Centuries before today’s crises, the central regions of Mali knew the suffocating grip of blockades. From the wars of the Ségou State to the Caliphate of Hamdallahi in the 19th century, entire villages were encircled, cut off from movement and supplies until surrender became the only option. Yet today’s blockades under the Katiba Macina, an arm of the Group for the Support of Islam and Muslims (Jnim), have evolved into a calculated system of governance by force. No longer mere wartime tactics, these sieges are now tools of coercion, designed not just to punish but to impose obedience without formal administration.

This shift is documented in groundbreaking research that examines life under blockade in villages across Mopti and Bandiagara: Marébougou, Saye, Kori-Maoundé, and the critical Parou-Songobia bridge on National Route 15. The findings reveal that blockades are not just military closures—they dismantle mobility, agriculture, trade, education, gender roles, and even local authority structures. The goal is explicit: to make resistance unbearable until submission is inevitable.

In areas under Jnim influence, fighters often demand what locals call a benkan—a term rooted in Bamanan language usually meaning a pact or compromise. But in reality, this is far from a negotiated agreement. Instead, it’s a one-sided set of demands: forced payment of zakat (Islamic alms tax) on crops and livestock, closure of schools, mandatory veiling for women, bans on music, and restrictions on social ceremonies. The language of negotiation masks a harsh reality built on threat and violence.

Marébougou: a brief resistance, followed by collapse

Across all affected villages, the strategy is consistent: strangle until submission or resignation sets in. But local dynamics shape the intensity of the blockade. Where armed resistance is weak or dismantled, forced surrender follows quickly. When self-defense groups remain active, the siege hardens into a prolonged ordeal, with civilians bearing the heaviest burden.

In Marébougou, within the Djenné district, resistance crumbled in 2021. Residents refused orders to close schools, enforce veiling, halt markets, and surrender crops and livestock. Their defiance was fueled by factors including regular patrols by state forces and the presence of a donso camp—hunters whose traditional role often aligned with community protection during the 2019–2021 surge of local defense groups in central Mali. Many saw these groups as grassroots anti-terrorism forces, and some leaders even cooperated with security services. But some also exploited protection schemes, seizing cattle and resources from villagers in exchange for security. This fragile resistance in Marébougou lasted barely two years. After a decisive defeat of local defense fighters in October 2021, a total blockade was imposed for six months.

Targeted killings of influential hunters

As the blockade tightened, Marébougou was gradually strangled. Markets vanished. Road travel became deadly. Fields lay barren. Basic supplies, even salt—a staple rarely scarce—ran out. By the end of the siege, villagers accepted what many called a survival pact—not out of belief, but out of exhaustion. They did so to end starvation deaths, restore limited mobility for food and medicine, and revive frozen local economies. In return, their social and religious lives were forcibly reshaped.

The fallout extended beyond Marébougou. The defeat eroded trust in local defense groups across the flooded delta, especially in the Djenné and Macina districts of Mopti. Security forces’ delayed response emboldened Jnim fighters to escalate pressure on neighboring villages like Sofara, Macina, and Niono. Alongside relentless harassment, the Katiba Macina carried out targeted assassinations of influential hunters—many of whom had mobilized for the battle of Marébougou. These leaders were accused of collaborating with state forces and monopolizing resources like cattle and water points, fueling further violence.

Saye: defiance amid starvation and siege

The blockade at Saye, which began in 2023 and intensified into 2024 and 2025, has nearly paralyzed life. While the pattern mirrors Marébougou, the tone is different. Rejection of the benkan is open and sustained. Residents argue that they owe no obedience to an external religious authority, insisting they are already ‘good Muslims.’ Beyond faith, many feel they have nothing left to lose—harvests burned, cattle stolen, markets cut off—so resistance is tied to local traditions, youth organizations, and donsow fighters.

Under siege, fields and pastures are inaccessible. Men rarely leave the village, risking abduction or execution if they do. Women, often seen as less threatening, venture out to gather food, firewood, and materials for mats and fans—but even this limited freedom comes with structural violence. The blockade isn’t just about confinement; it’s a deliberate strategy to overwhelm humanitarian needs and force surrender. Since 2023, Saye, known for its historic resistance to the Ségou State in 1782, has become a refuge for villagers from neighboring areas fleeing blockades. This influx has strained food and medicine supplies, overwhelmed local services, and deepened the humanitarian crisis. The siege doesn’t just trap—it weaponizes scarcity to break willpower.

