Afrique XXI

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.

#

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.

Guinea's bauxite boom: prosperity promised, fractures deepened

Ludivine Blazy — 2026-04-01T15:33:40Z

In ten years, Guinea has become the world's leading exporter of bauxite, the ore essential to aluminium production. But in the Boké region, national ambitions are deepening social and environmental fractures. This reporting was done between 9 and 12 December 2025. Photopgraph : Hadrien Degiorgi

To bleed the earth. To make tonnes of laterite run off and to watch the stones pile up, growing ever redder as the soil is torn apart. From Boffa to Sangarédi, bauxite is everywhere. Loaded onto the backs of trucks criss-crossing the roads, stockpiled along ports, jolted along conveyor belts belonging to mining companies… In barely ten years, the exploitation of this sedimentary rock has experienced an unprecedented boom in Guinea.

The Boké region, in the north-west of the country, is particularly affected, as more than half of the country's bauxite reserves is concentrated there. Estimated at 40 billion tonnes by the Guinean Ministry of Mines and Geology, they are among the largest in the world. Guinea, which despite its mineral wealth remains among the poorest countries—ranking 179^th out of 193 countries in the Human Development Index established by the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP) in 2023—has made bauxite one of the pillars of its economy.

A bulk carrier carrying bauxite at the port of Kokaya (Guinea).

A piece of bauxite (Kokaya Port, Guinea).

The ore is essential to the manufacture of aluminium, itself indispensable to the design of electric vehicles, which are becoming increasingly numerous on the market. Lighter than most metals, it reduces the weight of cars, thereby lowering their energy consumption. Driven by the automotive industry, demand is expected to increase by a further 30% by 2030, according to the International Renewable Energy Agency (IRENA) in its report published in April 2025. Although aluminium is recyclable, the sector still relies, one time out of two, on the metal in its “primary” form—that is, produced directly from bauxite, exports of which continue to grow: up 25% between 2024 and 2025, according to figures from the Guinean government reported in January by Reuters.

Sixty years of hope

Today, Conakry ranks as the world's leading exporter of bauxite. A turning point in prospects for the country?

“It has been sixty years that Guinea has been exploiting its minerals. And the increase in national revenues has never translated into an increase in the standard of living of the population. Boké is a martyred region,” says Oumar Totiya Barry, head of the Guinean Observatory of Mines and Metals.

Along the 120 kilometres between the towns of Boffa and Boké, from the small village of Katibini to the brand-new port of Kokoya, bauxite exploitation divides. And it profoundly alters the structure of the region.

The fishing port of Bongolon (Guinea).

Bongolon, a traditional fishing port bordering the Atlantic Ocean, bears witness to this. Around twenty pirogues lie stranded on its shores, the Guinean flag raised to the wind, paint barely flaking on the dry wood. They should be at sea, says sadly, Fodet Bangora, president of the district of Siranka, to which Bongolon belongs.

From his office—a table and two chairs under a corrugated iron roof—he looks at the empty nets scattered across the beach.

“The main activity here is fishing. But we only have problems! There is no longer any point in going out to sea. The quality of the fish has changed, some species can no longer be found… It's just small, small now.”

According to him, the cause lies in the ports built by mining companies. There are nine across the Boké region, for a total of fourteen companies (eleven international, two “mixed” and one national). Some are operated by a single company—such as the ports of Dapilon, by the Compagnie de développement des mines (CDM)-China, or Kamsar, by the Compagnie des bauxites de Guinée (CBG)—others by a consortium.

“There are so many mining ships that they are driving the fish away,” confirms Ibrahima Kalil Scylla, a 35-year-old fisherman met on site.

Faced with the depletion of fish stocks, he must venture ever further out. But the pirogues are not suited to the open sea, so each outing is perilous.

“Before, I would go out for three hours and come back with one million Guinean francs [around €95] worth of fish per day. Today, you have to go beyond the Chinese ships. When I come back, if I have more than 500,000 Guinean francs [less than €50], I have done very well,” the young man complains.

Impact on ecosystems and the social fabric

Fishermen also point to the large quantities of rock that spill into the ocean, altering its ecosystems. In the absence of deepwater infrastructure—although the construction of a terminal is being considered in the district of Kouffin—bauxite is transported to export vessels using flat-bottomed barges or bulk carriers (which have greater capacity). During each transfer, part of the cargo falls into the water.

There are also potential health risks. “Oil changes, fuel… all the large ships discharge here. As soon as you finish fishing, you have to wash your hands to avoid contact with chemical substances. We don't know exactly what it is, but it burns— everyone can tell you that,” explains fisherman Ibrahima Kalil Scylla.

Laterite particles are being deposited as far as the rice fields (here in Bongolon).

Contacted by Afrique XXI, Guinea's Minister of Environment and Sustainable Development, Djami Diallo, acknowledges the “particularly significant” impact caused by the multiplication of ports on coastal erosion. Saltwater submerges the dykes, erected in vain, and then rushes inland, floods villages and drowns rice fields in its path.

One example of “dividing” the inhabitants is the tiny village of Siranka, a few kilometres east of Bongolon. “Faced with the situation, there are those who stayed and those who left to farm elsewhere,” says Arsène Souma, one of the salt producers met on site. “It has torn apart the social fabric.”

The suffocation of crops

Around thirty people in the village still make a living from rice farming and salt production, a traditional activity in Guinea. Previously immaculate white, the crystals are now orange, and the first layer has to be discarded. But above all, nothing grows anymore.

