The history of central Mali is no stranger to blockades. Centuries past, during conflicts like those of the Ségou State or the Hamdalahi Caliphate in the 19th century, tales of encircled villages, cut off from movement and supplies until their surrender, were common. However, with the rise of Katiba Macina, an affiliate of the Group for the Support of Islam and Muslims (JNIM – a key player in a major attack on April 25), this tactic has evolved into a systematic, contemporary, and strategically calculated form. Today, blockades extend beyond mere territorial punishment; they serve as a coercive governance mechanism, a means to enforce obedience without establishing formal administration.
My investigations into this reality have revealed several striking examples across the Mopti and Bandiagara regions, including Marébougou, Saye, Kori-Maoundé, and the critical Parou-Songobia bridge on National Road 15. These on-the-ground observations demonstrate that a blockade is far more than a simple military closure; it profoundly impacts mobility, agriculture, commerce, education, gender relations, and even local authority structures. The objective is clear: to make life unsustainable for those who refuse to comply.
In targeted localities, fighters often attempt to impose what residents refer to as a benkan, a Bamanan term generally denoting a pact or compromise. Yet, in practice, this is less a mutual agreement and more a series of unilateral demands: forced payment of zakat (an obligatory annual alms on harvests and livestock), closure of schools, mandatory veiling for women, prohibition of music, and restrictions on social gatherings. The local terminology used for this arrangement masks a deeply unequal relationship, sustained by constant threats and violence.
Marébougou: a brief period of resistance
The overarching strategy remains consistent: suffocate communities to compel adherence or, at minimum, resignation. Nevertheless, the specific methods adapt to the local balance of power. Where armed resistance is weak or dismantled, a blockade can lead to swift, forced submission. Conversely, if self-defense groups persist, the isolation intensifies and hardens, transforming the siege into a grueling ordeal where civilians bear the most severe costs.
In Marébougou, located within the Djenné circle, a critical rupture occurred in 2021. Residents defiantly rejected Katiba Macina’s directives, particularly the closure of schools, compulsory veiling, abandonment of certain markets, and agricultural and livestock levies. This firm stance against Katiba Macina fighters was bolstered by factors such as regular patrols by security forces and the presence of a Donso camp.
Between 2019 and 2021, central Mali witnessed widespread enthusiasm and confidence in the capacity of self-defense groups to confront jihadist factions. Armed engagement within these groups was often portrayed as a grassroots counter-terrorism effort, with some leaders enjoying close ties to security forces. Much like the jihadist fighters, some of these self-defense leaders profited from cattle rustling and various levies on villagers, ostensibly in exchange for protection. However, Marébougou’s armed resistance proved short-lived. Following the defeat of these self-defense groups by jihadists in October 2021, the situation drastically shifted, leading to a comprehensive six-month blockade.
Targeted assassinations of influential hunters
This prolonged siege gradually pushed Marébougou into an impasse. Access to markets was severed, travel on roads became perilous, fields were challenging to cultivate, and essential supplies were blocked. Witnesses recounted that even salt, typically abundant, became scarce, leading to multiple deaths from starvation. At the end of this period, Marébougou accepted what many considered a survival pact. This was not an embrace of their ideology but a forced adjustment aimed at ending widespread deaths, restoring some mobility for food and medicine, and reviving an economy paralyzed by months of restricted access to local markets. In return, the village’s social and religious life underwent profound changes.
Beyond Marébougou, the defeat’s repercussions rippled across the entire flooded delta region, notably impacting the Djenné and Macina circles in the Mopti region. Leading up to the confrontations, self-defense groups had amassed hundreds of fighters from diverse backgrounds. Their defeat eroded public enthusiasm and trust in these groups. The absence of an immediate response from security forces further empowered Katiba fighters to exert pressure on neighboring localities such as Sofara, Macina, and even Niono. In addition to harassing villagers in these areas, Katiba Macina carried out targeted assassinations of influential hunters, some of whom had coordinated the general mobilization for the battle of Marébougou. The eliminated hunter chiefs were also accused by jihadists of collaborating with security forces and monopolizing pastoral resources, including livestock and access to water points and certain grazing areas.
In Saye, the 2023 blockade intensified through 2024 and 2025, completely disrupting economic and social life. While similar dynamics to Marébougou were at play, the situation here presented distinct differences. The rejection of the benkan was more direct and sustained. Residents believed they should not submit to an external religious authority, particularly as they considered themselves “good Muslims.” Beyond religious matters, villagers felt they had already lost most of their possessions and saw nothing left to protect by submitting to a local agreement whose proponents had already stripped them bare (burnt harvests, stolen livestock, cut off access to weekly local markets). Resistance in these localities coalesced around traditional authorities, youth organizations, and Donso fighters.
Humanitarian overload to force village surrender
The enforced immobility in Saye rendered agricultural lands, pastures, and numerous trade routes inaccessible. Men were largely confined to the village perimeter; those who ventured out faced abduction or death. Women, perceived as less threatening by the fighters, sometimes managed to leave the village to forage for food, collect firewood, and gather straw for weaving mats and fans. This relative freedom did not shield them from the structural violence of the siege; rather, it highlighted how the blockade reshaped social roles and inherent risks.
