In a bold and controversial move emblematic of the Trump administration’s “America First” doctrine, Secretary of State Marco Rubio has unveiled a sweeping reorganisation of the U.S. State Department. The proposal, part of a broader executive order still being finalised, would eliminate 132 of the department’s 734 offices, restructure or close multiple bureaus, and significantly cut domestic staffing by 15%. The changes are being framed by the administration as a long-overdue overhaul aimed at streamlining operations and eliminating what it sees as ideological excesses within America’s diplomatic corps. But as the dust settles, questions arise: Is this a necessary bureaucratic correction, or yet another sign of America’s withdrawal from global leadership?

The reorganisation, championed by Secretary Rubio and backed by President Trump, targets what the administration describes as an “ideological sprawl” within the State Department. Offices that promote democracy, gender equity, LGBTQ+ rights, and refugee support have come under scrutiny, with several on the chopping block. Rubio was unapologetic in outlining the administration’s rationale. “For too long,” he stated, “our foreign policy apparatus has operated independently of the public interest, pursuing niche ideological projects rather than advancing our national security and economic interests.”

Part of the plan involves folding the U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID) into the State Department—dissolving a decades-long tradition of development work that functioned separately from political diplomacy. The Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights, and Labor (DRL), along with the Office of Global Women’s Issues and the Office of the Special Envoy for LGBTQI+ Rights, are likely to be merged or disbanded entirely. According to a leaked draft of the executive order, the administration views these offices as perpetuating a form of diplomacy that “distorts American values through ideological evangelism.”

The reorganisation may appeal to Trump’s political base, which sees U.S. foreign aid and democracy promotion as misused or irrelevant. But for many in the diplomatic community and among America’s allies, the changes could herald a retreat from the international stage. The impact will likely be felt differently across various regions.

Africa stands to be particularly affected. U.S. support for civil society, democratic governance, and anti-corruption initiatives has been central to its engagement on the continent. These programs, often housed within the DRL and USAID, have provided essential funding for elections monitoring, judicial reform, and local journalism. Curtailing or eliminating them may create a vacuum easily filled by China and Russia, whose influence in Africa continues to grow. If America steps back, Beijing and Moscow are poised to step forward, offering infrastructure and military support with far fewer conditions.

In the Middle East, the effects could be double-edged. On one hand, reducing America’s involvement in contentious ideological efforts may help improve relationships with conservative regimes that have long viewed U.S. human rights initiatives as intrusive. On the other hand, a diminished role in human rights advocacy may alienate reformist elements and civil society actors in countries such as Lebanon, Jordan, and Tunisia. Furthermore, folding refugee support into a narrower national security framework could undercut efforts to stabilise regions affected by conflict, especially in Syria and Yemen.

In Europe, the realignment is likely to ruffle feathers. European Union leaders have traditionally partnered with the United States on issues such as democracy promotion, gender equality, and human rights. If Washington steps back, Brussels may feel compelled to fill the void—without the global reach or resources to do so at the same scale. The move also risks diminishing U.S. credibility within NATO, where soft power has always been a critical complement to military alliances.

In the Western Hemisphere, relations with Canada and Mexico could become more transactional. Human rights, environmental diplomacy, and indigenous issues have been key areas of U.S.-Canada cooperation. Dismantling the offices responsible for these could hinder bilateral dialogue on issues such as Arctic sovereignty and climate action. With Mexico, the shift could further strain ties already frayed over migration and trade disputes. If the State Department’s engagement becomes more narrowly focused on border security and counternarcotics, it may miss broader opportunities to address root causes of migration and violence.

Supporters of the overhaul argue that it reflects a necessary realignment of U.S. foreign policy toward realism. They claim that the current structure, born of the post-Cold War era, is outdated and overly expansive. Critics, however, warn that gutting the State Department of its developmental and human rights arms weakens America’s global influence and moral authority.

The concern isn’t just about values. It’s also strategic. Diplomacy is about leverage, and America’s ability to project soft power has been one of its most effective tools. Reducing America’s global engagement, particularly in areas involving soft power, could erode the networks and partnerships built over decades.

Rubio has promised that the reorganisation will not result in immediate layoffs, and that “American diplomats will remain the best-trained, most effective professionals in the world.” But with 132 offices on the chopping block and significant internal consolidation ahead, the effects are likely to be profound. The proposed changes are set to be implemented gradually, with a July 1 deadline for the internal working group to finalise its plan.

This reorganisation is not happening in a vacuum. It comes as tensions with China escalate over Taiwan and trade, as Russia continues its war in Ukraine, and as unrest mounts across the Global South. At a time when global trust in American leadership is already precarious, the optics of scaling back the diplomatic apparatus may embolden adversaries and unnerve allies.

