfigure” its African military posture and place greater emphasis on military cooperation in order to compensate for the reduction of forces stationed on bases or deployed in overseas operations. It now offers its services to a broader range of countries threatened by jihadist insurgencies.

With Ghana, cooperation has remained limited to peacekeeping training and French-language instruction. With Nigeria, however, cooperation has been revived. Nigerian President Bola Tinubu and his French counterpart drew closer following the coups in the Sahel, both supporting ECOWAS plans for military intervention after the overthrow of Mohamed Bazoum in Niger in 2023. During an attempted coup in Benin in December 2025, France intervened militarily in coordination with Nigeria, whose forces bombarded the mutineers' camp using French intelligence.

The Nigerian president, evidently concerned about destabilisation in an already deteriorating security environment, has repeatedly appealed for assistance. In January 2026, French General Pascal Ianni, head of the Command for Africa (CPA), was dispatched to Abuja, followed in April by Macron's chief military adviser. Cooperation against Boko Haram in northern Nigeria remains largely coordinated with Britain and the United States and continues to be overshadowed by horrific war crimes committed by Nigerian forces. In the west, however, French special forces are conducting “coordinated operations along the border between Nigeria and Benin with Nigerian and Beninese forces. These operations specifically target leaders of Ansaru, a group affiliated with AQIM [Al-Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb],” according to Africa Intelligence. Nigeria has also granted France overflight rights, enabling it to provide aerial intelligence.

A limited expansion

Although French military cooperation is expanding in non-Francophone countries, it still struggles to carve out a significant place alongside long-established military partnerships with other former colonial powers, as well as with the United States, Russia, China and, increasingly, Turkey. For now, this limited cooperation does not allow France to wield the same degree of influence, create the same forms of dependency, or interfere in conflicts and domestic political crises as it once did—or in some cases still does—in certain Francophone countries.

The difference is also visible in the distribution of military advisers across the continent. A handful are seconded to military academies in non-Francophone countries, but among the seventeen National Schools with Regional Vocational Purpose (ENVRs) overseen by the Directorate for Security and Defence Cooperation (DCSD) and established by France across Africa since the 1990s, not a single one is located outside the Francophone sphere.

To be sure, missile manufacturer MBDA and drone specialist Delair, supported by the semi-public French group Défense Conseil International (DCI), the Directorate General of Armaments (DGA) and the Directorate General for International Relations and Strategy (DGRIS), are jointly promoting the creation of a drone academy in Gaborone, Botswana's capital. According to Africa Intelligence, it would serve “both the Botswana Defence Force (BDF) and police and law-enforcement agencies from Botswana as well as neighbouring countries such as South Africa, Angola, Malawi, Mozambique, Namibia and Zambia.” Yet for the time being, military cooperation remains one of the distinctive features of France's traditional “pré carré”.

Somaliland's hopes and fears after recognition by Israel

Théophile Simon — 2026-05-20T15:58:21Z

Tel Aviv's declaration in 2025 rekindled hopes in Hargeisa of an influx of foreign investment. On the ground, however, optimism is colliding with the territory's fragilities and the uncertainty created by the war in Iran.

A convoy of tinted SUVs cuts through the dusty alleyways of Hargeisa, the capital of Somaliland, before disappearing behind the gates of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Clad in immaculate business suits, four Australian businessmen step out of the vehicles and make their way into the building with its green, white and red colonnades — the colours of the flag of this self-proclaimed state in western Somalia.

At the beginning of April, Foreign Minister Abdirahman Bakal welcomes his guests with a broad smile. “What are your impressions of the country?” he asks, taking his seat in a reception room reserved for visitors. “Very positive. It was important for us to come and see things on the ground. We'll be conveying a positive message to our shareholders,” one of the Australians replies. “They can rest easy. Somaliland is a haven of peace and stability. It's the safest place in the entire Horn of Africa,” the minister says.

The investors have travelled from Perth on behalf of the Australian mining company EAU Mining, which specialises in industrial minerals. Outside the ministry, the company's chief executive, James Durrant, explains that he undertook the trip after Israel became, on 26 December 2025, the first country in the world to recognise Somaliland's independence, proclaimed in 1991. “It's a powerful signal, suggesting that Somaliland could soon enter the international stage. We are closely monitoring the signs of broader recognition and will take the plunge once they become sufficiently aligned,” he says before climbing back into the convoy.

“Somaliland's time has finally come”

Somaliland's authorities hope that Israel's recognition will trigger a double ripple effect, both diplomatic and economic. More than three decades after seceding from Somalia following horrific massacres orchestrated by Mogadishu, “Somaliland's time has finally come,” proclaims Mohamed Abdirahman, the foreign minister's right-hand man. “It is time for the world to acknowledge that we have built a genuine nation and to recognise our right to self-determination.”

Other countries are indeed tempted to follow Tel Aviv's lead, despite the principle of the inviolability of borders. Seeking access to the sea, Ethiopia came close in 2024 to concluding an agreement with Hargeisa over a 19-kilometre coastal strip on the Gulf of Aden, before backing down under pressure from Mogadishu. The United Arab Emirates, long involved in developing the major port of Berbera — where they also maintain a military base — are also following the matter closely.

On the streets of Berbera, Somaliland's main port city (April 2026).

Theophile Simon

But the cornerstone of broader recognition lies in Washington, where part of the Republican establishment is lobbying the White House on Somaliland's behalf. The powerful Texas senator Ted Cruz, who is very close to Israel, is one of Hargeisa's most vocal advocates. During a Senate meeting on 23 April, the politician stressed the “growing strategic relevance of Somaliland” and asserted that Donald Trump could recognise the self-proclaimed state before the end of his term. At the same time, a group of lawmakers in the House of Representatives introduced a bill in March instructing the Treasury Department to identify the legal obstacles preventing Somaliland from accessing the US financial system. In their sights is integration into the Swift international transfer network, which is essential for dollar-denominated transactions.

A five-star hotel inaugurated in August 2025

“Our banks cannot raise money on international markets, which condemns them to charging prohibitively high interest rates for local businesses. Access to the Swift system would, in that respect, be more decisive than diplomatic recognition,” notes Musa Dhaqaale, a Somaliland economist.

Drawn by the momentum, a handful of foreign companies travelled to Hargeisa last winter. Alongside EAU Mining, Malaysia's offshore Golden Touch Investment Bank, which acts as an intermediary for Asian investors, visited in February. Two Israeli firms — VisiRight, which specialises in surveillance technologies, and Amore Capital, a consultancy — have also announced plans to establish themselves in Somaliland. Contacted for comment, Somaliland's Ministry of Commerce says other foreign companies have expressed interest, without specifying either their identities or sectors of activity. The economic boom hoped for after Israeli recognition has yet to materialise.

At a market in Hargeisa, the capital of Somaliland (April 2026).

Theophile Simon

The potential, however, is there. Seen from the ground, Somaliland offers a surprisingly flattering business card for foreign investors. Hargeisa bears the hallmarks of a prosperous African city, with cafés animated by an elegant, connected youth. Here, female students take selfies to mark the opening of a Nutella waffle restaurant; there, a new steel-and-glass shopping centre is preparing to open its boutiques and travel agencies. Power cuts are rare, the streets well maintained and the markets well stocked. Its airport offers direct connections to major regional hubs such as Dubai, Jeddah and Addis Ababa. Towering above it all, the country's first five-star hotel, inaugurated in the summer of 2025, stands atop a hill.

“We are a functioning democracy”

At the end of a flawless ribbon of asphalt, around 150 kilometres to the north, rises the port of Berbera and its three ultra-modern quay cranes. Built by DP World, the terminal ultimately aims to compete with Djibouti in supplying Ethiopia, the demographic giant of the region. Beyond the greenery of the Golis mountain range, the high plateau of the Burao region reveals a pastoral landscape: a patchwork of semi-arid expanses dotted with pale specks of goat, camel and cattle herds. Pending the expansion of the Berbera–Addis Ababa corridor, the economy remains heavily dependent on livestock exports to the Arabian Peninsula, as well as remittances from the diaspora.

The camel market in Hargeisa (April 2026).

Theophile Simon

Aerial view of the port of Berbera, in western Somalia, built by the Emirati company DP World.

Theophile Simon

Yet despite lacking international recognition and meaningful access to development aid, Somaliland's GDP per capita is around 50 per cent higher than that of the rest of Somalia, while its poverty rate is roughly half as high. Above all, it has managed to build a political system that is both stable and democratic, despite persistent tensions between the Isaaq clan, dominant demographically and territorially, and the other major groups — the Dir in the west and the Darod in the east.

“We are a functioning democracy, the most advanced in the entire region. Since the secession of 1991, we have held six presidential elections and witnessed six peaceful transfers of power,” says lawyer Guleid Jama, a leading advocate for fundamental rights. He is not, however, naïve. “Our Constitution, dating from 2001, is relatively progressive. But our Penal Code still rests on the Mussolinian legacy of Italian colonialism, which regularly leads the police to obstruct the work of journalists and political opponents,” he continues.

Marwo Sucaad, one of the leading opponents of the current government, at the headquarters of her party, Kaah, in Hargeisa (April 2026).

Theophile Simon

Marwo Sucaad, a figure within the opposition Kaah (“Harmony”) Alliance for Equality and Development party, agrees. “Our governments are democratically elected, without a shadow of a doubt. The 2024 campaign was dynamic, and turnout was high,” she says from the party headquarters, a bright red building tucked away in the suburbs of Hargeisa. “There is still progress to be made: corruption exists, and women remain largely excluded from power. But what democracy can truly claim to be perfect?”

“Israel wants to establish a forward operating post here”

Could Israel's arrival in the Horn of Africa jeopardise these advances? The recognition of the Jewish state, welcomed with scenes of jubilation in the streets of Hargeisa, appears to be a double-edged sword. Barely two months later, Tel Aviv entered into conflict with Iran, the effects of which threaten to spread as far as the Red Sea and the Gulf of Aden.

On the set of Somaliland's leading television channel, MMTV, debates are now tinged with anxiety. “Now that we are allied with Israel, could the war reach us here?” journalist Suleiman Sahanzao asked in early April during an interview with Abdirisak Ali, a Somaliland political scientist who spent most of his career in the Gulf. “We have nothing to fear from this conflict. Since the attacks of 7 October 2023, Israel has gained the upper hand over its enemies to the point of becoming the dominant power in the Middle East. This alliance will allow us to develop, much like Saudi Arabia benefited from US protection after the Second World War,” the expert replied confidently.