Mangoes, tomatoes, cashew trees… branches remain bare and flowers wither, suffocated by the ochre veil that covers them. In some localities, entire crops have had to be relocated.

In Siranka, the branches of the cashew trees remain bare and the flowers are withering due to bauxite pollution.

Lorries loaded with bauxite on the road to Kokaya Port (Guinea).

“Everything in the region changes colour. Even your white shirt—you can't wash it and hang it over there. The Boké region is dust,” says Arsène Souma.

Stirred up by the constant movement of trucks transporting bauxite from quarries to ports, the laterite particles form a greasy powder. Carried by the wind and washed along by rainwater, it obscures the roads, to the point of causing numerous accidents. Several villagers also report an increase in respiratory illnesses.

Underestimated damage

A whole section of the damage is underestimated.

When mining companies claim to compensate local communities affected by their activities, they refer to relocated villages and expropriated farmers. But there are all the others.

“A whole section of the damage is underestimated,” says Johannes Knierzinger, from the Institute of Research for Development (IRD).

The inhabitants of Siranka, for example, are not entitled to any compensation—considered “too far away” from extraction zones and roads to be affected.

“Yet the arrival of mining in Boffa has brought us to our knees,” Mamadou Ba, the village chief insists firmly.

The parade of trucks

While some companies have indeed revised their extraction methods to minimise their impact, the solutions put forward are unconvincing.

Dynamite, used to blast rock despite noise pollution and the significant cracks it causes in the walls of homes, has gradually been replaced by massive “surface miners”. By scraping the ground, these machines reduce vibrations.

But in Soumbouyadi, a village at the crossroads of roads leading to the ports, the problem is far from resolved.

A crack of a few millimetres already runs through the concrete blocks of the house being built by Salif Nabi Sylla. Here, it is not dynamite that is blamed, but the compactors used to pack down the roads.

“Everything vibrates! Even your feet!” exclaims the father.

Struggles over compensation

Those who are entitled to financial compensation often have to fight for their rights. Elhadj Karamba Guirassy can vouch for this.

This landowner, still upright despite his age, manages 310 hectares of farmland around Katibini, some forty kilometres from Boké—the work of a lifetime.

“From one day to the next, I saw trucks from the Chinese group TBEA arrive and drive across my fields. I stopped them from entering. I asked them to leave and take all the equipment they had brought with them,” he recounts.

The next day, a government representative came to negotiate. A new port is to be built—79 hectares are at stake.

“He called me ‘father' to put me at ease. At first, he didn't want to talk about money. He simply assured me that since the port would be on my land, I would be its owner. But I know that such statements mean nothing—and I have land titles.”

Few families possess the legal documents required to prove ownership of their land.

Elhadj Karamba Guirassy says he is still in negotiations but has not yet received any compensation, even as construction is already well under way.

Contacted, TBEA did not respond to our requests for an interview.

According to a report by the Mining Governance Support Project (Pagsem) published in June 2019, mining exploration and exploitation permits already cover nearly 61% of the Boké prefecture.

“Ridiculous” compensation

“The amounts paid as compensation are ridiculous,” according to researcher Johannes Knierzinger. “We're talking about a few euros for each fruit tree cut down—what are farmers supposed to do with that? They no longer have regular income and cannot reinvest elsewhere. It's derisory. A whole section of the damage is completely underestimated.”

“The problem is that, at present, there is no institutional constraint forcing companies to be more responsible,” adds Amadou Bah, founder of the NGO Action Mines.

The government has attempted to introduce an environmental and social management plan. But it struggles to be implemented due to a lack of technical and human resources.

A national reference framework on compensation, indemnification and the resettlement of populations affected by mining activities has also been drafted and validated by all stakeholders since 2020. Yet it has still not been adopted.

In the meantime, each company appears to follow its own rules, taking advantage of this legal vacuum, as highlighted in a report by Human Rights Watch in 2018.

Mining giants under scrutiny

Two of the largest actors in the region—the Société minière de Boké (criticised in 2022 by an investigation by Afrique XXI over tax optimisation practices) and the Compagnie des bauxites de Guinée (in which the Guinean state holds 10% and 49% stakes respectively)—declined to respond to our interview requests.

Only the Nimba Mining Company, created by the Guinean authorities in August 2025 and unique as the only fully state-owned company, agreed to speak through its director, Patrice L'Huillier.

He firmly rejects the idea of insufficient oversight: “There may have been a certain degree of tolerance in the past,” he says. “But it is clear that the government is increasingly putting pressure on mining companies to comply. Those that break the rules expose themselves to sanctions.”

Companies stepping into the role of the state

When questioned, Environment Minister Djami Diallo stated that each year, some companies see their impact assessments and evaluation reports rejected for failing to meet environmental standards.

“Three or four” mining companies in Boké—whose identities she did not disclose—are currently concerned.

However, she acknowledges that in practice, “just because companies do not meet the conditions required to obtain compliance certification does not mean everything stops.”

In many respects, companies are stepping into the role of the state, explains Johannes Knierzinger.

Access to water, electricity, new roads, new buildings… By establishing themselves in the region, mining companies carry out numerous investments. Their presence alone often guarantees access to basic infrastructure.

“When there is a need, people no longer turn to local or regional authorities, but to the companies. These companies anticipate this: by taking on this role, they reduce tensions and obtain a kind of social licence to operate,” the researcher explains.

Persistent tensions

This does not prevent tensions from erupting.

In 2019, three civil society organisations filed a complaint on behalf of thirteen Guinean villages, accusing the Compagnie des bauxites de Guinée of violating their rights and failing to honour its commitments.

