Chagos Islands: Britain is Leaving, But Not Leaving

It happened. The UK signs £3.4bn deal to cede sovereignty over Chagos Islands to Mauritius, and not with a whisper but with a declaration of strategic brilliance. Or so said Keir Starmer, who insisted there’s “no alternative,” as if the entire country had somehow missed the memo on leasing paradise for the price of a few submarines and an awkward press conference. And before anyone could say “colonial hangover,” the ink dried, and Britain handed over a slice of tropical real estate that it hadn’t technically owned since… well, arguably ever, depending on whom you ask at the United Nations.

Diego Garcia, the biggest island in the Chagos archipelago, didn’t go far though. The UK keeps a 99-year lease on it, making the whole thing feel more like a political Airbnb. Mauritius gets sovereignty, but Britain (and its best mate across the pond) keep their beloved military outpost. Think of it as breaking up with someone but still crashing on their sofa for the next century.

The figures are dazzling, in the sense that they make your head spin. £3.4 billion sounds like a princely sum until you realise it’s stretched out over nearly a hundred years. That’s £101 million a year, or roughly what one might spend annually convincing the public that this was all in the name of “safety at home.” Because, according to Starmer, using Britain’s “reach” (read: colonial remnants) is apparently essential for defending the realm. Presumably from enemies lurking somewhere near the Maldives.

Of course, there’s nothing quite like wrapping a geopolitical recalibration in the warm blanket of national security. Diego Garcia isn’t just any island. It’s a heavily guarded, American-operated base that has played host to an impressive array of secretive things over the years: military flights, renditions, and possibly the world’s most strategic coconut grove. It’s essentially the Pentagon’s tropical hideaway, and if Britain ever wanted to justify paying Mauritius billions to own the deed to a house they’re still living in, this would be it.

Now let’s talk legality. Back in 2019, the International Court of Justice issued an advisory opinion saying the UK really ought to give the Chagos Islands back. A subsequent UN resolution nodded in agreement. Britain, in classic fashion, smiled politely, ignored the whole thing, and carried on. But with international pressure mounting and the whiff of post-Brexit isolation thick in the air, someone in Whitehall finally blinked.

So a deal was cooked up. Mauritius gets its sovereignty, Britain gets its base, and the lawyers get very, very busy. Starmer stood at the podium and painted it as a win-win, except some thought the scoreboard was written in invisible ink. Critics pointed to the price tag, which, with inflation, could balloon up to £52 billion by the end of the lease. You could practically hear the clinking of calculators across Westminster.

Kemi Badenoch, leading the opposition charge, didn’t hold back. She called the agreement extravagant and questioned Mauritius’s growing closeness with China. She asked if Britain had just written a very large cheque to secure a future spy base for Beijing. Not quite the romantic island fantasy we were sold. Richard Tice from Reform UK joined in with the usual gusto, warning that we were financing our own decline.

Starmer, never one to retreat, lashed out at the critics, lumping them together with the international baddies: China, Russia, Iran. Apparently, if you question the cost of a tropical defence policy, you’re one step away from dining with the Kremlin. The optics, to put it kindly, were not spectacular.

Meanwhile, the Chagossians watched from the sidelines. You remember them – the actual people who lived there. In the late 60s and early 70s, thousands were forcibly removed from the islands to make way for the military base. Most ended up in Mauritius, the Seychelles, or the UK, their homeland transformed into an inaccessible strategic zone. Many hoped this new deal might mean a return home. Instead, they got a £40 million trust fund and some vague promises.

The Chagossian community had mixed feelings. Some were cautiously optimistic. Others were furious. They’d been left out of negotiations, their future debated by governments more focused on radar installations than human rights. The promise of resettlement still hangs in the air like a tropical storm cloud, full of potential but largely unscheduled.

The legal machinery, of course, didn’t stop grinding. Just days before the deal was announced, a High Court judge in the UK tried to block it, citing the need for further scrutiny. It didn’t stop anything, but it did add another layer of bureaucratic absurdity to an already surreal spectacle. Picture a game of geopolitical Jenga played on a lilo.

The Americans, as expected, applauded politely. Diego Garcia is one of their most prized outposts in the Indo-Pacific, an irreplaceable hub for surveillance, operations, and whatever else they won’t tell us about. By keeping their lease secure, Washington avoids any awkward relocation plans. You can imagine the Pentagon’s relief at not having to find another island with an airstrip and a good coconut supply.

China, Iran, and Russia were less enthused. They viewed the agreement as another chapter in the West’s long-term bid to dominate the Indian Ocean. Given their own ambitions in the region, they had little reason to cheer. Meanwhile, international legal scholars sipped their tea and marvelled at the unique diplomatic origami that had taken place. Here was a former colonial power admitting defeat on paper, paying billions for the privilege, and yet somehow keeping the same strategic assets it had before.

Starmer likely hoped the drama would fade by tea time. But stories like this tend to stick. A sprawling coral archipelago, a displaced population, a power base for the world’s largest military, a UN ruling, a lease that lasts longer than most monarchs – it’s hard to package all that into a neat press release.

Some in Mauritius have hailed the deal as historic. For decades, they fought to reclaim what they saw as stolen territory. Now they have it – technically. But how much real power they’ll wield over Diego Garcia remains a question. They can’t exactly bulldoze the base and turn it into a honeymoon resort. Not unless they want to explain to NATO why the fighter jets have been replaced with infinity pools.

There’s also the tiny issue of ecology. The Chagos Islands are home to a delicate marine ecosystem, and the very idea of resettlement or tourism development raises alarms for environmentalists. What happens to the turtles when geopolitics enters the reef? Who ensures the islands aren’t overrun by souvenir stands or, worse, become yet another stage for military theatre?

As Britain continues its slow, theatrical shedding of colonial legacy, this deal will sit as a rather curious entry in the annals of post-imperial oddities. The UK didn’t so much return the land as sublet it with conditions. Mauritius gets the paperwork; Britain keeps the keys.

Meanwhile, the Chagossians still wait, the debate over cost spins endlessly in Parliament, and somewhere in the middle of the Indian Ocean, Diego Garcia continues its silent service. Under palm trees and radar towers, the world turns, and history shifts one clause at a time.

So yes, the UK signs £3.4bn deal to cede sovereignty over Chagos Islands to Mauritius. It only took decades of legal battles, a shifting geopolitical map, and a national debate over whether “sovereignty” really means anything when your name’s still on the mailbox.

But if anyone asks, it’s all part and parcel of keeping us safe at home. Apparently, nothing says domestic security like an island half a world away, with a flagpole, a runway, and more surveillance tech than Heathrow. All this, wrapped up in a package of post-colonial redemption with a military aftertaste. Britain: still great at exits. Just not so great at letting go.