Domestically, the move plays well among Republicans who see the State Department as a bastion of liberal activism. For Rubio, long seen as a traditional foreign policy hawk, this role is a political reinvention—one that brings him in step with the MAGA base while advancing his influence within the Trump administration.

Some critics see the overhaul as ideologically driven sabotage. “This is not about reform,” wrote one former State Department official on X. “It’s about silencing dissent and reshaping foreign policy into a partisan weapon.”

The proposed overhaul of the State Department reflects a deeper philosophical divide about what America’s role in the world should be. Is the purpose of diplomacy to promote universal values and global cooperation? Or is it to focus narrowly on strategic and economic interests, regardless of their moral implications?

For the Trump administration, and for Rubio, the answer is clear. This is a reorientation, not a retreat. But for many outside of the administration—and beyond America’s borders—it feels very much like an abdication of leadership.

As the plan moves toward implementation, diplomats, lawmakers, and global observers will be watching closely to see whether this is a genuine recalibration of U.S. diplomacy—or a short-sighted step toward global disengagement.

Tensions between the United States and several African nations deepened last week after General Michael E. Langley, Commander of the United States Africa Command (AFRICOM), accused Captain Ibrahim Traoré, Burkina Faso’s military leader, of diverting the country’s gold reserves to support his regime rather than uplifting the lives of its citizens. The controversial remarks, made during a hearing before the U.S. Senate Armed Services Committee, have sparked fierce responses across Africa, highlighting once more the complex legacy of foreign involvement in African governance—and raising fresh questions about the role of African-American leadership within Western power structures.

Burkina Faso: A Nation Shaped by Struggle

To understand the magnitude of these comments, one must first grasp the context in which they landed. Burkina Faso, a landlocked nation in West Africa, has long struggled under the weight of colonial legacies, political instability, and economic marginalisation. Once known as Upper Volta, the country gained independence from France in 1960. The newly formed republic quickly fell into cycles of coups and fragile civilian rule, reflecting deeper tensions within the post-colonial order.

But for many Burkinabè, the most enduring symbol of their national pride remains Thomas Sankara. Dubbed “Africa’s Che Guevara,” Sankara seized power in 1983 at just 33 years old and swiftly implemented radical reforms aimed at ending corruption, eradicating hunger, and asserting Burkina Faso’s sovereignty. He renamed the country from Upper Volta to Burkina Faso—meaning “Land of Upright People”—and nationalised land, invested in education and healthcare, and demanded an end to foreign dependence.

Sankara’s vision was short-lived. He was assassinated in 1987 during a coup led by his close ally Blaise Compaoré, who would go on to rule the country for 27 years with strong support from Western allies and economic institutions. Under Compaoré, foreign mining companies—mostly from Canada, Australia, and the West—gained extensive access to Burkina Faso’s gold reserves, often at the expense of local communities and environmental protections.

It is within this long-standing context of resource exploitation, foreign interference, and calls for national self-determination that Ibrahim Traoré emerged in 2022, following a coup against Lieutenant Colonel Paul-Henri Damiba. Like Sankara before him, Traoré projected an image of a patriotic revolutionary aiming to restore control over the nation’s wealth. His leadership has drawn praise from those tired of external control—but criticism from those who accuse him of authoritarian tactics.

General Langley: A Historic Rise, a Controversial Role

General Michael E. Langley, the man behind the recent AFRICOM statement, holds a story equally steeped in symbolism and significance. In August 2022, Langley became the first Black four-star general in the 246-year history of the United States Marine Corps—a landmark moment in a military institution that has long struggled with racial representation at the highest levels.

Born in Shreveport, Louisiana, Langley is the son of a U.S. Air Force veteran. He graduated from the University of Texas at Arlington and later earned a master’s degree in National Security Strategic Studies from the U.S. Naval War College. His military career spans nearly four decades, with deployments across Asia, the Middle East, and Africa. Prior to leading AFRICOM, Langley commanded U.S. Marine Forces Europe and Africa.

Langley’s ascent to the top of AFRICOM came at a time when the U.S. military was reevaluating its footprint on the African continent. Amid growing Chinese and Russian influence, particularly in mineral-rich regions, the U.S. has sought to reassert its strategic relevance. Under Langley’s leadership, AFRICOM has intensified its focus on counter-terrorism and regional stability, while critics argue that it increasingly resembles a tool for safeguarding Western economic interests.

The contradiction is difficult to ignore: a Black American general representing a military superpower, now engaged in public disputes with African leaders over sovereignty, resources, and self-rule. For many in Africa, the optics are jarring.

“Appointing someone who looks like us doesn’t make the policies any less colonial,” said a political analyst in Ouagadougou. “It’s worse, because it masks the same old playbook behind a new face.”

