As dawn breaks over Antananarivo, Madagascar’s capital, the nation finds itself at a crossroads once again. The echoes of protest chants and military boots on the city’s streets have barely faded, and yet the country is already bracing for a new chapter in its tumultuous political saga. On Friday, October 17, 2025, Colonel Michael Randrianirina is set to be sworn in as president at the High Constitutional Court, just three days after announcing that soldiers had seized control of the government. The speed and audacity of this transition have left the international community, and many Malagasy citizens, reeling.
According to the Associated Press, the United Nations wasted no time in issuing a stern rebuke. U.N. Secretary-General António Guterres, through his spokesperson Stéphane Dujarric, declared, “The Secretary-General condemns the unconstitutional change of government in Madagascar and calls for the return to constitutional order and the rule of law.” It’s a message that rings familiar in a nation where coups and attempted coups have punctuated the post-independence era, but the urgency and gravity seem heightened this time around.
The drama began to unfold in early October as discontent simmered on Madagascar’s streets. For three weeks, waves of anti-government protests surged, led primarily by young people mobilizing under the banner “Gen Z Madagascar.” Their grievances were as raw as they were familiar: government service failures, rampant poverty, a lack of opportunities, and accusations of corruption and nepotism among the nation’s elite. The movement’s energy echoed youth-led revolutions that have recently toppled leaders in places as disparate as Nepal, Sri Lanka, and Bangladesh.
On October 14, 2025, Colonel Randrianirina, backed by soldiers from the elite CAPSAT military unit, made his move. In a televised address, he announced that the armed forces were taking control, aligning himself and his unit with the protestors. The defection of CAPSAT—a force with considerable influence—proved pivotal. Soon after, other military units followed suit, turning against the incumbent president, Andry Rajoelina.
Rajoelina, who had himself come to power via a military-backed coup in 2009, found the tables turned. With the military’s loyalty evaporating and the streets growing ever more volatile, he fled Madagascar, claiming his life was in danger. As of October 17, his whereabouts remain a mystery, a chilling reminder of how quickly fortunes can change in Malagasy politics. The Associated Press reports, “Ousted President Andry Rajoelina fled the Indian Ocean nation off the east coast of Africa following the military rebellion, claiming his life was in danger. His whereabouts are unknown.”
The African Union acted swiftly, suspending Madagascar and issuing a categorical rejection of the military’s actions. In a statement, the AU said it “totally rejects” the takeover, underscoring the regional body’s increasing intolerance for unconstitutional changes of government. For Madagascar, this suspension is more than symbolic; it threatens to deepen the nation’s isolation and exacerbate its already dire economic woes.
Colonel Randrianirina, now styling himself as the president of the “refounded” republic of Madagascar, has promised a transitional period. According to statements he signed, a council of military officers will govern the country, with him at the helm, for up to two years before new elections are held. Whether this timeline will be honored—or whether it will merely serve as a fig leaf for prolonged military rule—remains to be seen. But for now, the colonel’s grip on power appears firm, at least within the capital and among the ranks of the armed forces.
It’s a familiar cycle for Madagascar, a nation of around 30 million people that has grappled with poverty, drought, hunger, and political instability since gaining independence from France in 1960. The 2009 military takeover that first brought Rajoelina to power was itself the product of long-simmering frustrations, and the years since have been marked by fits and starts, with democracy often giving way to realpolitik.
The current crisis, however, feels different in some respects. The raw energy and organization of “Gen Z Madagascar” have given the protests a distinctly youthful flavor, and their demands—greater opportunity, government accountability, an end to corruption—resonate deeply in a country where nearly two-thirds of the population lives below the poverty line. According to the Associated Press, “The protesters have mobilized under the title ‘Gen Z Madagascar’ and their uprising echoed youth-led protest movements that have toppled leaders in Nepal, Sri Lanka and Bangladesh.”
Yet, as history has shown, the path from revolution to reform is rarely straightforward. The military’s promise of a two-year transition period before elections is, for many, a source of both hope and skepticism. Some see a chance for genuine renewal, a break from the old guard and a reset of the country’s political system. Others worry that the military council will entrench itself, using the language of reform as a smokescreen for indefinite rule.
International reactions have been swift but measured. The United Nations’ condemnation was echoed by several Western governments, though concrete action remains limited. The African Union’s suspension of Madagascar is a significant step, but the organization’s ability to influence events on the ground is uncertain at best. For now, the fate of Madagascar lies largely in the hands of its own people—and its generals.
For ordinary Malagasy citizens, the future is as uncertain as ever. The challenges facing the country are daunting: economic recovery, food security, and the restoration of basic services will require not just political stability but also international support and domestic consensus. The risk, as always, is that political turmoil will push these urgent needs to the background.
As Colonel Randrianirina prepares to take the oath of office, the world watches closely. Will Madagascar’s latest experiment with military rule pave the way for a more inclusive and accountable government, or will it simply perpetuate the cycle of coups and crises that has plagued the island for decades? The answer, as ever, remains to be written in the streets of Antananarivo and the villages beyond.
For now, the nation stands at a pivotal moment—its destiny uncertain, but its people, once again, demanding a say in how they are governed.
