Mali under siege: how jihadist blockades reshape daily life in central regions

The history of Mali’s central regions is marked by cycles of siege warfare. From the ancient wars of the Ségou state to the Hamdallahi caliphate in the 19th century, villages have repeatedly faced isolation, cut off from trade and supplies until forced into surrender. Today, these tactics have evolved. The Katiba Macina, an affiliate of the Group for the Support of Islam and Muslims (JNIM), has transformed the blockade from a wartime punishment into a systematic tool of governance—one that imposes obedience without formal administration.

a modern siege economy: control through deprivation

In regions like Mopti and Bandiagara, the blockade is no longer just a military tactic—it has become a way of life. Villages such as Marébougou, Saye, and Kori-Maoundé, along with the Parou-Songobia bridge on National Route 15, illustrate how these blockades disrupt mobility, agriculture, commerce, education, and even local authority structures. The goal is clear: make survival impossible for those who refuse to submit.

Under this pressure, fighters often demand what locals call a benkan, a term borrowed from the Bambara language that usually refers to a pact or compromise. In reality, it is far from a negotiation—it is a set of unilateral demands: forced payment of zakat (Islamic almsgiving) on harvests and livestock, school closures, mandatory veiling for women, bans on music, and restrictions on social ceremonies. The local vocabulary masks a deeply unequal relationship, built on threat and violence.

Marébougou: a brief stand against the tide

Across Mali’s central regions, the strategy is consistent: suffocate resistance until submission or resignation. But the tactics vary depending on local power dynamics. Where armed resistance is weak or dismantled, blockades lead to forced compliance. Where self-defense groups persist, isolation intensifies, turning the siege into a prolonged ordeal where civilians bear the heaviest burden.

In Marébougou, located in the Djenné cercle, resistance peaked in 2021. Residents defied orders from the Katiba Macina, refusing to close schools, enforce mandatory veiling, abandon weekly markets, or surrender agricultural and livestock tributes. Their defiance was rooted in a mix of factors: regular security patrols and the presence of a donso camp (traditional hunters’ militia).

Between 2019 and 2021, central Mali saw a surge of confidence in local self-defense groups, often framed as “grassroots antiterrorism.” Some leaders even enjoyed close ties with state forces. However, these militias were not immune to corruption—they enriched themselves through cattle theft and extortion under the guise of protection. Marébougou’s resistance ended abruptly in October 2021 after the self-defense groups were defeated by jihadist forces. Within months, a total blockade was imposed for six straight months.

targeted killings and the cost of defiance

The siege in Marébougou strangled every aspect of life: access to markets vanished, road travel became deadly, fields were left unplanted, and essential goods—including salt, a staple even in times of scarcity—became unattainable. By the end of this period, the village capitulated under what many saw as a survival pact. It was not a surrender of conviction, but a forced adjustment to halt mass starvation and restore minimal mobility. In exchange, social and religious life was reshaped under the fighters’ rules.

The fallout extended beyond Marébougou. The defeat eroded public trust in self-defense groups across the inundated delta, from Djenné to Macina in Mopti. With no swift response from state forces, the Katiba Macina escalated pressure on neighboring villages—Sofara, Macina, and Niono—harassing residents and assassinating influential hunters who had led the mobilization in Marébougou. The jihadists accused these leaders of collaborating with security forces and monopolizing pastoral resources, such as cattle and water access.

Saye: defiance in the face of humanitarian collapse

The blockade in Saye intensified from 2023 to 2025, grinding the village’s economy and social fabric to a halt. Unlike Marébougou, Saye’s resistance was rooted in a rejection of religious authority. Residents saw themselves as “good Muslims” and argued that they had already lost everything—burned crops, stolen livestock, severed market access—so there was nothing left to protect by submitting to local agreements. Their resistance was organized around traditional authorities, youth groups, and donsow fighters.

The imposed immobility cut off access to farmland, pastures, and trade routes. Men were confined to the village perimeter; those who ventured beyond faced abduction or execution. Women, seen as less threatening, sometimes slipped out to gather food, firewood, or straw for mats and fans. This fragile mobility did not shield them from structural violence—it merely highlighted how the blockade reshapes social roles and risks.