“Even today, people are angry everywhere,” confides a local official in Kolaboui, speaking anonymously. “They think they will work. They intend to—but they don't get the opportunity. After having long hoped for the arrival of companies, they now find themselves suffering from their presence.”

“These are very sensitive issues,” acknowledges Patrice L'Huillier.

Nimba Mining has set itself the objective of employing 99% Guinean nationals.

“We meet communities every week; I personally go to meet them. We do have to be very careful, but we are not in conflict. Employing young Guineans is one of our priorities.”

Departures and new arrivals

While Nimba Mining states that it compensates all land allocated to it, the company says it is not concerned by the issue of pastoralists, as it operates “only on farmland” since its creation five months ago.

Yet according to testimonies collected on site, herders have indeed suffered from the presence of mining companies.

Accustomed to moving with their livestock, only a few remain in the region, once known for its pastureland. Most are said to have moved to Guinea-Bissau.

Women on the margins

The impact on women also remains poorly understood.

“They are left on the margins of decision-making processes and receive only the crumbs,” says Fatoumata Diallo, a resident of Boffa trained in law to help locals defend their rights.

Rarely owners of the land they cultivate, women must wait to be reassigned plots when their fields—buried under dust—no longer produce. They often end up with the least irrigated and most inaccessible land.

Used to gathering at water points to meet and exchange news, they lose these sociable spaces when they become muddy or too polluted.

A long-awaited promise of development

Despite the dynamics set in motion by bauxite extraction, many Guineans continue to flock to the region in the hope of finding work.

The buzz surrounding bauxite remains, in their eyes, the promise of long-awaited development.

In some cases, such as in the port of Kamsar—where brand-new residential buildings overlook major paved roads—these ambitions appear to be materialising. Shops are multiplying, jobs are increasing. And while fishing has declined, the number of motorcycle taxis continues to grow.

A fragile balance

“Bauxite extraction is not a problem in itself,” admits Amadou Bah. “But there must be a perfect balance between mining activities and other territorial activities. Otherwise, we will not be able to avoid a form of development that will only exacerbate inequalities and ultimately harm the country's economy as a whole.”

The challenge is considerable, at a time when Guinea is openly displaying its ambition to move from a mining country to an industrial one, beginning with the domestic production of alumina.

Construction work on the country's first refinery was launched in December—once again in Boké.

Senegal's Hidden Debt and the IMF's Blind Spots

Fanny Pigeaud — 2026-03-27T09:07:56Z

Since the revelation in February 2025 of a significantly underestimated public debt, Senegal has been plunged into a major economic crisis. With the actual debt-to-GDP ratio now exceeding 100%, questions are being raised about the role of the International Monetary Fund: did it ignore the warning signs?

What did the International Monetary Fund (IMF) know? And to what extent does its responsibility lie in Senegal's 'hidden debt' scandal? Since the publication of an audit in February 2025 revealing the catastrophic state of the country's public accounts, doubt has taken hold. Several economists—notably former executives from the Bretton Woods institutions—are convinced: the IMF knew more than it is officially acknowledging. In December 2025, during a conference organized by International Development Economics Associates (IDEAs) in Dakar, the Senegalese Minister of Justice, Yassine Fall—an economist herself—suggested that the blame was not limited to the national level alone.

To understand how we got here, let's go back. At the start of his term in April 2024, President Bassirou Diomaye Faye requested that the Court of Auditors launch a comprehensive audit of public finances covering the period from 2019 to March 2024. The findings hit like a bombshell: as of December 31, 2023, the actual outstanding public debt reached nearly 99.7% of GDP (18,559 billion CFA francs, or 28 billion euros), compared to the 74% officially reported under Macky Sall's presidency. The discrepancy is staggering.

The Court of Auditors has identified budget deficits far exceeding published figures, incomplete accounting of state commitments—specifically contracted loans—irregular treasury practices, and off-budget bank debt... Auditors are explicitly referring to this as 'hidden debt.'

In the following weeks, the IMF—linked to Senegal through a financial assistance program—confirmed the existence of undeclared commitments totaling approximately $7 billion (€6 billion) between 2019 and 2024. Subsequent independent audits, including one by the firm Forvis Mazars, suggested even higher figures—upwards of $11 billion—pushing the debt to 132% of GDP by the end of 2024. For a country long hailed as a model of macroeconomic stability, the shock is brutal. Senegal is now among the most heavily indebted nations on the African continent.

“Unprecedented” on the continent

The primary responsibility for this scandal lies with the Senegalese state, as debt management and the reporting of budgetary data fall under its jurisdiction. The decision to conceal the figures was therefore, first and foremost, a political and administrative one. However, the problem is not limited to Senegal. Other actors played a significant role—among them, the IMF. During the period in question, it approved a major $1.8 billion loan in June 2023, which would not have been possible had the actual figures been considered. In total, the loans contracted by the government since 2019 under various IMF programs exceeded the levels officially reported by the Fund by more than 40% of GDP.

In March 2025, the IMF mission chief for Senegal, Edward Gemayel, spoke of a 'shared responsibility.' However, he quickly added a nuance: 'We are not auditors,' he said, asserting that the institution could 'absolutely not have suspected this under-reporting.' A few months later, in November 2025, he would state: 'We have never seen hidden debt of this magnitude in Africa.'

