Mali’s modern sieges: a weapon of control and coercion
The practice of blockading entire regions is not new to Mali. In the 19th century, conflicts such as those involving the Ségou State or the Caliphate of Hamdallahi left villages encircled, cut off from supplies until they surrendered. Today, however, the Katiba Macina—an armed faction linked to the Group for the Support of Islam and Muslims (JNIM)—has refined this tactic into a systematic tool of governance through fear and constraint. No longer merely a military strategy, the blockade now serves as a means of imposing authority without formal administration.
The economic and social devastation of blockades
Field research conducted in Mopti and Bandiagara regions—including villages like Marébougou, Saye, and Kori-Maoundé, as well as the critical Parou-Songobia bridge on National Road 15—reveals how these blockades extend far beyond military closures. They disrupt mobility, agriculture, commerce, education, gender relations, and even local governance structures. The objective is clear: make life unbearable for those who refuse to submit.
In these areas, fighters often impose what locals call a benkan, a term in the Bamanankan language generally referring to a pact or compromise. Yet what unfolds is far from a mutual agreement. Instead, it is a series of unilateral demands: forced payments of zakat (Islamic alms on harvests and livestock), closure of schools, mandatory veiling for women, bans on music, and restrictions on social ceremonies. The language of negotiation masks a relationship rooted in threat and violence.
Marébougou: a brief stand against the tide of coercion
The strategy is consistent across regions: suffocate to force compliance or resignation. However, the methods vary depending on local power dynamics. Where armed resistance is weak or dismantled, forced submission may follow. Where self-defense groups persist, the siege intensifies, turning into a prolonged ordeal where civilians bear the heaviest burden.
Marébougou, in the Djenné district, became a flashpoint in 2021 when residents rejected orders from the Katiba Macina, including school closures, mandatory veiling, and agricultural levies. This defiance was sustained by regular security patrols and the presence of a donso (traditional hunter-warrior) camp, reflecting a wave of confidence in local defense groups during 2019–2021. Many saw armed participation in these groups as a form of grassroots counterterrorism, with some leaders even collaborating closely with state forces. Yet this resistance was short-lived. After defeating local defense groups in October 2021, the Katiba Macina imposed a six-month total blockade.
Targeted assassinations and the collapse of resistance
The siege gradually strangled Marébougou. Markets were cut off, travel on roads became perilous, fields were left fallow, and essential supplies vanished. By the end, survival—not conviction—drove acceptance of the benkan. It was not an adherence to ideology but a forced adjustment to end starvation (“even salt ran out”, as one resident recalled), restore limited mobility for food and medicine transport, and revive a stalled local economy. In exchange, the village’s social and religious life was profoundly altered.
The defeat’s ripple effects extended across the flooded delta, including Djenné and Macina circles in Mopti. Before the clashes, self-defense groups had mobilized hundreds of fighters from diverse backgrounds. Their loss eroded trust in these groups and emboldened the Katiba Macina to pressure neighboring villages like Sofara and Niono. The faction escalated harassment and conducted targeted assassinations of influential hunters—some of whom had coordinated the Marébougou mobilization. These leaders were accused of collaborating with state forces and exploiting pastoral resources.
Saye and Kori-Maoundé: resistance under extreme pressure
Saye, where a blockade has tightened since 2023, presents a different case. Residents reject the benkan outright, asserting they are “good Muslims” who need not obey external religious authority. Having already lost homes, livestock, and access to markets from burned crops and raids, they see no benefit in submission. Resistance is organized around traditional authorities, youth groups, and donsow fighters.
The blockade has paralyzed agriculture, grazing, and trade. Men are confined to the village perimeter; those venturing out risk abduction or death. Women, perceived as less threatening, sometimes slip into the bush to gather food, firewood, or materials for weaving mats and fans. Yet this fragile freedom does not shield them from structural violence—it merely reshapes the risks they face. The blockade’s strain has also overwhelmed local services, already weakened by isolation from urban centers like Djenné or San. Intentionally, the siege creates a humanitarian overload to break the village’s will.
In contrast, Kori-Maoundé in Bandiagara has remained under the grip of Dan Na Ambassagou, a self-defense movement refusing any negotiation with jihadist groups. Local leaders—village chiefs, imams, and mayors—uphold this hardline stance, leaving no room for dialogue with the Katiba Macina. The blockade here grows increasingly punitive, with targeted attacks, travel restrictions, and bans on transporters stopping or picking up passengers. By 2024, access to fields was nearly impossible. The siege is not just about control; it sends a message to a perceived enemy bastion, where loyalty to armed resistance persists.
The weight of history in resistance
Kori-Maoundé’s defiance is reinforced by historical memory. The village is a refuge for displaced people from other areas and holds fragments of resistance against French colonialism, including a pivotal battle in April 1892 on the Kori-Kori hills. For local fighters and residents, the idea of a submission pact remains unthinkable despite escalating pressure. Yet topography and armed presence only slow direct offensives—not the village’s gradual asphyxiation. Civilians pay the price of non-negotiation by fleeing to Bandiagara, Sévaré, or Bamako, or enduring increasingly precarious conditions.
Education, agriculture, and livestock: the pillars under siege
In all affected villages, schools are more than learning spaces—they are social hubs, family pillars, and symbols of state presence. Closures in Kori-Maoundé, Marébougou, and Saye have driven teachers away, scattered students, and erased futures. School closures are not collateral damage; they are part of a broader shift where governance vacuums are filled by armed or religious authorities. When an education system collapses, so does collective hope.
Agriculture bears the first brunt of blockades. Inaccessible fields, burned crops, and attacks on farmers cripple rural economies. In Marébougou, only plots near the village remain cultivable. Livestock and cattle markets—vital to the economies of Ségou and Mopti—are disrupted by raids and raids, reducing women’s autonomy in market gardening, food processing, and small-scale trade. The blockade doesn’t just destroy income; it dismantles the exchange networks that sustain communities.
Community solidarity: the fragile shield against collapse
Despite the suffering, blockades also reveal unexpected resilience. In Marébougou and Saye, residents report strengthened community bonds through food sharing, water pooling, aid for the sick, and task distribution. While these efforts do not eliminate hunger or fear, they delay—if only temporarily—the complete unraveling of social fabric. Survivors are not passive victims; they actively create local protections in the absence of state support.
Marébougou, Saye, and Kori-Maoundé show that the blockade in Mali is no longer just a tactic—it is a territorial control technology. By dominating roads, markets, schools, and social norms, armed groups reshape daily life. Though they do not occupy every village, their influence increasingly infiltrates the rhythms of existence. Responses vary: forced surrender, prolonged resistance, refusal to negotiate, partial flight, or pragmatic arrangements. But the question remains the same: how do you live when everything connecting a territory to the outside world—roads, fields, schools, markets—can vanish overnight? In Ségou and Mopti, blockades do more than cause shortages. They impose a political order built on fear.
The role of mediation in fractured landscapes
Mediation remains possible even in constrained contexts. In Marébougou, neighboring mayors acted as intermediaries between the village and fighters. In Saye, however, no such initiatives took root. In Kori-Maoundé, the dominance of Dan Na Ambassagou blocks local mediation, and regional reconciliation teams remain distant from village realities. This underscores a critical truth: blockades are not purely military phenomena. Their resolution depends on the presence and capacity of political, traditional, or religious intermediaries to transform armed power into dialogue. Without mediation, violence persists.