Attention is turning to Berbera, where Israel is reportedly considering establishing a forward operating post to monitor the Bab el-Mandeb Strait and the Houthis in Yemen. The project has been confirmed neither by Tel Aviv nor Hargeisa, but on 12 March Bloomberg reported that Israeli officials had already conducted reconnaissance missions along a coastal area west of Berbera that could host a military “base or facility”. A Somaliland minister also told the outlet that Hargeisa would “certainly conduct an assessment” regarding the possibility of hosting such an Israeli presence.

Questioned at the end of March, Mohamed Abdirahman from the Foreign Ministry accused Bloomberg of having “lacked clarity”, without denying the report. “We are still at the stage of establishing diplomatic contacts,” he merely replied on the sidelines of the Australians' visit. A source very close to the circles of power was more direct. “It's an open secret: Israel wants to establish a forward operating post here. But in the current context of crisis in the Middle East, the government cannot yet openly admit it. Our ministers, unused to having foreign journalists turn up in their offices, got ahead of themselves a little,” he said on condition of anonymity.

“We are on the brink of another war”

In Yemen, the Houthis declared as early as 28 December that Berbera had become a “legitimate target”. It is a threat that Hargeisa has little capacity to deter. Its army, mainly equipped with tanks and rocket launchers seized from Mogadishu at the end of the civil war in the 1980s, has no air defence capabilities. “Somaliland is preparing for this kind of situation. Our generals are working day and night to guarantee the country's security,” Mohamed Abdirahman nevertheless insists.

Left and right: Somaliland Coast Guard vessels at the entrance to the port of Berbera (April 2026).

Theophile Simon

With limited resources, these teams must monitor nearly 1,000 km of coastline facing Yemen (April 2026).

Theophile Simon

For Marwo Sucaad of the Kaah party, the real danger lies in a resurgence of the simmering conflict with Mogadishu. “The eastern region remains disputed. Somalia, which enjoys the support of the Turks, the Chinese, the Egyptians and the Saudis, could resume hostilities in retaliation for Israeli recognition. We are on the brink of another war,” the politician warns, recalling that the jihadists of Al-Shabaab announced on 27 December that they would “fight” any Israeli attempt to “use” Somaliland.

Somaliland's “haven of peace” will need more than recognition from Tel Aviv to take off. “Only Washington can keep Somalia's backers in line. That is therefore the only protection that matters,” concludes Marwo Sucaad. Somaliland's government appears to share this analysis. Far less evasive on the American question than on the Israeli file, it told AFP at the end of February that it was prepared to offer the United States “exclusive access” to its mineral resources, as well as access to “military bases”. Emissaries from the US military visited Hargeisa and Berbera in June and again in November 2025. Nothing, however, suggests that Washington is eager to deploy troops there, given that the United States already maintains a base in Djibouti and cooperates with Mogadishu in counterterrorism operations.

A cruel lack of funding

Somaliland's subsoil is believed to contain oil, gas, lithium, rare earths and various metals. Several foreign companies have already positioned themselves accordingly: the British firm Genel Energy has been prospecting for hydrocarbons since 2012; Taiwan's Chang Development Company and Saudi Arabia's Kilomass are interested in lithium. EAU Mining may soon follow suit. Yet beyond these geological indications, few deposits have, at this stage, been formally confirmed.

Ahmed Guelleh is one of the wealthiest men in the Horn of Africa. He has built an empire in the agri-food sector (April 2026).

Theophile Simon

Businessman Ahmed Guelleh, founder of the country's largest food-processing factory, urges Somaliland not to place all its hopes in international recognition and the mining sector. “That is not how we will create the thousands of industrial jobs our youth need,” he says emphatically from a warehouse stacked with pallets of Coca-Cola bottled in his factory north of Hargeisa. “We need to direct our efforts towards manufacturing, technology and agriculture. Once that economic foundation is in place, international recognition will follow naturally.”

But Somaliland starts with serious handicaps in these areas: energy is extremely expensive because it is entirely generated from fuel oil, the workforce is poorly trained and access to water is constrained by the arid climate. In February, twenty-five Somaliland engineers travelled to Israel to train in irrigation techniques. They returned both impressed and discouraged. “Their infrastructure is remarkable, but we do not have the first penny needed to reproduce that model,” laments an engineer from the Ministry of Water, whose annual budget amounts to just under €2 million. In a territory facing heavy structural constraints, recognition alone will not be enough to remove the obstacles to development.

Niger–Libya–Chad. At the tri-border, a fragile coexistence

Ahatane Ag, Amaury Hauchard — 2026-05-15T10:04:43Z

This desert region has been a place of trade and transit since time immemorial. But the war in Libya, the coup in Niger, and shifting regional security alliances are reshuffling the deck. Between attempts at official customs control, smuggling, and the movements of rebel groups, this report—filed in December 2025—dives into the heart of a kind of Bermuda Triangle where calm hangs by a thread. Photograph: Michele Cattani.

Mahamat Nour Youssoufa is 42 years old and wears a long, clay-colored wool coat. From Kanem, a region in central Chad where he was born and raised, he headed north in 2013 when he heard about the discovery of gold. It was the time of the great rush; the Tibesti mountains became the must-go destination for an entire generation of unemployed youth. The gold is alluvial—just a metal detector and a bit of savings are enough to survive independently for several days in the desert. With four friends, all in their late twenties, Mahamat Nour Youssouf set off at full speed.

We meet twelve years later in Zouar, at the end of December 2025. He says he hasn't changed much. He runs a hand over his moustache, adjusts his turban. Gold? He has moved on. For nine years, he dug at the bottom of a shaft in Kouri Bougoudi before turning his back on it, deciding that life was worth more than a collapse. “There were many dangers—on the Chadian side, the Libyan side, the Nigerien side—too many problems, too many worries…” he says.

So he left the pits behind and turned to trade—anything his single-cab Hilux can carry, those pickup trucks nicknamed “Talibans” in this part of the desert. But his specialty is fuel, one of the most lucrative trades.

Like all those interviewed for this investigation, the transporter describes the geographical triangle between Niger, Libya and Chad as an informal trading space, a network of back routes along which goods and people circulate. The populations living on either side of these vast borders have known the tracks and secondary routes since time immemorial.

The Three Borders (Chad, Niger, Libya), a highly coveted region.

Mahamat Nour Youssouf explains: “We used to go up to Sebha [in Libya], buy goods there, then head back down to Tibesti [in Chad]. It was as simple as that. Sometimes we went to Niger, to Dirkou or Chirfa, and then came back. It also depended on taxes, customs clearance, and the various checkpoints. But it brings in more than gold, that's for sure,” he says.

Southern Libya has long suffered from relatively weak control by both the official authorities in Tripoli and the parallel authorities in Benghazi, and has always been a place for the informal export of fuel to Niger and Chad. But everything has changed over the past year, Mahamat Nour Youssouf says: geopolitical balances are no longer what they used to be.

“Haftar's grip is tightening”

Control by the forces of the Libyan National Army (LNA) under General Khalifa Haftar is stronger today than it was before, all interviewees report. “Haftar's grip is tightening,” confirms a traditional Chadian leader.

“Now it's Haftar's men who control the checkpoints. There are no longer, as before, as many Nigerien or Chadian rebels on the Libyan side of the border,” explains Abdoul Kader, a former member of the Patriotic Front for Liberation (FPL), an armed group created after the 2023 coup in Niger to fight the military regime in Niamey.

Chadian soldiers are patrolling the market in Arkenya, in the Tibesti region of northern Chad.

“Before, we were stationed about 150 kilometres north of Kouri Bougoudi, at ‘Passage Y'. At the checkpoint there were fighters from FACT [the Front for Change and Concord in Chad, created by Mahamat Mahadi Ali, which was behind the death of President Idriss Déby Itno in 2021] and the FPL. We held the checkpoint together—it was a mandatory crossing point for all trucks heading to Niger or Chad,” Abdoul Kader recalls. “Traders, especially those transporting fuel, paid a toll, and we used the funds to pay part of our fighters' salaries.”

These checkpoints are informal control posts set up along paved roads, often staffed by several armed men, a small hut, and a taxation system whose rates vary according to the mood of the day. They have gradually been dismantled in favour of official LNA checkpoints.

“Checkpoints have been set up by the LNA between Sebha, Gatrun and the Chadian border. At each one, you pay—it's very expensive now. The Libyan authorities [the LNA] have also put a stop to exports to neighbouring countries, so fuel prices have surged in Chad and Niger,” says Ali Akhlit Khadra, a Chadian trader accustomed to travelling between Zouar and Sebha.

The Benghazi authorities allow foodstuffs through but now prohibit the informal trade in fuel to Chad and Niger. So how can fuel be obtained? Although Chad, Niger and Libya are all oil-producing countries, petrol and diesel are in critically short supply in their northern regions.

Smuggled fuel from Niger

On the informal highways of the Sahara, one can see pickup trucks every day loaded with dozens of jerrycans of fuel stacked in pyramids and tied down with rope. They sometimes travel thousands of kilometres in search of a higher resale price. In Kouri Bougoudi, at the end of 2025, a litre of petrol sold for 2,000 CFA francs—around three euros.

“It's Niger that has taken over fuel supply at the moment,” says a Nigerien researcher who requested anonymity.

Five different sources told Afrique XXI that tankers have in recent months brought fuel into northern Niger, notably to Chirfa and Dirkou. Two supply routes exist: one official, via the Nigerien Petroleum Company (Sonidep), which supplies Dirkou's stations from Agadez under military escort; the other unofficial, via tankers from the Zinder refinery (Soraz), partly owned by the China National Petroleum Corporation (CNPC), which, unable to export its oil to Benin, sells it in the desert.

A fuel dealer sits on fuel tanks at the Kouri Bougoudi market, the largest artisanal gold mining site in the Sahara, on the border between Chad and Libya.

“Here, fuel is sold on a first-come, first-served basis. One tanker has to empty before another can take its place. To buy fuel from the tankers, you must have either a drum or five 60-litre jerrycans,” says a witness in Chirfa in early 2026, describing this illegal trade.

In addition to this tightening on the Libyan side, a joint force has been established between the Chadian army and General Haftar's forces to better control the border between the two countries. Its commander was installed at the end of February at the gold-mining site of Kouri Bougoudi. According to Chadian state television, twenty-two vehicles were supplied by Libya and “logistical support” by Chad.

“Trenches on the Chadian side of the border”

On the Chadian side, alongside this joint force, the army has deployed several special operations (OPS) in the Tibesti region, ensuring relatively strong territorial control: bases have been set up since 2022 in Tanoua, Miski, Wour, Kouri 35, and Kouri 60, in addition to existing units in the region's two main towns, Zouar and Bardaï.

