In the streets of Antananarivo: a nation holds its breath
On a clear morning in Antananarivo, the city’s red-tiled roofs and steep avenues looked unchanged—until you noticed the flags. Small Malagasy banners fluttered from tuk-tuks and rooftop terraces, and in the Place du 13 Mai, a crowd gathered not for a carnival but for a cautious celebration. Music spilled from a makeshift stage, but the rhythm was threaded with tension: applause between speeches, laughter edged with relief.
“We’ve been shouting for water and light for months,” said Fenitra Rakoto, 26, a captain of Madagascar’s national rugby team, standing near the market stalls on Analakely. “Now the shouting has changed form. We don’t know what will come next, but for the first time in a long time, I feel like somebody heard us.”
The twist: soldiers, a court, and a new name
What began as youth-led protests over basic services has turned into a dramatic transfer of power. Colonel Michael Randrianirina, an officer from CAPSAT—the elite Army Personnel Administration Center that once played a pivotal role in the 2009 upheaval—has announced the military’s seizure of key government sites and the dissolution of most state institutions.
In a terse address to journalists, the colonel said the armed forces had “taken responsibility” amid what he called a national emergency. The High Constitutional Court then publicly invited him to assume the presidency, and Randrianirina indicated a transitional committee—military-led—would govern for as long as two years before national votes were organised.
The move has already drawn a firm rebuke from continental partners: the African Union announced the immediate suspension of Madagascar from its 55-member bloc, a sanction that signals diplomatic isolation and potential suspension of regional cooperation and support.
How did we get here?
The flashpoint was less about a single misstep than a stacked pile of grievances. Demonstrations that began on 25 September over severe water shortages and power cuts broadened into an expression of youth anger at oligarchic rule and unmet promises. The marches swelled, and some elements of the security services refused orders to fire on protesters. That fissure in the ranks—combined with defections from the gendarmerie and police—left President Andry Rajoelina politically exposed.
There are reports, from diplomatic and opposition sources, that Mr Rajoelina left the country aboard a French military plane and is now in a secure location abroad, possibly Dubai. The presidency has called the unfolding events an attempted coup and declared that the president remains in office. The constitutional court’s invitation to Randrianirina, the presidency insists, was legally flawed and risks plunging the country into deeper instability.
Faces in the crowd: hope, fear, and pragmatic relief
On the ground, reactions are varied and vivid. Muriella, an entrepreneur in the northern port city of Antsiranana, wiped her hands on her apron and said, “I’ve paid bribes and begged for permits for years. If this shakes things up, maybe we’ll finally be able to build a shop without paying for someone’s weekend.”
Others are less celebratory. “We’re holding our breath,” said a taxi driver named Hery, who declined to give his full name. “The army has guns. We need services and jobs, not just a new face at the palace.”
A youth movement with a name and a demand
The protests that lit the fuse were spearheaded by an energetic Gen Z movement—digital-first, young in age and impatient in temperament. The group began with local activists mobilising around water pumps that had run dry and power grids that failed during heatwaves. Within days, the banners evolved from municipal grievances to a sweeping critique of entrenched elites who, many Malagasy feel, have hoarded resources while three-quarters of the population lives in poverty.
Madagascar is a young country: about 30 million people, and a median age under 20. That demographic reality, combined with long-term economic decline—World Bank figures show GDP per capita has fallen roughly 45% from independence-era highs to 2020—creates a combustible mix when basic services falter.
Regional fallout and the long shadow of history
The African Union’s swift suspension underscores how serious the continent regards military interventions. “The rule of law must prevail over the rule of force,” said an AU official at a regional meeting this week, echoing a refrain that has accompanied dozens of similar crises across Africa in recent decades.
Madagascar’s history looms large in the conversation. The island has been punctuated by political ruptures—most notably the 2009 coup that brought Rajoelina to power and led to years of frozen aid and investment. For many observers, the spectre of international isolation, the squeeze on development projects, and the knock-on effects for conservation and exports (vanilla, clove, seafood) are immediate concerns.
- Population: ~30 million, median age <20
- Poverty: about 75% of the population lives under the national poverty line
- Economic trend: GDP per capita fell significantly between 1960 and 2020 (World Bank data)
- African Union: 55 member states; suspension can carry diplomatic and economic consequences
What’s at stake beyond the palace
This moment is not only about who sits in the presidential residence. It’s about whether the demands that ignited protests—clean water, reliable electricity, an end to patronage—will be addressed. It’s about whether a young population will be offered meaningful participation or pushed further into frustration.
“If this is a reset, it must be a real reset,” said Dr. Jean-Rasoa Andrianirina, a political analyst based in Antananarivo. “Transitional governments too often become permanent fixtures. The international community should condition engagement on clear benchmarks: accountability, timelines, and credible plans for new, inclusive elections.”
Questions to keep watching
Will the transitional roadmap stick to two years, or will it stretch? Will aid donors tie future support to governance milestones? How will biodiversity and conservation programs—already under strain from climate and economic pressures—fare if funding is cut? And crucially: can a fractured security apparatus be rebuilt as a democratically accountable force?
For ordinary Malagasy, the answers matter as much as the drama. A mother in Antananarivo who sells rice at the market shrugged and said, “We don’t want politics. We want light to cook our food and water for our children. If leaders can’t give that, what purpose do they serve?”
Where the story might go
History shows transitions can take many shapes—peaceful transfers, negotiated settlements, or drawn-out standoffs. For Madagascar, the coming weeks will tell whether the mood in the crowd—equal parts euphoria and caution—hardens into a coherent political project or fractures under the weight of competing interests.
So ask yourself: when youth movements rise and the military steps into the vacuum, what does true change look like? Is it a new face in power, or a transformed system that guarantees everyday needs, opportunity, and dignity? The people of Madagascar are asking that question on a national scale—one that may hold lessons for many countries where young populations and worn institutions collide.
For now, the city hums along the river valleys and terraces that have sustained generations. People sell coffee and chiror’ombazaha (puffed rice snacks), children chase each other under baobab-like trees of the urban park, and the banners flap in the same wind that has lifted—and toppled—leaders before.
“We won’t be naive,” Fenitra said, looking toward the palace. “But we’ve learned how to gather. That might be the most important thing we have right now.”
