When Diplomacy Turns Volatile: Togo, an EU Resolution, and a Man at the Centre of a Storm
In the warm dusk outside Lomé’s Grand Market, people buying mangoes and bolts of colorful wax print talked in low, urgent voices about a name that has suddenly traveled beyond the Gulf of Guinea: Abdoul Aziz Goma. For many here, his story is not just about one man; it’s a prism through which larger, older tensions in this small West African nation are being magnified on the world stage.
The European Parliament recently adopted a resolution demanding the release of Goma, an Irish-Togolese national said to have been jailed along with 13 others in February and handed ten-year sentences on charges of “plotting against internal security.” The vote — and the language in the resolution alleging secret detention and torture — sent ripples through diplomatic channels. Togo’s foreign ministry promptly summoned the European Union’s ambassador, calling the measure “a clear interference in a purely judicial and sovereign issue.”
“It feels like a storm gathering,” said Fatima Dossou, a market seller whose family has lived in Lomé for generations. “People are scared — not just of protests, but of what foreign words can do inside our home. We want justice here, but we also don’t want our country to be humiliated on the world stage.”
Who Is Abdoul Aziz Goma — and Why Does His Case Matter?
Goma is described by critics of the Togolese government as one of several activists caught up in a wider crackdown on opposition movements that have roiled the country for years. He holds Irish citizenship as well as Togolese roots — a fact that complicates his case and draws attention from both Europe and the Irish diaspora. To many advocates, his detention symbolizes a broader pattern: the jailing of dissenters, the curtailing of protests, and allegations of mistreatment behind closed doors.
Seán Kelly, an Irish Member of the European Parliament, spoke passionately about Goma in Brussels, posting on social media that Goma’s “courage in the face of torture and injustice should shame those responsible for his imprisonment.” Kelly’s words have been echoed in human rights circles and among Togolese exiles across Europe.
“When someone holds two passports, they become a bridge,” said Dr. Aïcha Mensah, a human rights lawyer in Accra who follows West African politics closely. “That bridge can make states nervous. The international attention forces a conversation; it also exposes a government’s methods to scrutiny. The question is whether that scrutiny will lead to change — or harden the state’s position.”
The Gnassingbé Era and the Weight of History
Togo’s contemporary politics cannot be understood without its history. Faure Gnassingbé has been the nation’s president for two decades, since 2005, inheriting power from his father, Gnassingbé Eyadéma, who ruled for decades before him. Combined, the Gnassingbé family has been at the helm of Togo for more than half a century — a fact that critics cite when they accuse the regime of dynastic authoritarianism.
Recent months have seen renewed protests over proposed constitutional reforms that opponents say could further entrench presidential power. Some demonstrations turned deadly, and the government’s response — arrests, trials, and heavy sentences — has drawn rebukes from international observers and diaspora communities.
“It’s not just about one law or one president,” said Kwami Kossi, a university lecturer in Lomé. “It’s about a system that finds creative ways to stay in place. Generations remember different faces, but the structure remains the same.”
Voices from the Streets and the Halls of Power
At the EU end, officials framed the resolution as a defense of human rights and due process. “We cannot turn a blind eye when serious allegations of secret detention and torture are raised,” an EU diplomat in Brussels told a reporter. “Our resolutions are a way of signalling that respect for human rights must be universal — even when it is politically sensitive.”
Inside Lomé, reactions were mixed. “We welcome any call for fair trials,” said Mariam Ahoefa, a teacher who attended small neighborhood vigils last month. “But we are also wary. Foreign intervention can sometimes be used by the state to rally nationalist support.”
From the Togolese foreign ministry’s perspective, the European Parliament’s move crossed a line. An official note seen by journalists labelled the resolution as “clear interference” and insisted that the matter is judicial, not political. “Sovereignty matters,” a ministry spokesperson told a local broadcaster. “We will not accept external actors dictating how we manage our internal affairs.”
Allegations, Accountability, and the Currency of Evidence
One of the most serious charges in the resolution is that Goma was held “in secret” and tortured. If substantiated, such claims would implicate not only the individuals running a security apparatus but the mechanisms that allow abuse to remain invisible. Human rights organizations have long documented restrictive measures in Togo, but proving clandestine detention and torture requires careful, often dangerous, investigative work.
“Torture leaves marks, but sometimes the most telling scars are social,” said Dr. Jean-Baptiste Koffi, a forensic psychologist who has worked with victims of political repression in West Africa. “People change their habits. Families stop speaking. That kind of evidence is hard to translate into a courtroom, but it is no less real.”
Numbers on the Ground
Fourteen people received ten-year sentences in February for their roles in demonstrations dating back to 2018 — a heavy-handed penalty that many observers say reflects a strategy of deterrence. More broadly, civic space in Togo has narrowed over the last decade, with restrictions on assembly, journalists facing pressure, and civil society groups reporting surveillance and intimidation.
What This Means Globally: Democracy, Diasporas, and the Limits of Diplomacy
Goma’s dual nationality makes his case more than a domestic affair. It raises questions about the reach of diaspora advocacy and the limits of parliamentary resolutions. How much influence can external bodies exert over sovereign judicial outcomes? Do such interventions protect vulnerable individuals, or do they harden the resolve of embattled regimes?
“There’s a tension between protective internationalism and respect for sovereignty,” said Dr. Elena Muir, a scholar of international law. “Parliaments and human rights bodies can spotlight abuse. But their statements also have to be followed by careful diplomacy if they’re to produce change.”
Readers might ask themselves: when does global attention do more harm than good? When does silence amount to complicity? These are not just legal questions; they are ethical ones, rooted in different visions of justice and power.
On the Ground, Life Goes On — For Now
Even as diplomats trade words and lawyers prepare appeals, life in Lomé continues: fishermen mend nets at the port, families sit for evening meals, and drums still call people to weddings and funerals. Yet for many, something more fragile has been exposed — the sense that institutions meant to protect citizens can be used instead to punish them.
“We are tired,” said an elderly tailor who had voted in every election he could remember. “We just want to be free to speak, to gather, to vote. Is that too much to ask?”
The Goma case will likely remain a touchstone. Will international pressure lead to transparency and accountability? Or will it be absorbed into a familiar pattern: outside noise, inside repression? The answer will matter not just for Togo, but for the many countries where the boundaries of power and the rights of citizens remain contested.
So, where do you stand? When a parliamentary body two continents away speaks up, should it be lauded for defending human rights — or questioned for intervening in another country’s judicial process? The debate unfolding now in Lomé may be a small chapter in a much larger global conversation about voice, power, and the meaning of sovereignty in an interconnected world.
