Cabo Delgado, 8 Years Later: Between Insurgency and Power Collusion

Eight years after the first bullet was fired in Mocímboa da Praia, the war in Cabo Delgado remains the most open wound in Mozambique's young democracy. What began in 2017 as a series of mysterious attacks by armed youths against police stations and isolated villages has transformed into a protracted insurgency that has devastated entire communities, killed thousands, and displaced nearly a million people. But the question looming over the country is simple and painful: who is really profiting from this war? The government insists on framing the conflict as part of global Islamic terrorism, a cell of the so-called Islamic State in Africa. This version is convenient because it shifts responsibility abroad and facilitates the garnering of international support. But over these eight years, the reality unfolding on the ground seems more complex, more Mozambican, and, above all, darker.

From the very first attacks in Mocímboa da Praia, the local population raised its voice: it wasn't bearded foreigners invading the villages; it was young people from the province itself, many of them known in the communities. They were children of peasants, former students of the Qur'anic school, and young people with no job prospects. Their revolt had less to do with Islamic ideology and more to do with accumulated frustration. Meanwhile, the official narrative took a different path. From Maputo, the insurgency was described as the result of infiltration by external forces, terrorists from Tanzania, Somalia, and even the Middle East. This narrative resonated in Western and Eastern countries alike, both eager to link the conflict to the global fight against terrorism. But the contradiction remains: if it's simply external terrorism, why have so many local youth joined the insurgent ranks? Why have entire villages, already marginalized by the state, seen the rebellion as an opportunity for revenge against distant elites who stole their land and dignity?

The popular version, echoed in fairs, in displacement camps, and even in academic circles, is different: terror is largely an internal product, a weapon manufactured in the silence of political offices to maintain Cabo Delgado as the private property of an elite. The province is, paradoxically, one of the poorest and, at the same time, one of the richest in Mozambique. Rubies, graphite, and precious stones emerge from the subsoil. In the sea lie gigantic reserves of liquefied natural gas, estimated at billions of dollars. However, the exploitation of these resources has benefited the local population little. On the contrary, many have lost their lands to make way for megaprojects. In Palma, Afungi, and Montepuez, entire families were resettled in precarious conditions, given flimsy homes, without access to drinking water or fertile land for cultivation.

"Before, I used to plant cassava, corn, and raise goats. Today, I live in a neighborhood where I can't even farm. They said it would be better, but we're left with nothing," laments a displaced person from Quitunda, echoing the testimony of hundreds of others. Meanwhile, political and business elites amassed fortunes through shady concessions, million-dollar contracts, and resource trafficking. The ruby ​​smuggling of Montepuez, often controlled by networks linked to high-ranking Frelimo officials, became a symbol of this clandestine appropriation. It is in this context that many analysts see the collusion of power. The insurgency, rather than merely a threat, functions as an instrument of territorial management: it militarizes the province, restricts access, displaces the population, and creates free space for foreign capital to operate unhindered.

The March 2021 attack on the city of Palma marked a turning point. The world watched live, through reports from foreign companies and humanitarian organizations, as the insurgents took over the city. But when the rebels withdrew, the looting didn't stop. It was Mozambican security forces themselves who looted banks, hotels, and commercial properties. This episode shocked public opinion and confirmed the diagnosis that war in Mozambique has also become a business. On the one hand, insurgents profit from looting, pillaging villages, and controlling trafficking routes for timber, rubies, and drugs. On the other, military personnel and senior officials benefit from the continuation of the war, which justifies larger budgets, more security contracts, and more international support.

The conflict in Cabo Delgado cannot be viewed solely through a national lens. There is a decisive international dimension. The European Union, particularly through France, has become one of the largest sponsors of the security response. Paris has clear reasons: the French giant Total Energies is the leader of the mega-gas project in Afungi, valued at over $20 billion. Thus, European aid has never been neutral. The financing of the Rwandan military presence in Cabo Delgado is a glaring example. Rwandan officials secure the most strategic areas, such as Palma and Afungi, where gas investments are located, while many peripheral villages remain vulnerable. The implicit message is clear: protecting investments takes priority over protecting human lives. Economic relations with the West seem to follow a logic that leads us to be wary of a new form of exploitation, and on this point, Professor Joseph Hanlon, in his book Mozambique Recolonized through Corruption, emphasizes that the new colonizers no longer arrive with national flags, but with business contracts and multilateral financing.

In the displacement camps in Metuge, Pemba, and Ancuabe, war has a human face. Women who fled with children in their arms, men who lost family members, young people who saw their schooling interrupted. "Eight years of war and no one knows when it will end," laments a young displaced person. "When we hear gunshots, we run. When we see soldiers, we run too. We no longer know who to trust." This widespread distrust is perhaps the greatest legacy of the insurgency. The population feels abandoned between two fires: insurgents who kill and kidnap, and state forces who repress and loot.

In the eighth year of the insurgency, the numbers speak for themselves: more than six thousand dead, hundreds of thousands internally displaced, entire villages destroyed. But beyond the humanitarian dimension, there is a crisis of legitimacy. The Mozambican state, dominated by an oligarchic elite, seems increasingly distant from the people. The electoral frauds of 2023 and 2024, followed by the violent repression of demonstrations, reinforce the feeling that the same Cabo Delgado model is spreading throughout the country: concentration of power, repression of youth, and the appropriation of resources. For many young people, the war in Cabo Delgado is merely the most extreme symptom of a captured country. "Those in Maputo get rich. Those in Cabo Delgado die," summarizes a local academic.

Eight years later, Cabo Delgado represents the unprecedented collapse of a national project born with independence. The country's richest province is the scene of the greatest humanitarian tragedy in its recent history. The narratives continue to compete: global terrorism, youth revolt, international conspiracy. But the one that resonates most is that of the instrumentalization of terror by power itself, in a game involving national elites and external partners. In the end, the war is not just against insurgents. It is also a war against the Mozambican people, a people who continue to die, displaced, forgotten, while rubies shine in international showcases and gas is exported to heat homes in Europe.

Cabo Delgado is not just a localized conflict. It reflects a country where corruption has become systemic, where wealth breeds poverty, and where war serves as a bargaining chip between elites and foreign corporations. The big question remains: how much more blood will have to be spilled before it's recognized that the true insurgency originates within the state itself?