When the matter was made public, the financial institution suspended its lending program with Dakar and initiated a formal 'misreporting' procedure. However, it did not demand the immediate repayment of funds already disbursed—contrary to its past actions elsewhere, notably in Mauritania during the 2000s. In October 2025, its Managing Director, Kristalina Georgieva, praised the 'significant progress' made by the Senegalese authorities, congratulating them on their 'admirable commitment to transparency' and their close cooperation.

Visible signs of slippage

The IMF was, however, the institution best positioned to spot such slippage. Was it a case of oversight? In any event, doubts already existed regarding the quality of the monitoring performed by its teams. In November 2024, economists Peter Doyle, a former senior IMF official, and Ndongo Samba Sylla¹ pointed out 'deeply concerning' errors in inflation projections for Senegal, which they deemed to have no logical basis. They feared that these approximations were 'only the tip of the iceberg'².

In this context, the hypothesis put forward by Martin Kessler, Executive Director of the Finance for Development Lab—namely, that excessive trust was placed in the figures provided by the Senegalese administration and that there was insufficient monitoring of commitments—appears to be a possible explanation. However, it is hardly convincing. As the economist explained in December 2025, inconsistencies were detectable³. By the end of 2023, the amounts signed between 2018 and 2023 represented 84% of GDP, while the sums disbursed amounted to only 51%. Such an unusual discrepancy should have been viewed as a red flag, justifying a more thorough examination of the situation.

The IMF had, in fact, already noted flaws in Senegal's fiscal transparency back in 2019, specifically a 'lack of publication of certain existing administrative documents,' such as reports on tax expenditures or the list of on-lent loans and state-guaranteed debt. 'It should therefore have been more vigilant,' observes Ndongo Samba Sylla. This caution was especially necessary given that the institution had already been caught off guard in Mozambique, he points out, referring to the 2016 'hidden debt' scandal involving loans contracted following the discovery of vast offshore gas reserves. The Mozambican case demonstrated that the anticipation of future hydrocarbon revenues could create a context ripe for the rapid and opaque accumulation of debt. Senegal found itself in a comparable situation: it too had discovered significant hydrocarbon resources—gas in 2014, followed by oil between 2014 and 2016.

“People knew, yet no action was taken”

'Clues' that there was a problem 'were visible,' according to John McIntire, a former senior World Bank official, citing construction projects and financial flows within the local banking system and the Central Bank of West African States (BCEAO). To him, the notion that the Fund and the World Bank saw nothing is 'neither credible nor relevant.'

'It is highly unusual for a government to increase its debt by 20, 30, or 40% of GDP without the Fund's fiscal experts—who are typically very competent—noticing it,' says a former IMF official who requested anonymity. One of his former colleagues adds: 'The teams conduct thorough reviews every six months. You cannot hide amounts as significant as Senegal's. It's impossible.' Peter Doyle and Ndongo Samba Sylla summarize the situation: for more than 20% of the GDP to escape the Fund's notice, it would have had to lose track of these sums 'mission after mission, for five years' across the balance of payments, monetary surveys, national accounts, and public accounts⁴. A scenario that is hardly plausible.

If the hypothesis of incompetence seems hard to believe, what other explanation remains? According to a well-informed source, this was no more technical failure. Certain members of the IMF team in charge of Senegal reportedly identified anomalies and informed their superiors. However, at least one senior official allegedly ignored these warnings deliberately. This would not, therefore, be an error of 'omission,' but rather one of 'commission': 'People knew and did not act,' the source insists, drawing on internal testimonies.

The 'close ties' between the IMF, the French Treasury, and Macky Sall

Several sources suggest the hypothesis of political trade-offs. This is far from being a far-fetched theory, as Martin Kessler notes : 'There is a wealth of economic literature showing how political considerations can steer the IMF's choices in certain directions—particularly by lowering its requirements for debt sustainability.'

Peter Doyle and Ndongo Samba Sylla raise the possibility of a 'deliberate decision not to scrutinize the figures too closely, for fear that certain transactions might enter the public domain, which could have harmed the political future of France's best friend in Senegal, Mr. Macky Sall.' Several former IMF officials share this view. 'Macky Sall was the star pupil of the Americans and the French… He awarded major contracts to Western companies, particularly French ones, financed by state debt. He was their golden boy, and he was being groomed to become the UN Secretary-General,' says one of them. The former Senegalese president is currently a declared candidate for the position.

Another source confirms the existence of 'close ties between the IMF, the French Treasury, and Macky Sall.' For France—Senegal's second-largest bilateral creditor after China—the Senegalese president represented, alongside Alassane Ouattara in Côte d'Ivoire, a pillar for the defense of its interests in West Africa. John McIntire, for his part, emphasizes the importance for Western countries of maintaining 'Senegal's image of stability.'

When contacted, the institution rejected any political considerations. 'The IMF,' it noted, 'is a multilateral organization governed by its 191 member countries. All Executive Board decisions, including those regarding Senegal, are made collectively, based on staff analyses, information submitted by the authorities, and established frameworks.'

The choice of austerity

At this stage, there is no evidence to suggest that the IMF knowingly concealed information. However, it did, in effect, contribute to worsening the situation. By continuing its disbursements under the program with Senegal—when the discovery of irregularities should have led to their suspension—the institution played a part in increasing the total debt stock. Added to this is the cost of the 'surcharges' applied by the Fund: when a country borrows beyond its quota, as Senegal did, it is required to pay additional fees.
The IMF's role is more central as its support is a prerequisite for that of other donors, such as the World Bank or the African Development Bank, which follow suit and grant their own loans. Consequently, the Fund has contributed both directly and indirectly to increasing the country's financial burden.