An elite Chadian officer, deployed for three and a half years in Kouri Bougoudi, explains: “Now we've dug trenches along the border on the Chadian side, we've deployed OPS in all sensitive areas of Tibesti, and the only place without our men along the Libyan border is where there are mines near Aozou—but it's impossible to pass there,” he says.

“Before, with Toyotas, smugglers crossed the border at night, whether for trafficking or kidnapping people for their gold. But it must be said that since the president's visit [Mahamat Idriss Déby] in 2023 and the implementation of OPS led by General Allifa (Weddeye, now governor of Tibesti), things have improved significantly,” he adds.

When Afrique XXI asks this officer about the continued existence of smugglers between the three countries, he replies: “These are the habits of the desert. There are checkpoints, customs, but some get through, some don't. Of course smuggling exists—it always has.”

An “intelligent policy” to encourage trade

A former customs officer on the Libya–Chad border explains: “When you live in northern Niger or northern Chad, it's easier to go and buy goods in Libya than in Niamey or N'Djamena, and there's an entire ecosystem specific to this region.”

He prefers to remain anonymous—let's call him Mr X. He describes a commercial system unique to Tibesti. “For each type of goods, sometimes you can clear only 50% at the border to encourage trade,” he says.

View of the market in Zouar, in the Tibesti region (northern Chad).

A cigarette vendor at the Zouar market (northern Chad). Manufactured in Dubai, the cigarettes are transported by truck across the desert between Libya and Chad.

At the Kouri Bougoudi border post—the main commercial crossing between north-western Chad and Libya—negotiations have taken place between Chadian customs authorities and Libyan and Chadian traders' unions to establish what Mr X calls an “intelligent policy” to encourage trade and reduce smuggling.

The case of cigarettes is telling. “In mid-2025, we agreed on lower customs duties per shipment of cigarettes. It varies, but to give an idea, at one point we went from 75,000 francs to 25,000 francs in taxes per carton. Before, traders preferred smuggling to declaring goods at customs. With this system, everyone wins: they no longer need to take bypass routes, and the state collects tax revenue,” the former customs officer says.

“There are armed groups and abusive taxation”

“On cigarettes alone, we made tens of millions of francs in tax revenue in just a few weeks after these negotiations—money we were completely missing out on before,” he adds. “People in N'Djamena and abroad say we're smuggling or trafficking, but it's just trade,” says Mahamat Nour Youssouf.

On the Nigerien side, however, the situation has deteriorated. A transporter used to travelling to Libya says that “transporting goods to Niger has become very dangerous for two reasons: on the Libyan side, Haftar's men seize any fuel shipments destined for Kawar [in Niger], and in Niger there are armed groups and abusive taxation.”

A vehicle is transporting cans of gasoline to the Kouri Bougoudi gold mining site in northern Chad.

Today, south-western Libya and north-western Chad are relatively controlled by the forces present—the LNA and the Chadian army—but north-eastern Niger, by contrast, “has become the no-man's-land that south-western Libya was ten years ago,” Mr X summarises.

The Nigerien army patrols the area but cannot cover the entire Agadez region—over 650,000 square kilometres, roughly the size of Afghanistan—even though it has checkpoints along the road linking Agadez to the border (Dao Timmi, Madama, Seguidine, Dirkou, Chirfa).

A proliferation of rebels

In such a largely desert area, armed robbery is a constant risk. On 21 January, four armed Zaghawa attacked a Toubou fuel transporter in the Djado gold zone. The man was killed, his fuel stolen, and his vehicle destroyed with a rocket launcher.

On the 22^nd, according to several local sources, gold mine operators in Djado formed a “pursuit committee” to hunt down the attackers. They were located at Tefiyan 140, a mining site, and killed by the committee members, who posted photos of the bodies on social media.

Several rebel groups from all three countries now have rear bases in north-eastern Niger, according to officials from each: the CCMSR (Chadian), FACT (Chadian), MPLJ (Nigerien), and the “Revolutionaries of the South” (Libyan). Some collaborate occasionally on armed actions—for example, CCMSR fighters have been hired by other militias, according to one member interviewed. Others allow their fighters to work at the Djado mining sites.

Several factors explain this redeployment to Niger. According to a Chadian CCMSR rebel, “before, we could work with Haftar's men in southern Libya, but now it's complicated.” Others point to stronger territorial control by the LNA and the Chadian army in their respective regions.

Kidnappings and assassinations

One of these groups has been particularly active in recent weeks: the “Revolutionaries of the South,” led by Mahamat Wardougou, known as Kochi. According to one of its commanders, this Tripoli-backed group—composed mainly of Teda fighters—has imposed a blockade on smuggling routes for fuel, weapons and drugs between Libya, Niger and Chad.

At the end of January, it kidnapped around ten LNA fighters. On 22 February, it claimed responsibility for the assassination of an LNA officer in Gatrun. In the days that followed, the LNA, supported by the Chad–Libya joint force, launched an offensive against Wardougou's fighters on the Nigerien side of the border.

According to multiple sources, clashes began along the Niger–Libya border on the night of 24–25 February and extended up to 130 kilometres into Nigerien territory, particularly in the Emilulu area. A counteroffensive by the rebels followed, with further fighting on 26 and 27 February.

Rock formations near Bardai, in the Tibesti region (northern Chad).

“It was a joint base of the CCMSR and the Revolutionaries of the South that was attacked and destroyed by Haftar's men, supported by Chadian soldiers. They arrested several CCMSR fighters and Hassan Wardougou, the brother of our commander-in-chief Mahamat Wardougou,” explains a senior member of the Revolutionaries of the South.

In an already weakly controlled area, these clashes are alarming. “It's true that Haftar has more resources than the Revolutionaries of the South, but he won't win this war easily because Wardougou knows the terrain and controls smuggling in this part of the Sahara,” says a former Nigerien rebel.

“Already, the Revolutionaries of the South are supported by the Tripoli government—perhaps even by Algeria—and by many Toubous from Libya, Niger and Chad,” he continues. “This war will create serious security problems.”

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This article was translated from french (here) with AI, but reread by the english journalist Victoria Brittain.

Attacks in Mali. “A monumental shock in Malian history”

Michael Pauron, Yvan Guichaoua — 2026-05-04T04:00:00Z

On 25 April, several cities in Mali, including the capital Bamako, were simultaneously attacked by two rebel groups, JNIM and the FLA. One of the most senior members of the military junta, in power since 2022, was killed. The scale of the event raises uncertainty about the ability of Assimi Goïta's regime to remain in power.

On 25 April, at dawn, Mali was hit by a coordinated attack of unprecedented scale: at least six localities, including the capital Bamako, were targeted by two insurgent groups, Jama'at Nusrat al-Islam wal-Muslimin (JNIM) and the Front de libération de l'Azawad (FLA).

Kati, the garrison town north of Bamako and seat of power of the Malian military junta led by General Assimi Goïta, who has ruled the country with an iron fist since the coup of 24 May 2021, was targeted, as was the private residence of Defence Minister General Sadio Camara, one of the architects of Mali's rapprochement with Russia. The senior officer succumbed to his injuries, along with several members of his family, in the same car bomb attack.

The northern city of Kidal, a historic stronghold of separatist rebels, has meanwhile fallen into insurgent hands. It had been recaptured in 2023 by the Malian army with the support of the Russian paramilitary company Wagner, later replaced by Africa Corps after the death of Yevgeny Prigozhin.

Since then, the authorities in Bamako have been under pressure. Speaking to AFP on 29 April in Paris, Mohamed Elmaouloud Ramadane, spokesperson for the FLA, stated that “the regime will fall sooner or later.” The objectives of the groups are clear: to take the cities of Gao, Timbuktu and Menaka and, above all, to force the Russians out. “Our problem is political,” he said, adding that “[we] viewed the Russian intervention in support of the junta very negatively.”

After three days out of sight, Assimi Goïta finally reappeared on 28 April. In a televised address, he claimed the situation was “under control,” a statement contradicted by FLA declarations as well as by numerous reports from the field and by the gradual tightening of a blockade around Bamako.

To better understand the stakes behind these attacks, we asked four questions to Yvan Guichaoua, a member of the editorial board of Afrique XXI, a researcher in international conflict analysis whose work focuses in particular on the political crisis and security governance in the Sahel.

“FLA has sacrificed its diplomatic capital”

Michael Pauron: What lessons can be drawn from the alliance between JNIM and the FLA?

Yvan Guichaoua: The sequence is staggering in terms of scale and logistical performance. So many attacks, in so many places, across such a vast territory—1.24 million square kilometres—without being detected in advance, is historic. It represents a monumental shock in Malian history, likely surpassing the war that began in 2012. That year, the rebellion started in what was ultimately a fairly typical manner compared with previous cycles of insurgency, with gunfire in Menaka, Gao, Timbuktu, Kidal—already significant from a logistical standpoint. But Bamako was not part of the equation.

Until now, it was not thought that JNIM and the FLA could coordinate so effectively. That said, such an alliance had been intensely discussed, but few expected it to materialise because of disagreements over political projects. These obstacles now appear to have been partly overcome—though that does not mean the alliance will last—at least for the purposes of these offensives. This coordinated military deployment clearly bears the hallmark of the recognised strategist Iyad Ag Ghaly, who likely also carefully mixed units to accommodate community sensitivities. For its part, the FLA has deliberately abandoned its cultivated image as a “secular” movement aimed at appealing to Western decision-makers. In doing so, it has effectively sacrificed its diplomatic capital in favour of achieving what it sees as a far more urgent objective: removing the military regime.

Michael Pauron: What are the immediate political consequences of these attacks?

Yvan Guichaoua: In addition to coordinating attacks on multiple fronts, the armed groups succeeded in eliminating a key figure in Bamako—Defence Minister Sadio Camara. This destabilises the regime, which is governed by a quintet of generals, each grounding their power in a loyal faction of the army. Removing one of its most prominent members disrupts the entire system. We are now facing a vertiginous moment of uncertainty, with unanswered questions: who is in command? Who takes over?

The junta leader, Assimi Goïta, disappeared for three days before reappearing on 28 April with a speech that was far from reassuring. His physical condition—sweating, shortness of breath, poor rhetoric and delivery—was deeply concerning. He announced nothing new, simply asserting that the regime would eliminate the threat as if nothing had happened, despite having just suffered the most severe blow ever dealt to a Malian regime.

