Army Turns the Tide as Madagascar's Utility Anger Becomes a Fight for Power

​By Martin Foskett | Newswire | Knelstrom Media

ANTANANARIVO, MADAGASCAR -- What began as a howl over dead taps and blacked-out evenings has widened into a national confrontation, with soldiers on the streets, ministers keeping their heads down, and a presidency suddenly ring-fenced by uniforms and chants.

The first marches surged through the capital on 25 October, driven by days of water and electricity outages that left markets half-lit and households boiling with frustration over bottled water. Within forty-eight hours, the slogans hardened; placards that once listed bills and broken pumps were replaced with demands for the government's dissolution and the president's resignation. The geography expanded, districts in Antananarivo, then towns down the line, until the island felt wired to the same metronome.

Coordination survived even when the internet did not. Protest organisers leaned on Bitchat, a peer-to-peer messenger designed to work without connectivity. During reported shutdowns, the app became a moving noticeboard, pushing assembly points across a mesh of phones and word of mouth. Officials have not publicly confirmed any order to restrict access; opposition activists argue the tool blunted efforts to smother the marches at birth. Whatever the cause, the crowds kept finding one another.

The equation shifted again when the Army appeared as a variable rather than a backdrop. On 11 October, the head of the army personnel corps, a formation remembered by many for its role in the 2009 putsch, issued an open declaration of support for demonstrators and urged the president to step down. By evening, columns rolled into the centre and occupied the Place du 13 Mai, a square that in Malagasy politics is equal parts pavement and omen. Loudspeakers, prayer, and the rasp of megaphones turned into a single sound.

Clashes followed with the gendarmerie. Officials reported one soldier from the personnel corps killed; casualty figures could not be independently verified. The next day, elements of the gendarmerie aligned with the protesters, a shift that rippled through the command structure. Observers in the capital described the Army as effectively steered by the personnel corps, at least on the streets that mattered, while the rest of the military establishment weighed its options behind closed gates.

President Andry Rajoelina denounced the manoeuvres as an attempt to usurp power. He has remained in the country, visiting ministries under heavier escort and vowing to retain the presidency. Around him, the cabinet's public appearances thinned. In the squares, Colonel Mickaël Randrianirina emerged as the movement's uniformed figurehead after delivering a formal address to the crowds. Analysts link his swift popularity to the mood among rank-and-file soldiers and the public appetite for a transitional steward; whether that translates into an interim leadership bid remains an open calculation rather than a settled fact.

Beneath the theatre, the grievances are practical. Households complain of refrigerators gone warm, generators priced like jewellery, and taps that gurgle at dawn before falling silent. In the hill districts, street vendors run on cash and patience, pushing carts past shuttered offices and churches where political prayers now sit alongside the usual petitions for rain. Critics of the government argue these shortages are the visible end of deeper mismanagement; ministers counter that infrastructure takes time and money the treasury has struggled to secure. Both views find their echo on the radio; neither fixes a light bulb.

The Place du 13 Mai carries its own gravity. In Madagascar, whoever holds that square can usually broker the next chapter. With parts of the Army there, the air smells of compromise even as loudhailers insist on absolutes. Veteran observers note that Mr Rajoelina used dialogue to defuse a stand-off in 2019. His options are narrower now. If command over key units is contested, then talking to protest leaders, and, quietly, to the colonels, may be the only path that leads away from barricades and toward a timetable.

For now, daily life adapts with island stoicism. Schools juggle shortened hours around outages. Traders count bundles by candlelight. Taxi-be drivers swerve through streets where banners flutter from balconies and the occasional armoured carrier idles by the kerb, an unblinking chaperone. The humour has a weary edge: even lemurs, someone notes, seem to watch from the canopy with professional interest.

Whether the movement lands at a negotiating table or marches into a transition will depend on who commands the obedience of the soldiers and the patience of the crowd. Both are finite resources. As night falls, the city ticks and hums in uneven power, a reminder of what lit the fuse and what still needs repairing, whatever flag flies above the palace tomorrow.