Today, the magnitude of the debt is such that it has shattered the promises made by Bassirou Diomaye Faye and his Prime Minister, Ousmane Sonko. Instead of launching a program for recovery, poverty reduction, and the restoration of sovereignty, they find themselves forced to implement an austerity plan. They have chosen to fully repay this debt—despite it being deemed unsustainable by many economists—without questioning the role of the Bretton Woods institutions. Several observers wonder whether the current impasse might be deliberate, noting that the project championed by Faye during his candidacy specifically aimed to reduce French influence over Senegal's economic and monetary policy.

However, the social context is already precarious: nearly 37.5% of the population lives below the poverty line, with particularly high rates in rural areas (exceeding 50%) and food insecurity affecting a large portion of the most vulnerable. Any reduction in social spending or any tax increase risks further exacerbating these hardships.

Multiple other 'hidden debts' ?

Faced with criticisms that the Senegalese people are paying for the IMF's mistakes, the Fund defends itself: it 'fully understands the difficulty of this period' for the population and claims to be conducting 'an internal review to understand how these discrepancies went unnoticed and to strengthen safeguards against similar failures.' Meanwhile, the IMF states it is working 'on a request for a new IMF-supported program aimed at addressing fiscal challenges and debt vulnerabilities, while promoting inclusive growth for the benefit of the Senegalese people.' To date, no officials have been sanctioned.

For its part, the World Bank—which has also granted loans to Senegal—maintains that following the 'audit revelations,' it has 'strengthened its support for transparency and good governance,' while continuing its analysis 'based on available information.'

According to several experts, the consequences of this case extend beyond Senegal: at a time when sovereignist movements have gained momentum across the continent in recent years, this situation weakens the idea that Africans can freely determine their own economic future without the constraints imposed by international financial institutions. Some even fear that other countries may be facing similar 'hidden debt' scenarios.

One question remains unanswered: what information was held by the French Treasury, which is closely linked to the IMF and former President Macky Sall, and which monitors Senegalese finances through the CFA franc system? When questioned, the institution—which is now demanding that Dakar settle several outstanding payments, including approximately €30 million owed to the French Development Agency (AFD)—acknowledged receipt of our inquiries but did not respond. The BCEAO, which is typically well-informed regarding the accounts of its member states, including Senegal, has also remained silent.

¹The author of this article has co-authored two books with Ndongo Samba Sylla, published by La Découverte (The Invisible Weapon of Françafrique: A History of the CFA Franc, 2018, and Democracy in Françafrique: A History of Electoral Imperialism, 2024).

²Ndongo Samba Sylla, Peter Doyle, ‘The IMF's Unrealistic Inflation Forecasts for Senegal', Financial Afrik, 3 November 2024.

³Martin Kessler, ‘What we learn from the new International Debt Statistics on the hidden debt of Senegal', Finance for Development Lab, 08/12/25.

⁴Ndongo Samba Sylla, Peter Doyle, ‘The IMF must first put its own house in order', Financial Afrik, 25 March 2025.

In Sicily, the Fall reclaim control of the narrative on exile

Julie Déléant — 2026-03-12T05:00:00Z

In the heart of downtown Palermo, Maldusa, an aid organization co-created by members of the Senegalese Baye Fall community, seeks to give exiles the opportunity to reclaim their own stories. With the support of local activist circles, it has now established itself as a reference on the island and across the Mediterranean.

Since selling her enoteca (wine bar, editor's note), Ornella no longer has the heart to stop when she passes by Piazza Sant'Oliva, a small green haven located in the quiet Politeama Theatre district of Palermo. From those joyful months spent serving local wines to the sounds of Miles Davis and Nina Simone, she has kept a host of fond memories – and one employee, Haroun, who followed her to the Bellotti Officine, the cultural centre where she now runs a bistro.

From here, Haroun is only about a hundred meters on foot from the premises of Maldusa¹, the association he co-founded in 2023 in Palermo with around ten other members of the Baye Fall movement – a semi-autonomous religious branch of the Sufi tradition that promotes an altruistic and pious way of life, removed from material concerns. That day, like almost every day after finishing his lunch shift, he bids farewell to his colleagues and heads over to join his “brothers,” most of whom, like him, come from Senegal. “We're lucky to have a place like this.” Lucky? Not only. Maldusa actually emerged from initiatives launched on the shores of Lampedusa as early as 2022 by several autonomous groups, including former members of Alarm Phone – a hotline platform monitoring distress calls and coordinating rescue efforts in the Mediterranean Sea – the Louise Michel rescue vessel², the association Mediterranea, and the Baye Fall community.

That year, the United Nations³ estimated that at least 1,413 people lost their lives attempting to reach Europe via the Central Mediterranean—2, 271 the following year. How can the extreme gravity of the situation be conveyed without falling into paternalistic miserabilism? Maldusa was born out of this aspiration, with a clear guiding line: to establish in the collective imagination the idea of the Mediterranean as a space of connection and solidarity rather than reducing it to its deadly dimension – a mirror of the inequalities between the North and the South. It also seeks to remind us that those who cross it at the risk of their lives are, first and foremost, active agents who take their destiny into their own hands before becoming victims of policies that work against them. “People do not begin to exist only when they are in danger. This victimization fails to recognize people's capacity to act and to exist outside the white-centred vision of European actors. This situation may be just as dehumanizing as portraying people on the move as dangerous criminals,” the collective explains today.

“We have all been through it.”

Sheikh Sene, Maldusa coordinator in Palermo (Sicily, 18 January 2026).