It should also be noted that this attack “crowns” five years of a regime that has extinguished all political resistance through coercion and intimidation. The military has had free rein to govern as it saw fit throughout this period. The insurgent offensive is therefore necessarily a failure for which they bear responsibility. They invoke the spectre of international sponsors of terrorism, but this is propaganda and denial. They cannot admit that the roots of this crisis are Malian, and they continue to throw up smokescreens to conceal their responsibility. In this context, their capacity to initiate a dynamic that goes beyond merely preserving their regime in the short term remains an open question.

The departure of the Russians, the primary objective of the FLA and JNIM

Michael Pauron: What is the position of the Russians, allies of the junta since 2022?

Yvan Guichaoua: The Russian stance is rather puzzling. On 28 April, Assimi Goïta appeared alongside Russian representatives to signal their solidarity with Mali. The Russian embassy in Bamako issued a statement claiming to have prevented a coup attempt and asserting that they would always stand by Mali. On social media, Africa Corps has released footage of drone strikes to demonstrate its military activity. This is a double-edged message: reassuring for the regime but also highlighting its extreme dependence on Russian forces.

At the same time, this communication contrasts with images of Russian troops withdrawing from Kidal after negotiations, and from Tessit in the Gao region. Kidal is a powerful symbol: the Wagner flag had been raised over the fort following its recapture in 2023. The junta later used this to claim it had outperformed its civilian predecessors by returning Kidal to Malian control. The shifting fortunes of Kidal in recent years are therefore closely tied to Russia, both in victory and in defeat.

There are now questions about the effectiveness of the Russian strategy and the future of cooperation with Moscow. The Malian regime and the Russians are applying patchwork solutions to this inglorious episode. But the Russians are highly pragmatic: if Malian soldiers fail to fight with the expected determination and if Russia finds the situation slipping out of control and incurring losses, they may do as they did in Syria and withdraw. In any case, their departure is the short-term objective of both the FLA and JNIM.

Michael Pauron: What political alternative is being proposed by JNIM and the FLA?

Yvan Guichaoua: Despite this military sequence and the instability within the regime, no clear political offer is emerging, neither from the junta nor from the insurgents. Political figures are waiting in the wings, ready to step forward in a Mali freed from the junta, but no one is making a move yet, as doing so would risk being seen as a puppet of JNIM.

This raises questions about what happens next in the absence of a more political dynamic. Are we heading towards an escalation of violence? There have already been lynchings in Bamako, where suspected terrorists were stoned by crowds. These incidents are worrying and could signal the beginning of a dangerous communalisation of violence.

For now, the use of violence by JNIM and the FLA appears relatively “controlled”: although the attack on the Defence Minister caused significant civilian casualties, the primary target was military.

In this sense, the events of 25 April were not an episode of “unrestrained” violence, nor were they akin to a Hayat Tahrir al-Sham-style campaign, which toppled Bashar al-Assad's regime in Syria in 2024 using conventional military methods. However, JNIM and the FLA have so far demonstrated a certain level of discipline. Their troops have followed central command precisely to carry out operations across the country, suggesting a degree of political responsibility among the attackers.

These movements have been communicating and planning for months, and they appear to have a strategy—perhaps not yet fully structured, but with identifiable phases: expel the Russians, bring down the junta, initiate discussions, and facilitate the return from exile of civilian figures, particularly from the opposition. However, caution is essential, given how the violent history of the Sahel in recent years has repeatedly defied predictions.

Eastern DR Congo: a cut-price peace and a muzzled press

Colette Braeckman — 2026-04-30T04:00:00Z

As Rwandan troops withdraw from eastern Democratic Republic of the Congo, even as President Paul Kagame continues to deny their presence, few among the local population feel reassured. They remain caught between Congolese forces and the AFC/M23 rebel movement, already accused of abuses, including against journalists.

Disciplined, in long columns, soldiers descend from the hills of North Kivu and South Kivu in the Democratic Republic of the Congo and head towards the Rwandan border. For months, Kigali had denied deploying troops in eastern Congo to support the M23 rebel movement. Yet images of their departure—under pressure from the United States—are now broadcast without restraint.

They leave behind their Congolese allies, the armed M23 movement and its political wing, the Alliance Fleuve Congo (AFC). Its leader, Corneille Nangaa—a former head of the electoral commission and close to ex-president Joseph Kabila—had vowed a year ago to reach Kinshasa and topple Félix Tshisekedi. The current head of state, who is due to complete his second and final term within two years, appears determined to remain in power by amending the constitution.

Despite the war in Iran, the United States is intent on enforcing the peace agreement signed in Washington between Rwanda and the DR Congo on 4 December 2025. Swayed by the economic promises of the Congolese president, Washington seeks to impose this “pax americana” on Paul Kagame, who continues to invoke security concerns to justify indirect control over North and South Kivu through rebel proxies.

Jean-Luc Habyarimana: the Akazu's son in Kinshasa

The security concerns put forward by Kigali are not merely a pretext. Three decades after the genocide of the Tutsi in Rwanda—which claimed nearly one million lives between April and July 1994—survivors and their descendants remain deeply traumatised. Many Rwandan Tutsi, despite the country's outward calm and the focus on younger generations, fear a renewed offensive by Hutu forces and their politico-military movement, the Democratic Forces for the Liberation of Rwanda (FDLR). The group recruits among descendants of Hutu refugees who fled to DR Congo after the genocide and have retained hopes of revenge.

Moreover, the presence in Kinshasa of Jean-Luc Habyarimana has not gone unnoticed in Kigali. The son of President Juvénal Habyarimana, whose assassination on 6 April 1994 triggered the genocide, is seen as the political heir to the Akazu—the “household”, in Kinyarwanda—referring to the hardline Hutu circle that dominated power before and during the killings. Closely tied to his mother, Agathe Kanziga, who still lives in France, Jean-Luc Habyarimana is a long-standing associate of one of President Félix Tshisekedi's most influential advisers, Bula Mandungu Bula Nyiati. The latter is the son of Bula Mandungu, once a close confidant of Mobutu Sese Seko. The two men, shaped by their respective family legacies, first met during their exile in Europe after the deaths of Habyarimana and the fall of Mobutu.

The hardening of the Tshisekedi administration's stance towards Rwanda during his first term—contrasting with earlier conciliatory rhetoric—and his recent election campaign, marked by belligerent discourse, are often attributed to the influence of Bula Mandungu, who also opened DR Congo to Gulf countries after spending a decade there.

Sanctions against Rwanda's defence forces

Even so, the intransigence displayed by Paul Kagame is not solely driven by security considerations; economic interests are also at play. Keen to rebuild his country, Kagame has sought to channel the flow of raw materials—cobalt, coltan and niobium—from eastern Congo towards Rwanda. Much of these resources, extracted from areas controlled by M23 rebels, are processed in Kigali before being re-exported to industrialised countries, including those of the European Union. Under its “Global Gateway” strategy, the EU signed a strategic partnership with Rwanda on 19 February 2024, aiming to secure sustainable access to critical raw materials while positioning Rwanda as a regional processing hub.

Unable to defeat the M23 rebels and their Rwandan backers on the ground since hostilities resumed in January 2025—and having lost control of North and South Kivu—Félix Tshisekedi turned to Washington for mediation. In return, he offered US companies access to mining operations in Kivu and possibly Katanga, where Chinese investments are already well established. Major tech firms have shown interest, and Massad Boulos, a close ally of Donald Trump, was tasked with preparing the “pax americana”.

Since the December 2025 agreement, US pressure on Kigali has intensified. On 2 March, it translated into measures directly targeting the Rwanda Defence Forces. According to a study published in Brussels by the Egmont Institute, the US Treasury imposed sanctions on four senior Rwandan officers and on the armed forces as a whole. Any entity deriving more than 50% of its revenue from the Rwandan military risks being barred from conducting transactions in dollars or using the Swift international payment system. The measures also affect numerous companies closely tied to the military, potentially disrupting supplies of military and logistical equipment.

The army as guarantor of stability?

Researchers at the Egmont Institute stress the central economic role of the Rwanda Defence Forces, spanning construction, agriculture, finance, arms production, healthcare services and military academies. Meanwhile, the holding company Crystal Ventures, backed by the ruling Rwandan Patriotic Front, operates across several African countries, including the Central African Republic, Mozambique and Zimbabwe. This pervasive military presence has long been viewed as a pillar of Rwanda's stability.

Historically, it reflects the need to rebuild a country devastated by genocide, which left one million dead and four million refugees abroad—nearly half the population at the time. Under the uncontested leadership of Paul Kagame, the armed forces became the backbone of national reconstruction, often cited as a success despite persistent inequalities and restrictions on fundamental freedoms.

If rigorously enforced, current US sanctions risk undermining this fragile balance from within, as the trauma of genocide remains deeply embedded in collective memory. They could also accelerate the erosion of a regime that has been in power for more than three decades.

Congolese army, foreign mercenaries and “wazalendo” militias

As they witness the withdrawal of Rwandan forces, residents of Kivu remain unconvinced. The M23 movement—initially composed of Tutsi from Kivu who had sought refuge in Uganda—has entrenched itself over the past year, expanding recruitment, training new fighters and establishing administrative structures in an attempt to consolidate de facto authority, albeit without broad popular support.

Nor do the Armed Forces of the Democratic Republic of the Congo inspire confidence. Poorly paid and often undisciplined, they are weakened by corruption. Some elements have collaborated with highly questionable allies, including descendants of those responsible for the Rwandan genocide. Foreign mercenaries, recruited at great expense and equipped with Turkish drones stored in Kisangani, also operate alongside them.

On the front lines are also “wazalendo” militias—“children of the country”—made up of young Congolese. Unemployed workers and students without resources, driven by necessity as much as patriotism, they have joined the fight alongside the national army rather than languish in a country long plundered and invaded.

In such conditions, and in the absence of meaningful democratic accountability, the “cut-price peace” brokered by Washington through pressure on both Rwanda and the DR Congo remains deeply fragile.

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Journalists caught in the crossfire

Amid occupation, resource plunder and extortion by armed groups in Kivu, journalists find themselves on the front line. They are quite literally caught between opposing forces, working at great personal risk.

In a detailed report published on 30 March, titled In the Skin of a Great Lakes Journalist, the NGO Reporters Without Borders describes the daily reality of those still known in DR Congo as “knights of the pen”, who now operate under increasingly perilous conditions. Between 2021 and 2026, RSF documented at least 630 abuses against journalists.

Among them is the arrest, on 29 March, of Espoir Kabata, director of a community radio station in Minova, North Kivu. His “crime” was to report on the likely withdrawal of AFC/M23 fighters. His family has had no news of him since.

