When the residents of Annobón, a tiny volcanic island adrift in the Atlantic and part of Equatorial Guinea, penned a letter to the government in Malabo last July, they were desperate. Their home was being rocked by dynamite explosions from a Moroccan construction company, Somagec, which locals claimed were polluting farmland and water. They wanted answers, maybe even relief. What they got instead was silence—digital silence, to be exact.
According to reports from The Associated Press and Los Angeles Times, internet access to Annobón was abruptly cut off in July 2024, and as of September 2025, the blackout remains. For the island’s 5,000 residents, the consequences have been nothing short of devastating. Dozens of those who signed the complaint were rounded up and imprisoned for nearly a year. Many others have since fled, citing fears for their safety and the near impossibility of daily life without connectivity.
“The current situation is extremely serious and worrying,” one signatory, who spent 11 months behind bars, told The Associated Press, requesting anonymity for fear of reprisal. Their anxiety is hardly unfounded. Annobón’s phone calls are now the only lifeline to the outside world, but these too are “heavily monitored, and speaking freely can pose a risk,” according to Macus Menejolea Taxijad, a resident now living in exile.
With the internet gone, the island’s already fragile infrastructure has collapsed further. Banking services have shuttered, making it impossible for residents to access funds or conduct basic transactions. Hospital emergency services have ground to a halt, leaving families without critical care. “Residents say they rack up phone bills they can’t afford because cellphone calls are the only way to communicate,” AP reported. The blackout has become more than an inconvenience—it’s a chokehold on the island’s social and economic life.
How does a government pull off such a blackout? Often, as AP notes, authorities instruct telecom providers to cut off connections to certain locations or block access to designated websites. But in Annobón’s case, the technical details are murky. What is clear is the effect: a community, already marginalized, left stranded and voiceless.
The timing of the shutdown is notable. It comes as the Trump administration (in a rare twist of international context) considers loosening corruption sanctions on Equatorial Guinea’s vice president, the son of President Teodoro Obiang Nguema Mbasogo. Obiang, now 83, is Africa’s longest-serving leader, having ruled since 1979. His government, long accused of corruption and repression, has a history of silencing critics—sometimes through mass surveillance, as documented in a 2024 Amnesty International report, and now, through an information blackout.
Activists allege that Somagec, the Moroccan company at the center of the controversy, is closely linked to Obiang’s inner circle. The company itself confirmed the internet outage but denied any involvement, telling AP that it too has been forced to rely on private satellite connections. “After having undertaken geotechnical and environmental impact studies, the current site where the quarry was opened was confirmed as the best place to meet all the criteria,” said Somagec’s chief executive, Roger Sahyoun, in an emailed statement. The company insists its dynamite blasting is essential for construction projects and that all regulatory steps were followed.
But for Annobón’s residents, the damage is done. The internet shutdown has deepened the island’s isolation, exacerbating a long history of neglect and conflict with the central government. Annobón, a former Spanish colony located some 315 miles from the mainland, has long sought greater autonomy, if not outright independence. Activists like Tutu Alicante, founder of the EG Justice human rights group and himself Annobón-born, say the blackout is “the first time the government cut off the internet because a community has a complaint.” Previously, internet restrictions were typically reserved for election periods, not for protest or dissent.
“Annobón is very remote and far from the capital and the [rest of] continent,” Alicante told Los Angeles Times. “So you’re leaving people there without access to the rest of the continent ... and incommunicado.” For a place already lacking adequate schools, hospitals, and other social amenities, the blackout is yet another blow. “Their marginalization is not only from a political perspective, but from a cultural, societal and economic perspective,” said Mercè Monje Cano, secretary-general of the Unrepresented Peoples and Nations Organization.
The roots of Annobón’s discontent run deep. The island’s geological riches and strategic location have long made it a prize for the central government and foreign companies alike. In 2007, Equatorial Guinea struck a deal with Somagec to develop ports and electricity infrastructure. The company later built an airport in 2013, promising better connections to the mainland. But locals argue little has improved. Instead, the construction—and especially the dynamite blasting—has brought environmental harm, not progress.
Meanwhile, the broader context is one of stark inequality. Despite Equatorial Guinea’s oil and gas wealth, at least 57% of its nearly two million people live in poverty, according to the World Bank. The ruling family and their associates, however, enjoy a life of luxury. The president’s son, Vice President Teodoro Nguema Obiang Mangue, has been convicted of money laundering and embezzlement in France and sanctioned by the UK. Just this past Friday, the United Nations’ top court rejected Equatorial Guinea’s request for France to return a Paris mansion confiscated as part of a corruption probe, ruling the country had not shown a “plausible right to the return of the building.”
For now, Annobón’s plight continues with little sign of resolution. The government in Malabo has not responded to repeated requests for comment from AP about the island’s condition or the ongoing internet blackout. The Moroccan company’s work continues, and the residents—those who remain—are left to navigate life in enforced silence. Activists warn that the situation is emblematic of a broader trend in Africa and beyond, where governments increasingly turn to internet shutdowns to quash protest and criticism. As Felicia Anthonio of Access Now, an internet rights group, put it: “The power of the internet to enable people to challenge their leaders threatens authorities. So, the first thing they do during a protest is to go after the internet.”
On Annobón, that threat has become a daily reality, one that leaves a remote island further adrift—cut off from the world and from hope.