Photograph: Julie Deleant

But at the time, the urgency was first and foremost on the ground. Cheikh Sene, Maldusa's coordinator in Palermo, recounts:

We realized, among other things, that the people steering the boats from Africa to Europe, fearing that they would be identified as captains and convicted upon arrival, would cut the engine as soon as they entered international waters. This led to many shipwrecks. And very few people know this. We had to regain control not only of the situation, but also of the narrative surrounding migration stories.

Three years later, the issue of the almost systematic imprisonment of captains of makeshift boats remains a crucial concern for the association, which is multiplying initiatives to prevent such detentions, notably alongside the Captain Support group. “We now know that most of these pilots do not really have a choice and are compelled either by real traffickers or by the necessity to leave,” Cheikh Sene continues.

In addition to discussion circles and debates open to the general public, a Maldusa team also holds numerous internal meetings, organizes prison visits, and launches legal battles for imprisoned comrades, with whom they manage to maintain contact thanks to a network built over the years with local solidarity actors.

“We know what it's like. We've all been through it,” explains the former fisherman from M'Bour, south of Dakar, who built with his own hands the boat on which he set out to sea in 2016. An artist in his spare time and already deeply involved in local sociocultural activities, he would have preferred to stay: “But the sea had been emptied of its fish by European and Chinese companies. Their equipment is too powerful, their boats too fast. We could no longer compete.” So, Europe became the destination.

“‘De-whitening' the organisation's structure”

Upon arriving in Italy, Cheikh Sene was immediately arrested and sent to prison, where he served a two-year sentence. After his release, he went to Palermo, joining several members of the Baye Fall community within the Catholic organization Caritas. We were being helped, but we weren't really being listened to. It was hard to understand when and how to see a lawyer, or how to get papers… We quickly realized we would be more effective by organizing among ourselves,” he continues.

Photos of various events organised by Maldusa (Palermo, Sicily, 18 January 2026).

Photograph: Julie Deleant

This is Maldusa's strength: most of its founding members – all volunteers except for Cheikh Sene – were born on the African continent and have personal migration experience. “It seemed crucial to involve as many members as possible from communities that have crossed borders, in order to ‘de-whiten' the organization's structure. Most migrant aid associations founded by white people come in with a whole set of solutions for what they think are our problems. But we know the problems – we've lived them, and sometimes still do.” He points out. Furthermore, “most associations reduce exiles to their status as victims. But we don't want to be reduced to victims, detainees, smugglers, or exploited labour. Maldusa is also about showing that we are not a problem, but a solution.” To “break the labels,” members commit to diligent knowledge-sharing, one of the cornerstones of the Baye Fall movement.

We are capable of thinking about what is best for us and deciding how we consider it wise and useful to integrate into society. If a member of our community faces a difficulty, we don't just help them – we seek to understand why it happened and make sure it doesn't happen again.

This does not mean closing the door to other communities – quite the opposite. In Palermo, as in Lampedusa, the association – funded by a few German foundations and private donations – has multiplied exchanges and collaborations with most of the activist groups and social operators working on the ground. “All victims of discrimination have lessons to share,” says Cheikh Sene. This horizontal and collaborative approach with various anti-colonial, solidarity, and feminist collectives in Palermo, as Deanna Dadusc, an active member of Maldusa, noted in a 2023 interview with Melting Pot Europa⁴, makes it possible to “create a structured and solid network across the entire Italian territory” and to highlight the work of the “clandestine railways,” in reference to the nineteenth-century American Underground Railroad.

A new library set up and stocked by supporters, on the premises of Maldusa (Palermo, Sicily, 18 January 2026).

Photograph: Julie Deleant

That evening, as yet another meeting is devoted to the issue of boat captains, the voices of the small group of about ten participants are drowned out by the sound of Giuliana's drill. A committed member of the feminist association Non-Una Di Meno (“Not One Less”), she is busy assembling the new library shelves. A few minutes later, the shelves will hold a mix of titles: poetry collections, the essay Aboliamo il carcere⁵ (“Let's Abolish Prison”) by Italian researcher Giulia De Rocco, and copies of the French magazine La Déferlante.

“Fighting ignorance”

“Besides, they're not just meant to be read,” Pietro jokes on the evening of Sunday, January 18, as he wedges the projector screen in place with a stack of books. A few hours later, it will be used to broadcast the final of the Africa Cup of Nations (AFCON), pitting the Senegal national football team against the Morocco national football team. The room quickly fills up around the bar, where people mainly drink mango and guava juice. In a cheerful atmosphere, teasing begins to fly toward the few Moroccan supporters present as the match heads into extra. Bolted to his seat, Bassirou, who is in charge of the screening, tries as best he can to contain Haroun's excitement, as he stands a little too close to the computer: “Do you know how much this thing costs?” In the 120^th minute, the room erupts in joy: Senegal are crowned African champions thanks to a goal by Pape Gueye in the 94^th minute. “You know it was tough,” Abdul says quietly. “Gambia, Mali and every country close to ours was supporting Morocco. What a joy to all be together.” Outside, Gabriel, a young Sicilian boy, improvises passes against a low wall. He won't be pocketing the €100 promised by the Baye Fall members in the event of a Moroccan victory. “But I'll give you five to cheer you up,” Haroun teases him.