Gold, Geopolitics, and Accusations

During the Senate hearing, Langley claimed that Traoré was diverting Burkina Faso’s gold revenues to finance the military-led regime rather than channelling it into development projects. While he did not provide direct evidence, the statement has had cascading political consequences. The Burkinabè government condemned the accusation, calling it “gravely inaccurate” and an insult to a nation struggling to assert its independence.

South Africa’s Economic Freedom Fighters (EFF) party, a frequent critic of Western foreign policy in Africa, responded with characteristic bluntness. “This is another example of U.S. imperialism cloaked in concern,” the party said in a statement. “Africa must stand united against these intimidation tactics designed to destabilise any government that refuses to bow to Washington.”

At the heart of the dispute is the control of gold—a resource that accounts for more than 70% of Burkina Faso’s export revenues. Recent moves by Traoré to renegotiate mining contracts and increase state involvement in gold production have rattled multinational corporations and drawn warnings from financial institutions. In February, the government announced it was creating a new state-controlled mining company to oversee future operations—a move seen by some as a return to resource nationalism reminiscent of the Sankara era.

Echoes of the Past, Warnings for the Future

The friction between Langley and Traoré is emblematic of a much larger battle for Africa’s future. As nations like Burkina Faso seek to assert greater control over their resources and redefine their international partnerships—often turning toward Russia, China, and the Gulf—Western powers are facing a crisis of relevance.

The U.S., long reliant on a mix of military partnerships, development aid, and soft power diplomacy, finds its influence waning in parts of the continent. AFRICOM, originally established in 2007 under President George W. Bush, was meant to be a platform for cooperation. Today, however, it is increasingly viewed with suspicion, particularly in countries where regime changes have occurred and foreign troops were previously stationed.

The situation is complicated by the rise of Russian influence through the Wagner Group, which has expanded its presence in the Sahel, including in Burkina Faso. Traoré’s perceived alignment with Moscow is seen by some as a counterweight to what they view as a decades-long Western stranglehold on policy and wealth.

An Unfolding Story

While there is no indication that General Langley is directly involved in plotting against Traoré or his administration, the general’s comments have amplified fears that the U.S. is preparing to escalate pressure on the Burkinabè government—whether through sanctions, intelligence operations, or indirect support for regime change.

And yet, for all the fire and fury, this crisis also offers a unique lens through which to view the evolving relationship between Africa and the West. Gone are the days when African nations would silently accept lectures from Washington. Today, leaders and movements across the continent are demanding to be heard on their own terms.

Whether Traoré is ultimately judged as a reformer or an autocrat, the broader issue remains: who gets to control Africa’s resources, shape its future, and speak for its people?

As General Langley’s career advances, and as Burkina Faso’s internal battles continue, both men now stand at the intersection of history, geopolitics, and identity. Their clash is not merely about gold, but about power—and the new, unfolding map of Africa’s future.

In April 2025, the arrival of the USS Mount Whitney, the flagship of the U.S. Sixth Fleet, in Tripoli was far from routine. Against a backdrop of intensifying great power competition, particularly between the United States and Russia, this high-profile visit underscored Washington’s desire to remain a strategic actor in Libya and the broader Mediterranean. With a delegation that included Vice Admiral J.T. Anderson and senior American diplomats, the visit served as a clear signal: the United States is reasserting its presence in a country that has increasingly become a geopolitical chessboard.

Libya, fragmented and unstable for over a decade, has once again found itself at the centre of foreign manoeuvring. Following the collapse of the Assad regime in Syria earlier this year, Russia has repositioned a portion of its Mediterranean naval assets to Libya, turning eastern ports like Tobruk into new centres of activity. Over the past twelve months, Russian warships—including the missile cruiser Varyag, the amphibious landing ship Ivan Gren, and the frigate Admiral Shaposhnikov—have made multiple dockings at Libyan facilities. Ostensibly described as “technical calls” or “cooperation visits,” these stops are part of a broader military and logistical build-up that echoes Russia’s earlier moves in Syria.

Military analysts tracking satellite imagery have observed the unloading of mobile radar systems, containerised electronic warfare gear, and surface-to-air components from Russian vessels docked in Tobruk. Local sources have corroborated that Russian engineers are expanding existing port infrastructure, upgrading docking capacity and integrating fortified depots inland. The evidence points not to temporary deployments, but to a long-term military foothold in a country still reeling from two competing governments and multiple armed factions.

The United States views these developments with increasing concern. Libya’s strategic location at the southern edge of the Mediterranean gives it outsize importance in maritime control, energy transport, and migration flows. A permanent Russian presence in Libya would challenge NATO’s southern flank and provide Moscow with a platform for influence in both North Africa and sub-Saharan Africa, particularly in the volatile Sahel region.