Saye’s historical influence as a bastion of resistance—dating back to its refusal of the Ségou state in 1782—made it a refuge for villagers from nearby areas starting in 2023. This influx created a sudden surge in food and medicine needs, overburdening already strained local services. The siege was not just confinement—it was an intentional humanitarian overload designed to break resistance.

Kori-Maoundé: memory as armor against surrender

In Kori-Maoundé, in the Bandiagara area, the Dan Na Ambassagou self-defense movement has maintained a hardline stance against negotiation since 2018. Local leaders—village chiefs, imams, and mayors—remain steadfast. No direct dialogue with the Katiba Macina has been possible, and the blockade has grown increasingly punitive.

Isolation came gradually: targeted attacks, assassinations, movement restrictions, and prohibitions on transporters stopping or picking up passengers. By 2024, access to fields was nearly impossible. The blockade’s aim was not just control—it was messaging. Kori-Maoundé was treated as an enemy stronghold, where loyalty to armed resistance persisted. For both fighters and villagers, the idea of a submission pact was unthinkable, despite escalating pressure. The plateau’s topography and the self-defense group’s presence slowed direct offensives but could not stop the slow asphyxiation of daily life. Civilians paid the price of non-negotiation by fleeing to Bandiagara, Sévaré, or Bamako—or by surviving in increasingly precarious conditions.

mediation in the shadow of the blockade

Even under extreme constraint, dialogue is possible—but it depends on the presence of trusted intermediaries. In Marébougou, neighboring mayors acted as go-betweens between the village and the fighters. In Saye, no such initiatives took root. In Kori-Maoundé, Dan Na Ambassagou’s influence blocked local mediation, and regional reconciliation teams remained disconnected from the village’s realities.

This reveals a critical truth: blockades are not just military phenomena. Their outcomes hinge on the presence and capacity of political, traditional, or religious intermediaries to turn armed power into dialogue. Without mediation, violence persists.

schools, farms, and herds: the pillars of survival

In all three villages, the school is more than a place of learning—it is a lifeline. It symbolizes hope, social cohesion, and the last tangible presence of the state. In Kori-Maoundé, Marébougou, and Saye, the arrival or pressure from armed groups led to teacher flight, classroom closures, and student dispersal. The closure of schools is not collateral damage; it is part of a broader shift where the withdrawal of administration gives way to religious or armed regulation. When an education system collapses, so does the collective future it once represented.

The first victims of the blockade are often farmers. When fields become inaccessible, cultivators face attacks, or harvests are burned, the rural economy withers. In Marébougou, only the land closest to the village remained workable. Elsewhere, insecurity drastically reduced arable land, forcing households to rely on outside supplies—supplies that became impossible to obtain under siege.

Livestock and cattle trade, which complement agriculture, also suffer. Mass cattle abductions destroy entire families. Weekly livestock markets, vital to the economies of Ségou and Mopti, become rare, dangerous, or inaccessible. Women—often involved in market gardening, food processing, or small trade—see their autonomy shrink. The blockade doesn’t just destroy income; it severs the exchange networks that sustain rural life.

the hidden strength of community

Yet life under siege is not defined solely by suffering. In all three villages, our investigation revealed vital forms of mutual aid: shared food, pooled water, care for the sick, division of daily labor, and support for vulnerable households. Residents in Saye and Marébougou spoke of strengthened community bonds in the face of hardship.

These solidarities do not eliminate hunger or fear, but they delay—and sometimes prevent—the total collapse of social fabric. They show that villagers are not passive victims of conflict. They actively shape their survival, creating local protections where the state is absent.

Marébougou, Saye, and Kori-Maoundé reveal that the blockade in Mali has evolved into a sophisticated territorial control technology. By dominating roads, markets, schools, and social norms, armed groups are not just occupying space—they are reshaping the very conditions of daily existence. Though they do not control every village, their influence increasingly shapes the rhythms of life in the regions of Ségou and Mopti. From forced surrender to prolonged resistance, from flight to pragmatic arrangements, one question remains constant: how do you live when every link to the outside world—roads, fields, schools, markets—can be severed from one day to the next? In Mali’s central regions, the blockade does more than create shortages. It establishes a political order founded on fear.