In Goma, another journalist, Thomas Kubuya, head of VBR-FM, says soldiers stormed his home, seized his car keys and accused him of opposing the AFC/M23. He claims his family is in danger and that those who took his vehicle were linked to the rebel-installed provincial administration.

Veteran journalist Nicaise Ki Bel Om Bel—who first documented the arrival of ADF Nalu rebels in Ituri—was forced to flee from Bunia to Goma and then to Kinshasa. He says he knows too much to remain safely in eastern Congo.

Evoking the painful memory of Rwanda's Radio Mille Collines, RSF notes that “in this Great Lakes region, plagued by instability and armed conflict, informing remains a daily challenge amid insecurity, economic hardship and disinformation”.

Across DR Congo, Rwanda and Burundi, journalists face similar threats: death threats, disappearances, restricted access. Burundian journalist Antoine Kaburahe, founder of the media outlet Iwacu, points to the “instrumentalisation of violent memory”—whether of massacres in Burundi, the genocide in Rwanda or wars in eastern Congo. In such contexts, any criticism is framed as destabilisation and criminalised in the name of national security.

This weakening of media coverage—partly due to the threats facing local journalists—does more than reduce international attention and aid. It obscures realities on the ground from global powers and potential investors, masking the complexity of political dynamics, the depth of trauma and the aspirations of local populations. Ignorance of these realities also leads some investors to overlook the risks of further tragedies in the making.

War in Iran: the Maghreb stops short of condemning the United States

Khadija Mohsen-Finan — 2026-04-24T10:29:21Z

Of the three Maghreb countries, Morocco has aligned itself most clearly with the US and Israeli strikes on Iran. More striking is the stance taken by Algeria and Tunisia, which, departing from their traditional positioning, appear keen to court the favour of US president Donald Trump.

The war waged against Iran by Israel and the United States comes at a moment when negotiations over Western Sahara are under way under US auspices and the stewardship of President Donald Trump. Washington, which has already recognised Morocco's sovereignty over the territory, is backing Rabat in this dispute. Beyond this initial constraint, Morocco's position is shaped by the strategic and economic partnership it maintains with the Trump administration, as well as by its ties with Israel since the normalisation of relations in 2020.

These factors help explain why Rabat condemned Iranian missile strikes against Gulf countries without expressing any reservations about the operation launched against Iran. Morocco's stance appears all the more consistent given that, in June 2025, during the so-called “12-day war” that had already pitted Israel—and later the United States—against Iran, Rabat issued no official statement.

A long-standing hostility to the Islamic Republic

Morocco's hostility towards the Islamic Republic of Iran is not new. The first rupture between the two countries dates back to 1980, when Iran under Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini recognised the Polisario Front independence movement. The second occurred in 2018, when Morocco severed diplomatic relations with Iran, accusing it of supplying arms to the Polisario Front.

It is therefore unsurprising that Moroccan authorities described Iranian strikes on Gulf countries in March as “abject”, calling them a “flagrant violation of these states' national sovereignty, unacceptable for their security, and a direct threat to regional stability”.

This position is not shared by all Moroccan political forces. Some, such as the Justice and Development party (PJD) and the Federation of the Democratic Left (FGD), issued statements condemning the attack on Iran. Others called for mobilisation. The National Action Group for Palestine, for instance, sought to organise a sit-in to “denounce the US-Zionist aggression against Iran”. But gatherings were blocked by the authorities, as was a demonstration held on 2 March in Tetouan by the Moroccan Front for Support of Palestine and Against Normalisation with Israel, a coalition of NGOs and political parties.

Opposition has also emerged from religious circles. In a statement, several Moroccan ulema expressed solidarity with Iran as a Muslim country. The theologian Ahmed Raïssouni, a former leader of the Movement for Unity and Reform and past president of the International Union of Muslim Scholars, was unequivocal: “I stand with Iran because they are Muslims and because they are oppressed. I stand against the criminal aggressors and their allies.” Although coming from a figure who has long advocated the separation of political and religious authority in a country where the king is commander of the faithful, such remarks directly challenge Morocco's official alignment against Iran.

Washington and Tel Aviv: the kingdom's key allies

The authorities in Rabat, however, pay little heed to these dissenting voices and stand firmly alongside the Gulf states, with which they maintain strong ties. The benefits Morocco derives from its partnerships with the United States and Israel help explain the absence of any condemnation of their strikes.

In 2020, Donald Trump recognised Morocco's claim to Western Sahara, paving the way for similar shifts by other countries, including Spain and France. The Trump administration has since multiplied diplomatic efforts aimed at resolving the conflict by promoting autonomy under Moroccan sovereignty. It also supported Rabat during the 31 January UN Security Council vote on resolution 2797, which recognised Morocco's autonomy plan as the main basis for a solution.

The quid pro quo was Morocco's signing of the Abraham Accords in 2020. Since then, Washington has regarded the country as a pillar of stability in the Maghreb and Africa. Morocco has been invited to join the Peace Council and is expected to contribute troops to a future international stabilisation force in Gaza.

Preferential treatment extends beyond the Western Sahara dossier. US tariffs on Moroccan goods stand at 10%, compared with 30% for Algeria and 25% for Tunisia. Another sign of favour is Washington's consideration of relocating the US Africa Command (Africom) headquarters from Stuttgart to Rabat, which regularly hosts the multinational African Lion exercises. Alongside US investments in Western Sahara, these gains are not ones Morocco is prepared to jeopardise over the war in Iran.

Morocco is also engaged in growing defence cooperation with Israel, illustrated by the purchase of the Barak MX air defence system and the opening, this April, of a drone manufacturing facility by BlueBird Aero Systems in Benslimane, near Casablanca. This dual partnership firmly anchors Morocco within the anti-Iran camp. In response to criticism, Rabat highlights its role as a mediator for the Palestinians, whether in efforts to unblock funds withheld by Israel or to facilitate humanitarian aid into Gaza—though with limited success so far.

Algeria's diplomatic shift

If Morocco's position follows the logic of the Abraham Accords, Algeria's stance marks a break with its traditional diplomatic principles, particularly regarding Iran.

On 1 March, Algerian foreign minister Ahmed Attaf expressed “full solidarity with the brotherly Arab countries that have been victims of military attacks”. Yet Algiers did not react to the death of Iran's supreme leader Ali Khamenei, despite having previously condemned Israeli strikes during the “12-day war” as “an aggression made possible by the impunity enjoyed by the aggressor”.

This is not the first rupture between Algeria and Tehran. Relations were severed between 1993 and 1999, when Algiers accused Iran of backing Islamist armed groups during the country's civil war. They were restored in 2000 under President Abdelaziz Bouteflika, and ties gradually improved, with visits by Iranian presidents Mohammad Khatami and Mahmoud Ahmadinejad in 2004 and 2007. A visit by Ali Khamenei had even been expected in the coming months.

In recent years, Algeria had defended Iran's right to develop nuclear technology for peaceful purposes. Today, however, it has refrained from condemning Israeli and US strikes.

A gas card to play?

Keen to avoid alienating Donald Trump, Algeria may see in the conflict an economic opportunity. A prolonged war in the Middle East could allow it to capitalise on its proximity to Europe by increasing oil production and exports to countries facing supply disruptions.

According to energy outlet Attaqa, Algeria could also position itself as a strategic gas supplier amid rising demand linked to conflicts in Iran and Ukraine. Liquefied natural gas exports to Europe could increase via the TransMed and Medgaz pipelines beneath the Mediterranean—though such prospects remain uncertain given the state of the sector.
Algiers also hopes to break out of its diplomatic isolation, the result of rigid doctrine and limited adaptability to geopolitical shifts. Since 2021, relations have deteriorated with several partners: Morocco, Spain, France and the United Arab Emirates. In the Sahel, Algeria has lost influence to new military-led governments, while also distancing itself from Russia, its long-time ally.

Aware of this isolation, Algeria has sought closer ties with Washington. This shift helps explain its abstention on the UN vote regarding Western Sahara autonomy and its silence on US and Israeli strikes.

Tunisia's diplomacy of restraint

Tunisia, too, has adjusted its stance. President Kaïs Saïed had moved closer to Tehran in recent years, exploring cooperation in artificial intelligence and visiting Iran in May 2024 following the death of President Ebrahim Raisi. During the “12-day war”, Tunis had denounced violations of Iran's sovereignty and of international law.

Yet a foreign ministry statement issued on 1 March marks a clear shift. It makes no mention of Ali Khamenei's assassination, does not condemn Israel or the United States, and limits itself to calling for restraint and a return to negotiations.

Unlike Algeria, however, Tunisia has allowed public anger to surface. On the ninth day of the war, demonstrations took place in central Tunis, with protesters waving Iranian and Palestinian flags and holding portraits of Khamenei.
At the same time, Tunis has sought to reassure Washington by arresting seven members of the Global Sumud Flotilla campaign, which had organised a maritime mission to break the Gaza blockade in 2025 and planned to do so again. They were accused of money laundering linked to fundraising efforts.

In a statement issued on 17 March, several organisations, including the Tunisian League for Human Rights, denounced what they described as an “abusive” use of such charges in politically motivated cases. They argued that the aim extended beyond preventing aid missions to Gaza, seeking instead to weaken broader support for the Palestinian cause.

These arrests reflect the Tunisian government's unease. In recent years, its diplomacy has often mirrored Algeria's. At the same time, the sovereignist stance championed by Kaïs Saïed leaves little room for confrontation with Donald Trump, particularly as the Tunisian military relies partly on US funding and the country depends on financial support from Gulf states, notably Saudi Arabia.

Carthage's room for manoeuvre is therefore narrow. Like Algeria, Tunisia no longer has the means to pursue a dissident foreign policy—and little space left to assert an independent voice.

Sudanese civil war. The Nuba Mountains caught up in the fighting

Buster Emil Kirchner, Marco Simoncelli — 2026-04-17T04:00:00Z

In Sudan's remote south, war is closing in on a long-marginalised region, where civilians, medics and displaced families are once again paying the price. This report was produced between 14 and 18 March (photos by Marco Simoncelli).

The air hangs heavy inside the tin-roofed wards of Mother of Mercy Hospital. In the dim light, dozens of patients—sick and wounded—are crammed onto metal beds, some lying on the floor for lack of space. In Gidel, deep in the Nuba Mountains of South Kordofan, this Catholic hospital, founded in 2008, has become a lifeline in a region long defined by isolation, neglect and decades of conflict. There are no paved roads here, no public electricity grid.