To counter this, the U.S. has responded with a dual approach—military projection and attempts at political engagement. The docking of the Mount Whitney in Tripoli is part of this renewed posture. It comes on the heels of a joint exercise earlier this year involving American B-52 bombers conducting coordination manoeuvres with western Libyan tactical air controllers. That operation, conducted over the central Libyan desert, demonstrated the Pentagon’s capacity to operate in the region and also served as a subtle invitation for Libyan defence leaders to consider deeper integration with U.S. systems and training protocols.

Yet, this projection of military might is taking place in parallel with a hard truth: American influence, particularly its soft power, is diminishing. Decades ago, Washington would have backed such moves with an arsenal of civilian tools—development aid, long-term educational programmes, and extensive public diplomacy. Today, much of that infrastructure has been scaled back. Budget constraints, domestic political shifts, and a growing isolationist undercurrent have weakened the State Department’s global presence, including its ability to sustain long-term engagement in Libya. This has forced the Pentagon to take on roles traditionally filled by civilian agencies—an unsustainable model for complex, post-conflict environments like Libya.

Nonetheless, there are still openings where the U.S. can act decisively. One such area is Libya’s maritime domain, which remains porous and largely unregulated. Human smuggling remains rampant. From Zuwara and Sabratha in the west to the more isolated stretches of coastline near Benghazi, smugglers exploit Libya’s weak coastal surveillance to ferry thousands of migrants toward Europe. Already in 2025, Italy and Malta have seen a spike in irregular crossings, with over 30,000 people arriving by sea since January. Many of these journeys begin with human traffickers operating with impunity from Libyan shores.

This maritime crisis presents the U.S. with an opportunity to position itself as a stabilising force. American naval forces could assist with intelligence-sharing, aerial surveillance, and the provision of maritime radars and patrol boats. Technical support could help the Libyan coast guard professionalise its operations and develop early-warning systems to intercept smuggling vessels. Importantly, such cooperation would not only serve U.S. security interests—it would also be welcomed by European allies who are struggling to handle the renewed influx of migrants.

Meanwhile, deeper political engagement with Libya’s fragmented security apparatus remains both critical and challenging. Since the country’s split into rival administrations in Tripoli and Benghazi, unifying its military forces under civilian command has been an elusive goal. Russia, which has thrown its support behind General Khalifa Haftar in the east, has no interest in seeing a cohesive Libyan national army that could reduce its leverage. The U.S., by contrast, has the technical expertise and experience to support a gradual reintegration process—if it can commit to the long-term task.

This would require the United States to facilitate dialogue between rival security chiefs, encourage the development of neutral training academies, and offer incentives for interoperability—such as shared equipment standards, logistics chains, and communication protocols. Hosting Libyan officers for professional military education in the United States could also help foster future partnerships. These are not dramatic interventions, but they are the types of engagements that can slowly build institutional coherence in a fractured state.

Libya is not just a country of strategic interest—it is a crucible where the broader competition between East and West is playing out in real-time. Moscow is betting on the durability of authoritarian patrons and paramilitary integration, extending its influence through shadowy contractors, arms shipments, and selective development projects. Washington, if it wishes to offer a different path, must do so with both clarity and humility. It must speak less in slogans and more in deliverables. For many Libyans, promises of foreign support are a familiar tune, often played with no follow-through. What matters now is consistency, reliability, and tangible results.

Moreover, Washington must take care not to treat Libya merely as a theatre for competition with Russia. While the strategic framing may help focus attention in Washington, it risks alienating Libyans who are deeply wary of being used as pawns in a foreign game. Any U.S. engagement must place Libya’s own sovereignty and stability at its core. This means respecting local political processes, even when slow or frustrating, and resisting the temptation to back strongmen simply because they offer “order.”

One of the most promising areas of future cooperation lies in Libya’s economic rehabilitation, particularly its maritime economy. American companies and technical experts could assist in rehabilitating Libya’s degraded port infrastructure, modernising its customs operations, and developing regulatory frameworks to fight smuggling and illicit finance. These steps, while not as headline-grabbing as military exercises, would contribute directly to Libyan resilience and make the country less susceptible to external coercion.

Ultimately, Libya is at a crossroads. The forces that pulled it apart are still strong, but so too are the opportunities to bring it back together—if supported by responsible international actors. The United States still has tools at its disposal, though they are fewer than before. What it does have is a reputation, a residual store of goodwill among many Libyans, and the ability to offer something that Russia cannot: a genuine partnership grounded in the rule of law, transparency, and long-term development.

The question now is whether Washington is prepared to make that offer—not with words, but with actions. The USS Mount Whitney cutting through Libyan waters may be a symbol of presence, but symbols alone will not build a future. Libya needs engagement that is sustained, practical, and above all, credible. In the era of great power competition, credibility is the rarest—and most valuable—commodity of all.