The case of Saye illustrates how armed groups exploit population movements to intensify pressure on villagers and compel their submission. Given its historical influence (Saye famously resisted Ségou’s power in 1782), the refusal to accept the benkan led several defiant villages to seek refuge there starting in 2023. This influx created a sudden surge in demand for food and medicine, further straining local public services already weakened by the blockade and the inability to resupply from nearby urban centers like Djenné or San. The siege did not merely confine; it intentionally engineered a humanitarian overload to force the village’s surrender.
In other villages within the Bandiagara locality, the situation diverged. Since 2018, Kori-Maoundé has been marked by the presence of Dan Na Ambassagou fighters, a self-defense movement staunchly resisting any negotiation with jihadist groups. Local authorities, including village chiefs, imams, and mayors, adhered to this uncompromising stance. Consequently, no direct dialogue with Katiba Macina has been entertained, and the blockade has grown increasingly punitive.
The memory of resistance against the French
Isolation took hold gradually, marked by targeted attacks, assassinations, movement restrictions, and prohibitions for transporters to stop or pick up passengers. By 2024, access to fields was almost entirely forbidden. The blockade aimed not just to control the locality but also to send a clear message by targeting a territory considered an enemy stronghold, where some local authorities and populations remained loyal to Dan Na Ambassagou’s hardline armed resistance. Similar to Saye, the collective memory here preserves echoes of resistance against French colonialism, including a decisive battle fought on the Kori-Kori hills in April 1892, the final stage of Bandiagara’s capture by colonial troops. For both the self-defense fighters and the villagers, the idea of a submission pact was not on the table, despite intense pressure from Katiba Macina fighters. Furthermore, this village had become a haven for displaced individuals from other communities.
In this challenging environment, the plateau’s topography and the enduring presence of the self-defense group might slow direct offensives, but they do not halt the village’s gradual strangulation. Civilians bear the brunt of non-negotiation, forced either to flee towards Bandiagara, Sévaré, or Bamako, or to endure increasingly precarious conditions on site.
The role of mediators remains crucial. Figures capable of interceding exist and command a certain legitimacy, allowing dialogue to emerge even under severe constraints. In Marébougou, neighboring mayors acted as intermediaries between the village and the fighters. In Saye, however, no such initiative truly materialized. In Kori-Maoundé, Dan Na Ambassagou’s influence impedes any local mediation, and attempts by the regional reconciliation support team (from the Ministry of National Reconciliation) remain disconnected from the village’s tangible realities.
This comparison highlights a frequently overlooked truth: blockades are not solely military operations. Their impact and resolution also depend on the presence and capacity of political, traditional, or religious intermediaries to transform an armed power dynamic into dialogue. Without effective mediation, violence tends to persist.
Schools, agriculture, and livestock: village cornerstones
Across these villages, schools are far more than mere learning centers. They represent a cornerstone for families, a hub for social interaction, a promise of a better future, and, crucially, one of the last tangible vestiges of state presence. In Kori-Maoundé, Marébougou, and Saye alike, the arrival or pressure from armed groups led to teachers fleeing, classrooms closing, and students scattering.
The closure of schools is not simply collateral damage. It is part of a broader shift, where the withdrawal of state administration paves the way for alternative forms of regulation, whether religious or armed. When a school vanishes, it is not just education that diminishes; an entire collective future is eroded.
However, the primary impact of blockades often falls on agriculture. When fields become inaccessible, when cultivators face attacks, or when harvests are deliberately torched, the very heart of the rural economy suffers. In Marébougou, only fields immediately adjacent to the village remained viable. Elsewhere, insecurity drastically shrinks the cultivable area, forcing households to rely on external supplies—which then become impossible to obtain due to the siege.
Livestock farming and cattle trade, vital complements to agriculture, are similarly devastated by blockades. Mass thefts of herds ruin entire families. Weekly markets, essential to the rural economies of the Ségou and Mopti regions, become scarce, unreachable, or dangerously unsafe. Women, particularly those involved in market gardening, processing, or small-scale trade, see their margins of autonomy shrink dramatically. The blockade not only destroys incomes but also dismantles the networks of exchange that sustained these territories.
Strengthening community bonds
Yet, living under blockade is not solely defined by suffering. My investigation in all three villages uncovered crucial forms of mutual aid essential for survival, including food sharing, collective water management, assistance for the sick, distribution of daily tasks, and support for vulnerable households. In both Saye and Marébougou, many residents spoke of a profound strengthening of community bonds in the face of adversity.
These acts of solidarity do not eliminate hunger or fear, but they temporarily delay the complete collapse of the social fabric. They reveal that inhabitants are not merely passive victims of armed conflicts. They actively participate in their own survival, locally establishing forms of protection in the absence of state presence.
Marébougou, Saye, and Kori-Maoundé collectively illustrate that the blockade in Mali is far more than a simple tactic. It has evolved into a sophisticated technology of territorial control. By dominating roads, markets, schools, and social norms, these armed groups fundamentally transform daily living conditions. While they may not systematically occupy every village, their influence over the population’s daily existence is steadily increasing.
From one village to the next, responses vary, ranging from forced surrender and prolonged resistance to outright refusal to negotiate, partial flight, or pragmatic arrangements. Nonetheless, the core question remains universal: how does one survive when everything connecting a territory to the outside world—roads, fields, schools, markets—can be severed overnight? In the Ségou and Mopti regions, the blockade does not just cause shortages; it fundamentally establishes a political order rooted in fear, a critical aspect of Sahel current affairs.