At dawn, Dr Tom Catena, an American physician who has worked in the region for more than 15 years, begins his daily rounds. With a headlamp strapped to his forehead, he moves from one patient to the next, trailed by a small team of nurses and doctors. He examines wounds, adjusts dressings, issues instructions, then moves on without pause. After this first round, he heads straight to the operating theatre, where he works late into the evening. In this remote hospital, he performs an average of 30 surgeries a day. Since the resumption of civil war on 15 April 2023, an increasing number involve gunshot wounds and injuries caused by drone strikes.

A room packed with patients at the Mother of Mercy Hospital in the Nuba Mountains (South Kordofan State, Sudan).

Dr Tom Catena treats patients at Mother of Mercy Hospital in the Nuba Mountains (South Kordofan State, Sudan).

“The sad reality is that we mostly see wounds to the arms and legs,” Catena says, his voice steady as he works. “When people are hit in the chest or abdomen, they usually don't make it here.”

There is no real ambulance network, he explains. A handful of vehicles stationed at clinics allow for transfers, but there is no emergency service to call. In a region without a functioning phone network, “you simply can't pick up a phone and call someone”. The few Starlink connections that once existed have been cut as fighting has intensified. “Authorities are worried information could be passed to the enemy,” he says.

A new frontline

Most of the wounded arrive after hours—sometimes days—of travel, on foot or crammed into the back of vehicles navigating impassable tracks. Many die along the way. In a hospital that serves as a last resort, the war is now etched into bodies.

FSR fighters are being treated in a tent set up at the Mother of Mercy Hospital (South Kordofan State, Sudan).

For three years, Sudan has been engulfed in a conflict between the Sudanese Armed Forces (SAF), led by General Abdel Fattah al-Burhan, and the Rapid Support Forces (RSF) of General Mohamed Hamdan Dagalo, known as Hemetti. The fighting has spiralled into one of the world's worst humanitarian crises: more than 12 million people have been displaced—around 9.5 million within Sudan and over 3 million across its borders—making it the largest displacement crisis on the planet. The death toll is estimated at more than 150,000.

South Kordofan has emerged as one of the war's key flashpoints. The towns of Kadugli and Dilling, held by the SAF, remain under constant pressure, cut off by fighting and restricted access. Since late 2025, the region has effectively become a new frontline, marked by repeated clashes, bombardments and the growing use of drones. Around these urban centres, the RSF control large swathes of rural territory and key routes.

In this region, they have allied with the SPLM-N, a politico-military movement formed in 2011 after the Nuba Mountains were excluded from the agreements that led to South Sudan's independence. The group has long called for autonomy for local populations. It split in 2017 into rival factions. One, led by Abdelaziz al-Hilu, controls the Nuba Mountains, administering what amounts to a quasi-state while fighting the SAF. The other, led by Malik Agar, has moved closer to the central government in Khartoum.

“My family was just glad I survived”

In a war where drones have become a central weapon, the wounded increasingly bear the marks of targeted air strikes. In recent weeks, medical infrastructure has come under particular attack, caught in a spiral of retaliation between the two sides.

On 20 March, a drone strike attributed to the SAF hit Ed Daein Teaching Hospital in East Darfur, killing dozens and rendering the facility inoperable. Less than two weeks later, on 2 April, a strike attributed to the RSF hit al-Jabelen hospital in White Nile state, killing at least 10 people and injuring more than 20, in what appeared to be a direct reprisal.

Hassan Koko is a health worker in Gidel, in the Nuba Mountains. He was injured during a drone strike near a market in Kauda (South Kordofan State, Sudan).

Hassan Koko shows his injuries. Pieces of metal are still lodged in his leg.

“The drone struck once, then came back and hit those who were already wounded,” says Hassan Koko.

Sitting with crutches by his side, the community health worker looks out over the hills surrounding his village near Gidel. Behind him, traditional Nuba tukul huts cling to rocky slopes, built high up for concealment and protection from bombardment. In November 2025, Koko was injured in a drone attack near a market in Kauda. Fragments of metal still remain lodged in his leg.

“My family was happy I survived. They thought I would die,” he says. “But life is no longer the same. I can't move around these steep mountains on my own.”

An expanding air war

Until recently, strikes in the Nuba Mountains had remained sporadic. But as the frontline draws closer, fears of escalation are growing.

According to Jalale Getachew Birru, a senior East Africa analyst at Armed Conflict Location & Event Data (Acled), such attacks form part of a broader strategy targeting essential civilian sites. “Strikes on hospitals and public infrastructure are designed to create insecurity—and sometimes to inflict a second level of harm when the wounded arrive for treatment,” she says.

Acled data shows more than 1,000 drone strikes recorded across Sudan since April 2023, including at least 65 in South Kordofan alone—a sign of the gradual expansion of aerial warfare into regions previously shielded by their remoteness.

An armed man supervises the distribution of food in a camp for displaced people in the Nuba Mountains (South Kordofan State, Sudan).

In the Nuba Mountains, the war is visible not only in wounded bodies but also in the movements of people it creates. Entire families from other parts of the country are settling in these hills, hoping to find relative safety.
In Kauda, the SPLM-N's administrative centre, Jalal Abdulkarim, who oversees the movement's humanitarian wing, describes unprecedented pressure. With little funding, most staff—including himself—work on a voluntary basis. He points to a figure scribbled on a piece of paper: 2,885,393—the number of people who have arrived in areas under the movement's control since the war began.

“Every night, it was rat-tat-tat-tat”

Aid in the Nuba Mountains has long depended on NGOs and international agencies, themselves grappling with severe funding cuts.

“Where organisations once gave one or two million dollars, now they give 500,000 or even 200,000,” Abdulkarim says. “Funding is one of our biggest challenges.”

According to the International Organization for Migration, more than one million displaced people are in Kordofan. But limited access, the absence of a UN presence in areas such as Kadugli, and the scaling back of many NGOs make these figures uncertain, while vast humanitarian needs remain unmet.

Further into the rugged terrain lies the reception camp of Umm Dulo. On this stretch of dry land, thousands of displaced people have erected makeshift shelters from branches and plastic sheeting, often beneath acacia trees. With the rainy season approaching, the camp risks turning into a sea of mud, where runoff mixes with waste and human excrement.

Fatma Eisa Kuku, aged 76, fled Kadugli. She is now in a camp for displaced people near Umm Dulo, in the Nuba Mountains (South Kordofan State, Sudan).

In zone 12, at the far end of the camp, which hosts more than 34,000 people, new arrivals crowd together.

Fatma Eisa Kuku, 76, fled Kadugli, the capital of South Kordofan. Sitting inside her fragile shelter, she appears frail, her gaze tired. She says she lacks the strength to move and prefers to remain in the shade, away from the bustle.

“I couldn't sleep,” she says. “Every night, it was rat-tat-tat-tat,” mimicking the sound of gunfire.

“We live with them, but we don't trust them”

Now, she says, her sleep is calmer. But the violence remains etched in memory.

Some members of her family were arrested in security sweeps, accused of collaborating with the enemy—the RSF.

“They came between dawn and dusk, and I never saw my brothers again. I don't know who they were. If you ask questions, you're met with hostility.”

Not far from the camp, along one of the main tracks crossing the Nuba Mountains, a daily market comes to life in a small settlement—a scene repeated across the region. RSF fighters move freely, in armed pickup trucks or on foot. They stop at stalls, eat in roadside eateries, and sell goods looted from other parts of Sudan: cars, beds, fuel, fertiliser, electronics.

At first glance, their presence appears woven into everyday life. But beneath this apparent normality lies deep unease.

Two FSR fighters are walking along a road on the outskirts of Kauda, in the Nuba Mountains (South Kordofan State, Sudan).

An FSR fighter sells goods and electronic devices looted from other parts of Sudan at a market near Umm Dulo in the Nuba Mountains (South Kordofan State, Sudan).

“We live with them, but we don't trust them,” says a local priest, who asked not to be named.

Here, as elsewhere in the Nuba Mountains, everyone knows that the presence of fighters can turn civilian spaces into potential targets.

An uneasy alliance

The visible and increasingly open presence of RSF fighters in populated areas is a recent development, stemming from a controversial alliance with the SPLM-N.

Sealed in February 2025 under the so-called Tasis Alliance, the agreement marks a major turning point. It brings together two forces long at odds: on one side, the RSF, accused of serious war crimes in the current conflict—notably in El Fasher in Darfur—and widely seen as heirs to the Janjaweed militias responsible for past atrocities, including in the Nuba Mountains; on the other, the SPLM-N, which acts here as a de facto government.

Details of the military terms remain unclear. But credible reports suggest the RSF have established training camps in areas controlled by the SPLM-N.

For the RSF, the stakes are clear: expanding influence into territories where they lack local roots, relying on the SPLM-N's networks and knowledge of the terrain, while securing access to strategic resources. The region is rich in gold, a key driver of Sudan's war economy, whose exploitation and export—particularly to allies such as the United Arab Emirates—provide a major source of funding.

For the SPLM-N, the calculus is more complex. After initially staying on the sidelines following the outbreak of war in 2023, the movement led by Abdelaziz al-Hilu has adopted a pragmatic approach: avoiding direct confrontation with the RSF and aligning with “the enemy of its enemy” to contain the SAF. Politically, the alliance also reflects a shared vision of a deeply decentralised, federal Sudan.

Yet the alliance remains fragile.

“It is not a stable relationship,” says Jalale Getachew Birru, noting documented clashes between the two forces, as well as internal tensions within the RSF itself. When positions have been retaken by the SAF, both allies have blamed each other, fuelling speculation of a potential rupture.

“We have closely monitored these clashes to understand whether they signal a breakdown of the alliance,” she says.
Asked about the ultimate aim of both the conflict and the alliance, Jalal Abdulkarim is blunt: “We want our own system, our own autonomy—and, if possible, our own country.”

A young member of the SPLM-N walks past traditional Nuba huts in a village in the Nuba Mountains (South Kordofan State, Sudan).

Jalal Abdulkarim represents the humanitarian wing of the SPLM-N, which coordinates the reception of displaced people in the ‘liberated areas' in the Nuba Mountains (South Kordofan State, Sudan).

This stance reflects a long history. The Nuba Mountains have been marginalised since the colonial era, excluded from centres of power and left politically, economically and militarily isolated. Since Sudan's independence in 1956, the region has endured repeated conflicts—particularly after 2011, when it remained in the north despite its proximity to South Sudan—marked by bombardments, forced displacement and the destruction of infrastructure.