But that Sunday, what happens at Maldusa stays at Maldusa. In the otherwise lively streets of Palermo, the cheers and cries of “Forza Senegal” from Haroun and his friends draw not a single knowing smile, but rather a string of puzzled – if not wary – looks. A mood in step with a national policy increasingly hostile to cultural mixing. Six years after the publication of the so-called Salvini Decrees, aimed at drastically restricting migrants' rights in Italy and access to residence permits, the rise to power in 2022 of Georgia Meloni, leader of the far-right party Brothers of Italy, unsurprisingly cemented the previous government's anti-immigration policies. Beyond strengthening her policy of outsourcing border control to Libya – and now also to Albania – the head of government has since, like many European countries, continued to introduce measures that further curb the reception of migrants.
So today, more than just a gathering place for African communities, the association's premises have become something of an island of resistance. The day after Senegal's victory at the Africa Cup of Nations, meetings resume. In a few days, Italian authors will come to present their book on reproductive genocide⁶ and resistance in Palestine. Next will come preparations for the Ramadan iftars (scheduled from mid-February to mid-March), also partly organized by the Baye Fall community. In the meantime, Maldusa's members will do what they do best: keep their doors open. “We don't have the solution to the rise of racism or the hardening of migration policies. But continuing to talk about it in order to try to find one – that's our way of fighting ignorance. And for now, it's the best way to resist.”

¹This word stems from a linguistic misunderstanding: during a call to the Alarm Phone rescue centre, the person on the boat in distress said, ‘I'm going to Malta.' On the other end of the line, the person understood ‘Maldusa.' This word has come to symbolise an unknown destination.

²The MV Louise Michel is a former French Navy ship converted into a rescue vessel. See its website here.

³‘Migrant and refugee movements across the central Mediterranean in 2022 – IOM/UNHCR,' United Nations, 29 November 2023. Read here (Italian).

⁴Rossella Marvulli, ‘The Maldusa Project as a Connector Between Informal Realities,' Melting Pot, 23 October 2023, available here.

⁵Giulia De Rocco, Let's Abolish Prisons. Imagining a Future Without Prisons, Eris, 7 April 2025, 60 pages.

⁶On this subject, see in particular Physicians for Human Rights and the Global Human Rights Clinic at the University of Chicago Law School, ‘Destroying Hope for the Future: Reproductive Violence in Gaza', 14 January 2026, report available here.

How Kenya's Seed Ruling Freed Indigenous Farmers from Fear

Robert Amalemba — 2026-02-27T06:13:01Z

By invalidating, in November 2025, one of the harshest laws in the region that criminalized the exchange and sale of native seeds, the High Court of Kenya simultaneously freed both the seeds and the farmers.

Beatrice Wangui, an indigenous farmer in Gilgil, a small Rift Valley town, no longer feels the need to scrutinise visitors to her home for fear they might be covert government seed inspectors ready to pounce on her.
For years, the smallholder farmer—who tills roughly an acre and stocks indigenous seeds (mbegu za kienyeji)—lived cautiously. The government, under the Seeds and Plant Varieties Act, could arrest anyone merely for exchanging seeds with a neighbour, subjecting them to a jail term of up to two years or a fine of up to KSh1 million.

“Even when it was illegal, I still exchanged seeds discreetly. I couldn't stop—it's what we've done since time immemorial,” Wangui says. “In African villages, we are raised on the virtue of sharing. How could I watch my neighbour fail to plant his land and deny him seeds simply because they were indigenous?”

Now in her 40s, Wangui speaks as she displays handfuls of multicoloured seeds — a motley collection of browns, creams and deep purples. They bear little resemblance to the uniform, glossy hybrid seeds sold in town, which until recently were the only ones legally allowed to be shared in Kenya.

Dozens of indigenous varieties

At her homestead stands a wooden seed bank housing dozens of indigenous varieties. Until recently, she shared them only with trusted friends, turning away anyone who looked “suspicious,” lest they be government officers out to arrest her.

That fear was lifted on November 27, 2025, when the High Court overturned provisions of the law that criminalised the exchange of indigenous seeds. For Wangui, the ruling corrected what she believes was a historical injustice rooted in colonial-era legislation introduced in 1973— laws she says favoured multinational seed companies dominating Kenya's formal seed market, estimated to be worth KSh45–50 billion (about USD 350–400 million) annually.

Key crops in the industry include maize, wheat, beans, potatoes and horticultural varieties, with about 70–80 active seed companies. Multinationals such as SeedCo, Syngenta and East African Seed, all foreign owned, dominate the market, commanding the largest share¹.

Seed sovereignty

Unlike large corporations driven primarily by profit, seed savers — ranging from individual growers with small plots like Wangui to school garden groups and small-scale farms —collect, preserve and replant open-pollinated (OP) seeds rather than relying on varieties produced by multinational companies. These seeds are often shared through informal networks, exchanged as gifts between friends or distributed during community seed fairs and events. Because open-pollinated seeds are not owned or controlled by private companies, they remain in the public domain. This principle of seeds as a shared public resource is commonly referred to as seed sovereignty.

“For generations, informal seeds were more than crops,” says Wangui. “They were a covenant between families and the land— stories written into every drought-resistant kernel. Yet the state made owning them feel like holding contraband.”

Wangui was one of fifteen petitioners in the landmark case against the government. For her and farmers like Samuel Wathome, the Seeds and Plant Varieties Act, as amended several times, latest being in 2016, did not feel like regulation— it felt like the criminalisation of their existence. As detailed in their petition, sections such as 10(4)©, (d), (e), (f) and (g) made it an offence to sell, share or exchange unregistered and uncertified seeds.

