Confidence has declined significantly. The justice system is perceived to function as a repressive mechanism. Lawyers tell us that detention warrants are pre-written and pre-signed, with only names to be filled in.

Opposition leaders face criticism for being inconsistent, as they criticise the ruling party and the electoral process but participate in them nonetheless, and accept positions for which they must have formed an alliance with the ruling party, particularly at the local level. Young people see that and write it all off as a corrupt scheme.

Civil society organisations are not trusted either, because the government spreads false narratives about corruption and the illegality of our work. Many young people believe we receive foreign money and serve neocolonial interests or do the government’s bidding. Narratives spread by officials and some online media also lead them to believe protesting is illegal. I have offered legal aid to activists, and many refused to work with my organisation although they were willing to work with me as an individual. Most young protesters stand alone, not wanting to be affiliated with anyone.

Protests happened because of many successive events. An artist called Aamron had been criticising the political system and economic hardship on social media in plain French, sometimes with hard words and in local languages. He called on people to express their discontent on 6 June, Gnassingbé’s birthday. The authorities responded by abducting and torturing him and committing him to a psychiatric hospital. His detention spread the call further as other artists and bloggers in Togo and in the diaspora started doing livestreams on social media criticising the regime and expressing solidarity with Aamron.

There was no clear leader, even if some voices resonated more than others. There was just an idea moving from person to person via likes and reposts. The Movement of 6 June, known as M66, wasn’t a pre-existing alliance. People met on TikTok livestreams, responded to the calls and organised to go out together. An unprecedented movement then emerged, largely driven by social media, particularly TikTok.

On the night of 5 June, protests erupted spontaneously across the capital city, Lomé. The protesters were diverse, including professionals from different backgrounds, but mostly young people. The slogan was ‘Free Aamron’, as Aamron had become a symbol of everything that’s wrong with the system.

After 6 June, repression forged new bonds. People were arrested together, tortured together, held in the same cells. They formed WhatsApp groups and started planning more coordinated actions, until the government began putting them under surveillance and arresting people involved in or administrating those groups.

On top of arrests and detentions, due to the central role of social media and online mobilisation, authorities cut the internet as part of the repression. Even if it wasn’t said officially, when people woke up, they couldn’t communicate. Awareness of virtual private networks helped, but the shutdowns hindered mobilisation.

Protesters were impossible to profile. In previous protests it was possible to attribute participation to a particular ethnic, interest or political group. Not this time: there were doctors, drivers, entertainers, students and many others. That diversity meant the government couldn’t call us troublemakers. It wasn’t credible. As part of protests in June, opinion leaders who weren’t known as political voices before have emerged, mainly on social media, both individually and collectively, notably M66, as well as a former Togolese minister of defence who has joined the ranks of the government’s critics. Leaders of opposition political parties have also supported the protests.

The most accurate profile for the protesters is their youth. The protests have been largely led by a new generation that didn’t live through the previous brutal repression of protests. They’d only heard about it, and the fear that could paralyse older generations didn’t hold them back. Gen Z protesters brought renewed courage, which drew people of all ages into the streets.

But the protesters themselves did not use the Gen Z label. It was outside observers who framed it that way. At first, grievances were entirely local: we focused on our own narrative and our own issues. As things developed, people started seeing the connection with movements elsewhere. But we entered that global wave organically. Our protests were not a copy.

What united people was a feeling of being stuck with a system that fails to provide for their needs. From the day I was born, the same family has led this country. Some positions in public services seem inherited. But people weren’t just protesting about politics. Many people are indifferent to whether Gnassingbé stays forever, as long as they can live in dignity. But in Togo, people see high-ranking officials and their relatives display a lavish lifestyle and face allegations of corruption. Before May 2025, government officials didn’t even pay for electricity or water while they raised prices for the public. Our economic suffering is directly linked to this political system. The connection between hardship and politics is what drove people to the streets.

Arrest, detention, ill-treatment and torture were the major risks for protesters and those of us monitoring the protests, which the authorities labelled as illegal. On the night of 5 June, the authorities were unprepared and things passed without serious incident. But when day broke, the repression started. People were arrested for filming or wearing red, the protest colour, even if they had nothing to do with protests. Police arrested and detained over 80 people and at least seven protesters said they’d been tortured. One young human rights defender was detained and tortured for three days and has been in exile since August over the risk of a new arrest. Another was abducted during a livestream, tortured and denied appropriate care, and then was a victim of enforced disappearance from prison due to their continued activism while detained.

From 26 to 28 June, there was a second protest wave, and the response was even worse. The government declared the protests illegal and broadcast warnings against protesting or calling for protests, threatening strict enforcement. A militia group held a press conference saying they would be the ones to maintain peace, and the authorities said nothing. A traditional leader said whatever happened to protesters was not his responsibility. This instilled fear.

There were reports of people being killed, including a child. Eyewitness accounts, supported by photos and videos, have revealed instances of violent physical abuse of people perceived as protesters. We saw cases of women who were beaten. A woman giving water to protesters was arrested with her five-month-old child and held in prison with the baby.

On 8 December, when another protest was called, almost no one turned out as streets were militarised. Those who did were quickly arrested and held until 31 December. Since then, self-censorship has returned because of the risks of repression.

Even if they didn’t achieve their announced objectives, the protests produced some results. Before, many issues were known only to activists. These protests brought them into spaces such as markets and taxi conversations. People who didn’t see themselves as activists became voices of the protest. Advocacy that had been stuck for years gained visibility due to protest pressure and international headlines, contributing to milestones such as the release of protesters detained since 2018. Additionally, free electricity for government officials ended, and they started paying their bills. The head of the tax authority was dismissed and is under investigation for money laundering.

In my opinion, however, the biggest achievement was that after five years of silence, protests became possible again. And the movement didn’t stop when the streets did. Anonymous pages emerged online tracking Gnassingbé’s jet flights, analysing the budget, exposing ministers’ properties in Europe. Some are believed to be run by people inside the system who want it to change. Debate is alive, mainly online. Anything – another arrest, another economic shock – could spark another protest.

But the future is uncertain. Authorities keep people in limbo, never decisively raising living standards, but trying not to let them fall much further. In rural areas, many people don’t even know the president changed, since the same name and the same person is seen exercising executive power. The regime is still strong and keeps changing laws, weakening civil society and political parties, creating government-organised non-governmental organisations and pressuring hotel owners not to rent space to civil society. In February, the prefect of my department told hotel owners not to welcome any civil society activity even though, by law, meetings need no authorisation.

Still, hope keeps us going. Our elders fought this same regime, first the father for over 30 years, now the son for over 20 years. There’s no giving up. Even those who leave Togo continue to want to be involved in the fight. This is our home, and we want it to be a better place.