Against this backdrop, the 2025 alliance with the RSF also appears as a compromise. After decades of struggle, and amid intensifying war, some local actors seem willing to engage even with former enemies in the hope of securing political gains, protecting territory and preserving a degree of autonomy.

A shared hospital

Inside Mother of Mercy Hospital, care is provided to all. Civilians and fighters lie side by side on the same beds, and “no incidents have been reported between them and the civilian population”, says Dr Catena.

Among them are young RSF soldiers, treated like any other patient.

Around Hassan Hamid, a fighter from Darfur wounded in clashes near Dilling, others rest after surgery, smoking cigarettes and exchanging jokes to mask their pain.

Despite the accusations of war crimes against the RSF, he defends his involvement.

“We are fighting because the government in Khartoum is not doing enough,” he says. “There are not enough hospitals, infrastructure or schools. We want change.”

For now, in the Nuba Mountains, he says he has found an unexpected refuge.

“I want to stay here,” he says. “I want to live in the Nuba Mountains forever.”

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This article was translated from french (here) with AI, but reread by the english journalist Victoria Brittain.

Mahmood Mamdani. “That narrative captures one side of Idi Amin”

Victoria Brittain — 2026-04-10T04:00:00Z

In his book “Slow Poison: Idi Amin, Yoweri Museveni, and the Making of the Ugandan State”, the Ugandan academic examines the careers of the two heads of state, the latter of whom has been in power for forty years. In doing so, he debunks a number of common misconceptions about the complex personality of Amin Dada.

Mahmood Mamdani's new book¹ is a deeply layered story full of new insight in the making of the Ugandan state by presidents Idi Amin, and Yoweri Museveni and the ambitious designs of more powerful outsiders. Besides the extensive use of little-seen archives, Professor Mamdani has a close-up, lived, view of much of this history. His family was expelled from their home in Uganda by President Idi Amin, and he spent years in the university circles of Dar es Salaam and Kampala where Yoweri Museveni was a known, if somewhat fringe, member. The book reveals much detail about both leaders and how, differently, they failed their people. It also contests the cliched portrait of Idi Amin (who came to power in a coup in 1971 and was ousted in a coup in 1979).

Mahmood Mamdani, father of Zohran, the new mayor of New York in place since January 1, teaches at Colombia University, in New York, in the departments of Anthropology, African studies and Political Science where he is the Herman Lehman Chair. He is also chancellor of the International University of Kampala, in Uganda, and honorary professor of the Centre for African studies at Capetown university. He was formerly director of the Institute of social research at Makerere, the biggest university in Uganda. He is the author of more than a dozen books.

In this last work, entitled Slow Poison, Idi Amin, Yoweri Museveni, and the making of the Ugandan State, published by Harvard University Press, in October 2025, Mahmood Mamdani analyses the construction of the Ugandan state under the presidents Idi Amin, and for four decades, Yoweri Museveni, revealing the influence of the various foreign powers which played dominating roles. Israel, Great Britain and then Tanzania, were the key players initially, followed by the United States.

“The Israelis more or less laughed him off”

Victoria Brittain: Why did the British/Israeli coup which brought Idi Amin to power in 1971 turn so sour for all concerned?

Mahmood Mamdani: The British thought they knew Idi Amin. He was a child soldier, four years younger than the British official records show. And he was trained as a specialist in counterinsurgency - a polite term for state terrorism. His training included fighting the Mau Mau in Kenya, and pastoralists in northeastern and western Uganda. He was very comfortable with the British, and they with him. He also went to Israel with Milton Obote [president of Uganda from 1966 to 1971 and from 1980 to 1985] in September 1962 and stayed on there for paratrooper training. The Israelis realised his potential use from his role in Congo operations as Obote's conduit with the Maoist rebel movement of Pierre Mulele².

Also, Idi Amin had been in South Sudan. For the Israelis, the key usefulness of Amin was the link he gave them to the Anyanya rebels in South Sudan. He was also key for their ambitions to use Uganda as the gateway to South Sudan and to the Arab countries to the north. This was the focus of the massive airport Israel built in Nakasongola on the road from Kampala to the north.

Idi Amin woke up to all this by chance when, representing Obote at the 1970 funeral of President [Gamal Abdel] Nasser [1918-1970], he met the Saudi Crown Prince Faisal [ben Abdelaziz Al Saoud, 1906-1975].In a discrete private meeting the prince asked him, “Why do you think the Israelis are building this airport except to have a southern route for their planes to attack Arab Muslim countries from the south? We don't understand why you, as a Muslim, and the army commander, are part of this.” Idi Amin's son Jaffar later recounted this meeting.

Victoria Brittain: In the coup the following year the British and the Israelis were confident in Idi Amin?

Mahmood Mamdani: They masterminded the coup together in 1971. The British did not deal with Uganda as much with the Israelis in Kampala as they did in Tel Aviv. This came out when the papers were declassified in London. They did more or less take Amin for granted. His first trip after the coup was to Tel Aviv and when he left Entebbe airport there were more Israelis to say goodbye to him than Ugandans. In Tel Aviv Amin explained what he wanted from them in the dangerous moment when there were so many dissident Ugandan soldiers in Sudan and in Tanzania. Amin wanted real firepower, including from the air, to hit Tanzania in particular. The Israelis more or less laughed him off. They gave him something much smaller. From his point of view, these were just military toys, although they did give him an aircraft.

Amin decided to fly straight to London, where the British did not know why he was coming. He was taken to have tea with the Queen. She asked him why he was visiting London. Amin was very quick on his feet and replied, “Oh, it's the only place I can get my oversized boots, and it is the only place where I can find somebody to teach my fellows Scottish bagpipes.” Then at dinner the British found out why he came, and they played a similar game to the Israelis. They gave him something very different from what he wanted.
Amin decided to send his education minister, Abu Mayanja, to Egypt to see President [Anouar el-] Sadat. Mayanja went to Egypt, and wired Amin to say, “stop in Cairo on your way back”. President Sadat suggested to Amin to go to Tripoli and speak to President [Mouammar] Gaddafi.

At this point, Gaddafi had just helped President ([Gaafar] Nimeiry in Sudan avert a coup by the Communist Party leaders. He said to Amin, “you want our help, but you are working so closely with the Israelis. And you are a Muslim….we don't understand…you speak Arabic, right? “ Amin spoke Nubi, a kind of arabic-based creole language, and was very fluent in recitating the Quran as he had been in Quranic school. Gaddafi told Amin he would have to convince Nimeiry that he was a friend, and to do that, he would have to join [Ethiopian] Emperor Haile Selassie at his coming conference in Addis Ababa. Additionally, he would have to bring the Anyanya with him, under his leadership. Amin did that, and also declared persona non grata the Israeli agent who was a consultant to the Anyanya.

The 1972 Addis Ababa agreement had Amin take half of the Anyanya, 20,000 men, into the Ugandan army, which was by then weakened by the violent killing spree in the barracks, under Israeli auspices. And Amin had also lost many soldiers with the split in the army and many following Obote to Tanzania or fleeing into Sudan. President Nimeiry agreed to close the army bases of Obote in Sudan, and to take the other half of the Anyanya himself. The Anyanya became his personal guard in time, and Nimeiry came to rely on them more than on anybody else.

The Asian expulsion increase Amin's popularity

Victoria Brittain: So Amin had changed the regional political geography, and he went on to Uganda's internal transformation?

Mahmood Mamdani: Yes, that year, 1972, Amin carried out three expulsions from Uganda. The first was the expulsion of the Israelis. The second was the Asian expulsion. And the third was the expulsion of the British.

The Israelis tried to resist, making coup attempts against Amin, using their close connections in the Army. The British approach was different , they joined the Tanzanians and Ugandan exiles in two different coup attempts. The first, in 1972, was a spectacular flop. Museveni had told [Tanzanian president Julius] Nyerere [1922-1999] that his group had an organisation inside Uganda, and once the guerrillas or the rebels came into the country, the population would rise up. Of course, the population did the reverse, hunting down the rebels and handing them over to the army. The exile invasion from Tanzania was the very day the Asian expulsion began. The Asian expulsion was very popular and began to increase Amin's popularity in the country enormously.

Victoria Brittain: Can you talk about what you have called the anti-Amin propaganda industry wielded by Britain?

Mahmood Mamdani: The British press before the expulsion of the Israelis and the Asian expulsion treated Amin like a jolly giant, who was kind, and cruel, at the same time. “Our man is our giant.” The mood then changed rapidly. The lead influential media person was David Martin of The Observer, often followed by the Western press corps in Nairobi. For instance, David Martin wrote a completely fake story in August 1976 about a “massacre” involving at least one hundred and conceivably up to eight hundred women students on the campus at Makerere university being mutilated, “de-breasted”, and arrested by Amin's soldiers. The Observer cited the precise place on campus. Many of us in Nairobi and Dar es Salaam called friends at Makerere to ask about it. Everyone reported that, yes, the army came in and they beat people up, but there was no arresting anybody or sexually abusing women – that simply did not happen.

Ugandans never really swallowed the Western narrative. Amin was brutal, but he was not the way the media painted him. The first detailed refutation of that narrative was by the respected Kenyan-born American academic, Ali Mazrui [1933-201] to the US House of Representatives in February 1978 – two years after the Makerere story. Professor Mazrui described the situation in Uganda as less an organised terror than an anarchy. It was the result of an ineffective central power and an army which had taken liberties into its own hands. One of the first decrees Amin passed had given the Army the right to arrest people, on suspicion, without going through any courts or the police. That set the stage for deteriorating relations between the army and the police.

A significant testimony refuting another well-known Idi Amin story - that he had killed his own son, Moses – came from the award-winning Kenyan photojournalist Mohamed Amin MBE³, who had swallowed many of the Amin brutality stories. During a visit to the Ugandan president, he asked him about the alleged killing of his son. Idi Amin called his son, Moses, who was there in the house. Mohamed Amin was shocked, and asked him where he had been, and Moses said he had been in France studying. Mohamed Amin admitted publicly that he had been duped.

Idi Amin had a cruel side. His brutality was public knowledge in the year following the coup, when the army split between those for and against him. The British suggested Amin assassinate Obote; the Israelis disagreed. They suggested he would need to kill Obote's men; if not, he would have to deal with them later. So he did as advised, killing them in the hundreds, in one barracks after another. But then Idi Amin learned. His last five years show us a different man.

“Museveni embraced violence to build an oppressive state”

Victoria Brittain: Can you give some examples of a side of Amin different from the dominant narrative of inhuman brutality.