Indigenous and unindexed seeds

Daniel Wanjama, who runs Seed Savers— one of Kenya's largest indigenous seed banks in Nakuru —and was among the key actors behind the petition, told Afrique XXI that by demanding registration and certification, the Act stripped seeds of their “indigenous character”— an identity nurtured by small-scale farmers over centuries.

Section 8(1), in particular, prohibited the sale of “unindexed” plant varieties, effectively banning the commercial trade of indigenous seeds that define local agricultural heritage—despite protections under the Constitution and international treaties.

“The traditional farmer was left watching multinationals import seeds and repackage them for resale,” Wanjama says. “Farmers feared even selling their own seeds— whose drought and disease resistance is proven locally —because officials could descend on them unannounced.” Worse still, he said in an earlier interview before the judgment, that multinationals would pirate indigenous seeds known in Africa for generations and pass them off as their own, exploiting the fact that ordinary farmers lack the resources to patent and protect their seeds.

Save families from hunger

With key sections of the Act declared unconstitutional, he says the priority has now shifted to creating awareness of the court's ruling— an effort he believes will naturally encourage freer seed sharing and the establishment of community seed banks across the country. “This will support vulnerable farmers who cannot afford costly hybrid varieties. Indigenous seeds are cheaper to maintain, more resilient to pests and drought, and can help save families from hunger.”

Alfred Omondi, a smallholder farmer who keeps a seed bank at his home in Butere constituency, western Kenya, told Afrique XXI that he has followed the case since it was filed about two years ago. “I've already called my village mates and informed them of the developments,” he said. “We are no longer hiding our seed-sharing heritage.”

Studies by the Farm to Market Alliance, an organisation that supports farmers' access to open markets, show that smallholder farmers— estimated at about 7.5 million in Kenya —produce and supply more than 80 per cent of the seeds used in Africa through informal systems, including farmer-saved seed, local markets and community exchanges² This “informal” sector with farmers cultivating on less than 2 Ha remains the most resilient and reliable seed system for most African farmers.

An East African issue

Yet across East Africa, the East African Community's Seed and Plant Varieties framework— designed to harmonise standards and facilitate regional trade —largely supports certified seeds, leaving indigenous seed sharing by such farmers on the fringes and under national jurisdiction.

Uganda stands out. Its National Plant Genetic Resources Act, 2022 explicitly recognises farmers' rights to save, use, exchange and sell unprotected seed from their harvest—a cornerstone for indigenous seed exchange. Uganda is also a party to the FAO's International Treaty on Plant Genetic Resources for Food and Agriculture (ITPGRFA), which upholds these rights.

Tanzania, by contrast, allows farmers under its Seed Act of 2003 to save seed for their own use but is silent on exchange. In practice, bartering uncertified seed could still be construed as an offence, especially if it goes beyond small, informal gifting—creating tension with Tanzania's commitments under the same international treaty.

Discrimination and right to food

Even so, Kenya's law was among the most punitive, leaving indigenous seed holders in constant fear and driving them to court.

Farmers' affidavits detailed that fear. Inspectors from the Kenya Plant Health Inspectorate Service (KEPHIS), empowered under Section 3D(1), could enter, search and seize seeds on “reasonable belief.” The petitioners anchored their case in the Constitution— arguing the law violated Article 11 on culture, which obligates the state to protect indigenous knowledge, and Article 43(1)© on the right to food. By restricting access to seeds— the first link in the food chain —the Act threatened their survival.

They also challenged the KSh75,000 mandatory merchant registration fee, with a KSh10,000 annual renewal, calling it an insurmountable barrier for resource-poor farmers and a form of indirect discrimination under Article 27.

The loss of overt 100 seed varieties

Today, just four monied corporations—BASF, Bayer/Monsanto, ChemChina-Syngenta and Corteva Agriscience—control more than two-thirds of global seed and pesticide sales³.

“We documented the loss of over 100 seed varieties in Kitui, Kakamega, Turkana and Baringo over the past 20 years,” Wanjama says. “The Act that has been termed unconstitutional is partly to blame.” The UN Food and Agriculture Organization estimates that the world has already lost about three-quarters of its plant genetic diversity since the early 1900s, with nearly 93 per cent of distinct seed varieties disappearing over the past century alone.

Omondi, the farmer from Butere, is optimistic that many of the lost seed varieties can still be recovered. “I believe farmers simply hid them out of fear of the law,” he says. “I hope that situation remains unchanged and that the government's appeal against the judgment does not succeed. If the ruling stands, farmers will come out of the shadows with the varieties they have preserved, and we will be able to share and plant them freely once again.”

An unequivocal judgement

Although the government has filed a notice of appeal through the artoney general Dorcas Oduor — arguing the controversial Act was meant as a shield to protect farmers from poor-quality seeds —the High Court remain unequivocal.

“Most Kenyan farming communities practise seed saving, exchange and sharing as a facet of indigenous technologies,” the court ruled. “These unique cultural practices cannot be legislated away.”

Justice Rhoda Rutto also found the inspectors' powers violated rights to privacy and fair administrative action, noting the absence of safeguards and avenues to contest seizures. The merchant fees, she ruled, placed small-scale farmers at a disadvantage and were indirectly discriminatory.

In the end, the offending sections were declared unconstitutional. For Wangui and thousands like her, the seeds in their palms are no longer potential evidence in a criminal case. They are, once again, simply seeds—enduring, life-giving, and free.

¹Read here Kilimo Nexus's article, published two years ago.

²Read here a Farm to Market Alliance's peace, from 2022.

³Read here a Better Planet Education's investigation.