Kori-Maoundé: a village that refuses to yield

In the Bandiagara region, Kori-Maoundé has stood defiant since 2018, under the control of Dan Na Ambassagou, a self-defense movement that rejects any negotiation with jihadist groups. Local authorities—village chiefs, imams, and mayors—adhere to this hardline stance, blocking any direct dialogue with the Katiba Macina. Isolation has worsened: targeted attacks, assassinations, travel bans, and restrictions on transporters stopping or picking up passengers. By 2024, access to fields was nearly impossible. The blockade isn’t just control—it’s a message to a territory seen as enemy territory, a bastion of resistance tied to collective memory.

The village’s refusal to negotiate is rooted in history. In April 1892, the decisive Battle of Kori-Kori marked the final colonial advance on Bandiagara under French rule. For local defense fighters and residents, the idea of submitting to a benkan is unthinkable, despite mounting pressure. Kori-Maoundé has also become a haven for displaced people from other villages. While its plateau terrain and defense presence slow direct attacks, they can’t stop the slow asphyxiation of daily life. Civilians pay the price of non-negotiation—either fleeing to Bandiagara, Sévaré, or Bamako, or surviving in increasingly precarious conditions.

Can mediation break the siege?

Mediation does exist—and can work even under extreme pressure. In Marébougou, neighboring mayors acted as intermediaries between the village and Jnim fighters. But in Saye, no such effort gained traction. In Kori-Maoundé, the influence of Dan Na Ambassagou blocks local mediation, and regional reconciliation teams remain disconnected from village realities. This contrast reveals a key truth: blockades aren’t just military tools. Their endurance depends on the presence and ability of political, traditional, or religious intermediaries to transform armed power into dialogue. Without mediation, violence persists.

Schools, fields, and livestock: the pillars under attack

Schools are more than classrooms. In Kori-Maoundé, Marébougou, and Saye, armed groups have driven teachers away, closed schools, and scattered students. School closures aren’t collateral damage—they’re part of a broader retreat of state administration, replaced by religious or armed rule. When an education system collapses, it’s not just learning that fades; it’s the future of the community.

Agriculture bears the first brunt of blockades. Fields become inaccessible. Farmers are attacked. Harvests are burned. Rural economies crumble. In Marébougou, only land near the village remains cultivable. Elsewhere, insecurity shrinks arable zones, forcing households to rely on external supplies—impossible when roads are cut. Livestock and cattle trade suffer too. Mass cattle raids destroy families. Weekly markets, vital to rural economies in Ségou and Mopti, become rare, dangerous, or nonexistent. Women, often involved in market gardening and small trade, lose income and autonomy. The blockade doesn’t just destroy livelihoods—it severs the social fabric that sustains these territories.

Solidarity in the shadow of siege

Yet life under blockade isn’t only suffering. In all three villages, research reveals deep acts of mutual aid: shared food, water pooling, care for the sick, task-sharing, and support for the most vulnerable. In Saye and Marébougou, many speak of stronger community bonds forged in adversity. These solidarities don’t eliminate hunger or fear, but they delay—and sometimes prevent—the total collapse of social life. They show that people aren’t passive victims; they actively shape their survival, creating local protections where the state has failed.

Marébougou, Saye, and Kori-Maoundé expose a chilling truth: the blockade in Mali has become a technology of territorial control. By controlling roads, markets, schools, and social norms, armed groups aren’t just occupying space—they’re reshaping daily life. Though not every village is under direct control, these groups increasingly dictate the rhythms of existence. Responses vary: forced surrender, prolonged resistance, refusal to negotiate, partial flight, or pragmatic arrangements. But one question unites them all: how do you live when everything that connects your land to the world—roads, fields, schools, markets—can vanish overnight? In Ségou and Mopti, the blockade doesn’t just create shortages. It enforces a political order built on fear.