Mahmood Mamdani: That narrative captures one side of Idi Amin. But it ignores completely his enormous capacity to learn and to adjust. It ignores the ways in which Amin changed after he was disillusioned with the Israelis and the British. After he came back after the Addis Ababa agreement in 1972, he carried out a series of reforms. Three of them were outstanding.

The first was returning the body of the Kabaka from England for burial. The royal family and part of the landed elite were opposed to the returning the body until the kingdoms had been restored. But Idi Amin said in his speech, “we are burying the Kabaka with respect and we are also burying the kingdoms with respect.” There was no question of restoring kingship, though that is what Museveni did in 1995.

The second, later, after Haile Selassie was assassinated in 1975, was a land reform decree. Idi Amin told his cabinet “we have to learn from the Ethiopian revolution and the program of returning land to the tiller. Can you nationalise the land and give security of tenure to those tilling the land? Yes.” Again, Museveni reversed this in 1995 when he returned the land to the landowners.

The third critical issue was the question of growing militarisation. The police sent a delegation to Amin in April 1974 complaining about the military. Many people were being disappeared, their property stolen or their partners abducted. The police told him, “We have no powers to intervene in these cases. If we do, we become targets of the army.” Two months later Idi Amin set up a Commission of Inquiry into Disappearances in Uganda since January 25, 1971. It was headed by a British/Asian, Justice Mohamed Saied who had great credibility in the country because he had been Chief Magistrate in the Obote era political trial of the editor of Transition, Rajat Nyogi and Abu Mayanja, later Education Minister. Justice Saied had bravely dismissed all the charges, though Obote used his powers to put the two back in prison. Justice Saied as chair of the Disappearances commission had two other commissioners, one from the army, one from the police.

The commission began its work facing extreme skepticism in the country. But they took their hearings to 78 towns around the country, and the word spread that the Commission was very open and receptive to information brought to them, no matter of what type. They issued a detailed report of 800 plus pages.

This was the very first of the modern commissions of inquiry, the last of which was the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) in South Africa. But whereas all the other commissions looked at the previous regime, Idi Amin's commission looked at his own regime, not Obote's.

However, in one important respect Idi Amin's commission was similar to the TRC, because the TRC in South Africa made a clear distinction between political responsibility and criminal responsibility. It was only interested in criminal responsibility. It was only interested in charging people against whom there was evidence that they were directly involved in the killing. Former president [Frederick] De Klerk [1936-2021] appeared and in his opening remarks admitted guilt for his part in apartheid. The Commission told him they were only interested if he was involved in direct human rights violations. The commission Idi Amin appointed took the same view. It absolved Idi Amin of any criminal responsibility and it did not have a word to say about political responsibility.

Victoria Brittain: In contrast to the Amin story, can you talk about what you have called the “complicity of silence” which shielded Museveni's reputation once he was in power.

Mahmood Mamdani: Museveni's learning experience went in the opposite direction. He wrote his undergraduate thesis in Dar es Salaam on Frantz Fanon, and was very eloquent about the justness and the necessity for revolutionary violence to dismantle an oppressive state. But in power he went in the opposite direction, and embraced violence to build an oppressive state.

When Museveni reached Kampala in 1986 he found the coffers empty, and he sent delegations to everyone in the Commonwealth, to the organisation of Islamic countries, to Canada, looking for aid. They all told him the same thing: settle with the International Monetary Fund (IMF) and the World Bank first. He did that and became a convert, and a convert who turned preacher. IMF delegations used to go to State House with chalk and whiteboard. They spent days giving him lectures on economics and on the need for structural adjustment. But there was a quid pro quo, as we have seen in so many countries which accepted the Washington consensus. Before long Museveni was heading into a crisis point with his people. He had opposition in parliament. He had greater opposition in the courts when he subverted the result of the election. When the highest court in the country ruled against him 4 to I he called up the Chief Justice and told him, “You are leaving me with no choice. I'll have to hand over power to my commanders.” The judges changed their verdict to 3-2.

“In the North, 90% of the population were enclosed in camps”

Victoria Brittain: What about the extraordinary scale and incompetence of the corruption scandals you describe?

Mahmood Mamdani: There was of course a great deal of corruption. And it is important to know that it was no secret, it was mostly exposed in the newspapers and was discussed in Parliament. Every attempt to investigate it in detail was quashed by the president. Sometimes he would take responsibility for decisions which led to the issue or led to the appointment of people who did the scandal. Sometimes he ascribed it to the clumsiness of the bureaucracy. There were always excuses for those who had carried out the malpractices, sometimes it concerned his brother or his vice president or his ministers or senior bureaucrats. All those involved in the opposition talked about corruption, but it was clear that the president would block any investigation.

Victoria Brittain: What about the donors? Why did they just swallow what the president said? What cards did Museveni hold?

Mahmood Mamdani: They did not totally believe it. As I said, the blatant corruption etc was no secret. At one point the US ambassador, and I think the British ambassador, went to visit Museveni at his country home, and the ambassador read the riot act. He detailed corruption. He spoke of the need for a democratic transition, and for free and fair elections.

The Ugandan government had hired a Bible-quoting African American lady to put his case to the White House well before Museveni flew to Washington in January 2003⁴. President [George W.] Bush said to him, “look, our system is we have a two terms limit. When I finish my second term, I am going to go and graze my own cattle. Don't you want to go and graze your cows?”

But Museveni had offered the US a deal. “I will give you my army. You give me freedom to govern as I think necessary.” He had already been in rehearsal with such an implicit deal - in Rwanda when the Uganda army was there with the RPF (Rwanda Patriotic Front). Then the Americans refused to use the word genocide. But now Washington needed to be bailed. And Museveni's army was there, in Somalia, then in South Sudan, then in eastern Congo. In that case there was a full UN investigation showing the extent of the looting and the direct involvement of Museveni's brother and others. Museveni set up his own commission of inquiry, led by a British judge who again made the distinction between political responsibility and criminal responsibility. He said that the state was not responsible, only individuals could be held responsible.

Victoria Brittain: Can you talk about the government army's assault in the 1990s on the Northern population, forcing them into camps, which you have described as “a colonial-style counter-insurgency” and as “independent Uganda's darkest hour”?

Mahmood Mamdani: Kampala was determined on revenge in taking over the North: the objective was not only to defeat soldiers of the previous regime and any new rebels, but also to bring the population to its knees. It ended up with this remarkable programme where 90% of the population were enclosed in camps. I visited those camps. People there told me that when the Lords Resistance Army (LRA⁵) arrived, the government soldiers just withdrew and let the LRA do whatever they wanted, in these refugee camps.

From 1995 the aim was no longer to win, but to keep the war in the North going despite the resistance from army authorities and in Parliament. In 1996 [General] David Sejusa, representing the army in Parliament, told the chamber that the war was being “needlessly prolonged”, and could be “wound up.” There was huge popular sentiment for amnesty. Parliament passed an amnesty bill.

The international humanitarian agencies were much later in recognising that there was no justification for what they were doing looking after these camps. The most detailed self-critique was from the UN's OCHA (Organisation for Humanitarian Affairs) in 2002, six years after the Army representative spoke to Parliament. The OCHA critique said that they had broken every law protecting refugees. Amnesty International followed with a self-critique, similarly the International Committee of the Red Cross and the World Food Programme. By the time [the Norwegian diplomat] Jan Egeland [UN-Secretary General for Humanitarian Affairs] had seen the camps and denounced them it was December 2003. By then Museveni was looking for a way out. Determined to rule out an amnesty, in 2004 Museveni invited the newly formed International Criminal Court to charge the LRA's leader Joseph Kony with crimes against humanity. The Parliamentary amnesty bill became null and void.

Victoria Brittain: Can you finish with a reflection on your recent East Africa travels with the book?

Mahmood Mamdani: The first book launch was in Mombasa, with about 250 to 300 people. It is a small town and I was surprised by the numbers. Then came Nairobi, where my publisher had got a bookshop which holds 250 to 300 people, and people had to register. One thousand people did. So, the publisher changed the venue to the biggest hall in Nairobi and decided to charge for entrance. Everybody paid, and there were a thousand people inside, with many more outside. So, he hired the hall for a second day, and again it was full. There were 500 copies of the book, all sold.

My question was, why did so many people turn up? People do not turn up in these numbers for a book launch And, normally, they do not pay. And, thirdly, an event supposed to be one hour, became two hours. And the book signing took another hour. The only sense I could make of it was that more than the book and the interest in post-election Uganda [the last presidential elections were held in January NDLR] there was another dimension. In fact there are very few opportunities to discuss events ruling people's lives, in a serious fashion. They had come to listen, to talk, to ask questions. I was amazed, and I got many requests to give more talks in Nairobi.

I was thinking of giving a talk in Kampala. But when I got here, I changed my mind. It would be a political event, not a book discussion. The leader of the opposition,[ Bobi Wine (Robert Kyagulanyi Ssentaamu) NDLR] left the country and was somewhere in Europe. He tweeted a photograph of himself reading my book, with the cover, and he quoted three or four things which were all over social media. If I gave a book talk, the opposition would likely raise its own issues, and my book would be a sideshow.

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Mahmood Mamdani, Slow Poison. Idi Amin, Yoweri Museveni, and the Making of the Ugandan State, Harvard University Press, october 2025, 320 pages.

¹A 17 page review of this book, by Ugandan political commentator Kalundi Serumaga, (link) finds “contradictions and conundrums” in Mamdani's book, and among other important threads suggests “Mamdani struggles with the matter of the objective reality of it anti-African racism within the Asian community in both its structural and interpersonal senses.” Serumaga ends by crediting Mamdani for two things:” willingness to think again about a matter long cast in stone on the Ugandan global understanding on Amin, and also on a willingness to finally put his name to things long known about the dark underbelly of this regime [Museveni's]and its tiresome myth of revolution, though others had been saying them from the start." Read it here.

²Amin's mission in Congo was negotiating peace accords between the fighting rebel factions, organize training camps for the Lumumbaist rebels and facilitate exchanges of gold and other natural resources for arms.

³The MBE is an honour given by the King for services to the community.

⁴Rose Whitaker, a Washington lobbyist formerly an official in both the administrations of Presidents Bill Clinton and George W. Bush.

⁵The Lords Resistance Army is a movement created in 1988 which presents as Christian, in rebellion against the government of Uganda. “Since its emergence in Northen Uganda in the 1980s the LRA has kidnapped, killed and mutilated thousands of civilians in all central Africa. In 2005 and 2006, under heavy military pressure its leader, Joseph Kony, ordered its retreat from Uganda. The LRA continued its existence in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), in Central African Republic, South Sudan and according to some information in Sudan.”, United Nations page one this movement.