Madagascar’s coup marks a bitter victory for youth protest — and a risky detour from democracy
When Colonel Michael Randrianirina announced that he would soon be sworn in as Madagascar’s president, he presented the move as an answer to months of public fury. For young protesters who began taking to the streets in late September demanding water and power, the military intervention felt like a breakthrough. For many outside observers, it looked like a familiar, worrying rewind: a military hand placing itself at the centre of political life in a country long battered by weak institutions, poverty and foreign influence.
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What happened
Soldiers from the elite CAPSAT unit seized the presidential palace in Antananarivo and the High Constitutional Court invited Colonel Randrianirina to assume the presidency after lawmakers impeached Andry Rajoelina, who fled the country. The African Union moved quickly to suspend Madagascar, warning that “the rule of law must prevail over the rule of force,” a comment echoed by AU Commission Chairperson Mahmoud Ali Youssouf.
The colonel — a veteran of the CAPSAT unit that once helped bring Rajoelina to power in a 2009 coup — said a military-led committee would govern for up to two years while a transitional government prepares elections. That timeline is meant to reassure international partners; in practice, it echoes a pattern often seen across the continent, where interim timetables stretch and the military becomes a long‑term political actor.
Why the streets rose — and why they backed the army
What began as protests over basic services quickly metastasized into anger about chronic inequality and the failures of a polity many young people say is closed to them. Madagascar’s population of roughly 30 million is exceptionally young — the median age is under 20 — and about three-quarters live in poverty. World Bank figures show GDP per capita has dipped in the long term; between independence and 2020 it fell almost 45% in real terms.
“We’re worried about what comes next, but we’re savouring this first victory that gave us hope,” said Fenitra Razafindramanga, 26, a captain of Madagascar’s national rugby team who joined the protests. Across Antananarivo, impromptu celebrations took place — a concert at Place du 13 Mai, flags waved from car windows — and a Gen Z movement that started the demonstrations posted that it welcomed the colonel’s promise to “talk to the youth.”
That enthusiasm is fragile. Protest movements born of unmet needs can be quick to rejoice in the ouster of an unpopular leader, but translating street energy into stable, accountable governance is another matter entirely.
The spectre of 2009 and the role of foreign powers
Rajoelina’s own history complicates any simplistic reading of events. He first rose to power in 2009 after a military-backed ouster and governed for years under the shadow of that seizure. International donors punished that earlier coup with aid suspensions, a reminder of the costs that can follow a breakdown in constitutional rule. Rajoelina’s critics say his second term — he returned after elections in 2018 and again in disputed 2023 votes — failed to deliver on promises to reduce poverty and corruption.
Reports that Rajoelina left Madagascar aboard a French military plane, and later landed in the United Arab Emirates, have revived questions about France’s continuing influence in its former colonies. Paris has long been accused of retaining opaque ties to political elites across Francophone Africa, and any perceived assistance in a leader’s escape stokes suspicions of double standards when powerful states proclaim commitment to democracy.
What the AU suspension means — and what it might not
Suspension from the African Union isolates the new rulers diplomatically and can trigger a cascade of practical consequences: freezes on aid, limits to access to continental finance mechanisms, and a reluctance by partners to engage. But past suspensions have not always prevented military regimes from consolidating power. The AU’s choice to suspend Madagascar signals regional displeasure and opens a diplomatic pathway for negotiations, yet it offers little immediate relief for Malagasy families worrying about food, water and jobs.
The bigger picture: youth frustration, weakening institutions
Madagascar is not an isolated case of citizens turning to the streets and the military stepping in. Across the Sahel and parts of West and Central Africa, popular discontent has collided with weakened democratic institutions and security sector actors prepared to fill the vacuum. Climate shocks and economic dislocation add fuel to the fire: in Madagascar, cyclones and environmental degradation directly exacerbate water and energy scarcity and undermine livelihoods.
The central questions are familiar and urgent: can a transitional council shepherd credible, inclusive elections? Will the military step back after a fixed period? Can the island’s young majority be offered real pathways into power and prosperity rather than episodic catharses?
Paths ahead
For ordinary Malagasy the immediate priorities are practical: restoring services, ensuring markets and transport work, and keeping a fragile economy from sliding further. For the wider world, the test will be whether international partners insist on genuine constitutional repair rather than hands-off pragmatism.
Randrianirina’s promise to “answer the call” of youth is a rare rhetorical nod toward demands for systemic change. But promises from those who wear fatigues must be anchored in measurable actions: timelines for restoring civilian rule, guarantees for political freedoms, and transparent planning for elections with credible international observation.
As diplomats, donors and protesters assess the new reality, they face a dilemma: lean too hard on sanctioning the junta and risk deepening hardship for already struggling people; be too conciliatory and risk legitimising a coup. Which is the truer path to delivering long-term stability and justice for Madagascar’s young majority?
In Antananarivo, where a concert replaced a confrontation and people spoke of “being released,” the mood is cautious optimism. The hard work of turning that moment into lasting change — not into another chapter on a familiar cycle of promise and disappointment — lies ahead.
By Abdiwahab Ahmed
Axadle Times international–Monitoring.
