In central Mali, blockades have become a recurring nightmare that threatens the very survival of communities. While historical sieges—such as those during the 19th-century wars of the Ségou State or the Hamdallahi Caliphate—once marked periods of isolation, today’s blockades imposed by the Katiba Macina, an affiliate of the Group for Support of Islam and Muslims (JNIM), are far more systematic and deliberate. Rather than a mere military tactic, these blockades now function as a tool of governance through coercion, designed to enforce obedience without formal administration. The goal is clear: to make life unbearable for those who refuse submission.
Field research in regions like Mopti and Bandiagara—encompassing villages such as Marébougou, Saye, Kori-Maoundé, and the Parou-Songobia bridge on National Road 15—reveals the devastating impact of these blockades. They extend beyond military closure, disrupting mobility, agriculture, trade, education, gender relations, and even local authority structures. The blockade’s objective is to suffocate resistance, whether through forced submission or gradual exhaustion of civilian resilience.
The fighters behind these blockades often demand what locals refer to as a benkan—a term in the Bamanankan language generally meaning a pact or compromise. Yet in practice, this is far from an agreement. Instead, it consists of unilateral demands: forced payment of zakat (Islamic alms) on harvests and livestock, closure of schools, mandatory veiling for women, bans on music, and restrictions on social ceremonies. The local terminology masks a deeply unequal relationship rooted in threats and violence.
Marébougou: a brief stand against the inevitable
Resistance strategies vary depending on local power dynamics. When armed resistance is weak, blockades may lead to forced submission. Conversely, when self-defense groups remain active, the siege intensifies, transforming into a prolonged ordeal where civilians bear the heaviest burden.
In Marébougou, within the Djenné district, resistance crumbled in 2021. Residents rejected orders from the Katiba Macina, including school closures, mandatory veiling, restrictions on markets, and agricultural levies. Their defiance stemmed from factors such as regular security patrols and the presence of a donso (traditional hunter-warrior) camp. During 2019–2021, central Mali saw widespread confidence in self-defense groups, often portrayed as grassroots counterterrorism with close ties to security forces. Yet these groups, like the jihadists, exploited villagers through cattle theft and resource extortion under the guise of protection. After the self-defense fighters suffered a decisive defeat in October 2021, Marébougou faced a total blockade lasting six months.
Targeted assassinations to crush dissent
The blockade gradually pushed Marébougou into despair. Markets were cut off, roads became perilous, and fields were nearly impossible to cultivate. Access to essential goods vanished—even salt, a staple resource, became scarce. Survivors recount how the blockade forced villagers into a survival pact, not out of conviction but necessity. The deal spared lives but imposed sweeping social and religious changes.
The defeat’s ripple effects spread across the flooded delta, particularly in Djenné and Macina districts. The loss of hope in self-defense groups, combined with the security forces’ inaction, emboldened the Katiba Macina to tighten pressure on neighboring areas (Sofara, Macina, and Niono). Beyond harassment, the group carried out targeted assassinations of influential hunters—some of whom had led the mobilization for the Marébougou battle. The jihadists accused these leaders of collaborating with security forces and misappropriating resources like cattle and water access.
Saye: defiance in the face of humanitarian catastrophe
The blockade in Saye intensified between 2024 and 2025, crippling economic and social life. While the pattern mirrors Marébougou, Saye’s resistance is more pronounced. Residents argue they need not submit to an external religious authority, especially as they consider themselves ‘good Muslims’. Their refusal stems not only from religious conviction but also from material loss—their homes and livelihoods already destroyed by arson, cattle raids, and blocked market access. Here, resistance is organized by traditional authorities, youth groups, and donsow fighters.
The blockade traps men inside the village, while women—perceived as less threatening—venture into the bush to gather food, firewood, and straw. Yet this limited freedom comes with structural violence. As families flee to Saye to escape neighboring blockades, the village’s strain grows. Humanitarian needs surge, straining already weakened public services in Djenné and San. The siege doesn’t just confine; it deliberately overloads local resources to force surrender.
Kori-Maoundé: a bastion of unyielding resistance
In Bandiagara, Kori-Maoundé has resisted negotiation since 2018, thanks to the presence of Dan Na Ambassagou, a self-defense movement rejecting any dealings with jihadist groups. Local leaders—village chiefs, imams, and mayors—adhere to this hardline stance, leaving no room for dialogue with the Katiba Macina. The blockade grows increasingly punitive, targeting a territory seen as an enemy stronghold. Its history of resistance runs deep, tied to the 1892 Battle of Kori-Kori—a pivotal clash in the French colonial campaign. For Dan Na Ambassagou’s fighters and villagers alike, the idea of submission remains unthinkable despite relentless pressure. The village has also become a haven for displaced people from other areas.
The plateau’s terrain and the self-defense group’s presence slow direct offensives but cannot halt the village’s gradual strangulation. Civilians pay the price for non-negotiation—either fleeing to Bandiagara, Sévaré, or Bamako, or enduring increasingly precarious conditions in place.
Mediation: the fragile bridge in a climate of fear
Mediation efforts can sometimes foster dialogue, even under extreme constraints. In Marébougou, neighboring mayors acted as intermediaries between villagers and the Katiba Macina. In Saye, however, no such initiatives have gained traction. In Kori-Maoundé, Dan Na Ambassagou’s influence blocks local mediation, while regional reconciliation support teams remain disconnected from the village’s immediate realities.
This underscores a critical yet often overlooked truth: blockades are not just military phenomena. Their resolution depends on the presence and capacity of political, traditional, or religious intermediaries who can convert armed confrontations into dialogue. Without mediation, violence persists.
Schools, agriculture, and livestock: the pillars of survival
In all three villages, schools represent far more than education—they are social hubs, symbols of hope, and among the last tangible signs of state presence. The Katiba Macina’s arrival or pressure has driven teachers away, closed classrooms, and scattered students. School closures are not collateral damage; they are part of a broader shift where the state’s retreat gives way to religious or armed rule. When a school vanishes, so does a community’s future.
Agriculture, the backbone of rural economies, suffers first. Inaccessible fields, attacks on farmers, and arson on crops devastate livelihoods. In Marébougou, only plots near the village remain cultivable. Livestock and cattle trade—vital supplements to farming—also collapse under blockades. Mass cattle abductions destroy families, while weekly markets, essential to economies in Ségou and Mopti, become rare, dangerous, or impossible to reach. Women, who rely on market gardening and small-scale trade, bear the brunt of these losses, as blockades erode both income and exchange networks.
Solidarity as a lifeline in isolation
Yet survival under blockade is not defined solely by suffering. Research reveals remarkable acts of mutual aid: food sharing, water pooling, healthcare support, shared labor, and assistance to vulnerable households. In Saye and Marébougou, many describe a strengthening of communal bonds in the face of hardship. These solidarities do not eliminate hunger or fear but delay the total collapse of social fabric. They prove that villagers are not passive victims—they actively shape their survival, creating local protections amid state absence.
Marébougou, Saye, and Kori-Maoundé expose blockades as more than tactics. They are now instruments of territorial control, reshaping daily life by dominating roads, markets, schools, and social norms. Though not every village is occupied, the Katiba Macina increasingly shapes the rhythms of existence. Responses vary—forced surrender, prolonged resistance, uncompromising refusal, partial flight, or pragmatic arrangements—but the overarching question remains: how does one live when every connection to the outside world—roads, fields, schools, markets—can vanish overnight? In Ségou and Mopti, blockades don’t just create shortages. They impose a political order rooted in fear.
