The history of central Mali is marked by sieges that have shaped communities for centuries. From the ancient wars of the Ségou state to the Hamdallahi Caliphate in the 19th century, villages have endured isolation, starvation, and surrender. Today, however, the Katiba Macina—an arm of the Group for the Support of Islam and Muslims (JNIM)—has transformed this brutal tactic into a calculated strategy of control. No longer just a military tool, the blockade has become a means of governance, enforced through fear and coercion rather than formal administration.
In our study, “Surviving the Siege: Lives Under JNIM Blockades in Mali,” we examined the devastating impact on communities in Mopti and Bandiagara regions, including Marébougou, Saye, Kori-Maoundé, and the Parou-Songobia bridge on National Road 15. These cases reveal how blockades disrupt mobility, agriculture, trade, education, and local authority structures. The goal is unmistakable: to make resistance untenable by rendering life unbearable for those who refuse submission.
In areas under JNIM influence, inhabitants are often pressured into what they call benkan—a term in Bambara that usually denotes a pact or compromise. In reality, this “agreement” is a one-sided set of demands: forced payments of zakat (Islamic alms) on harvests and livestock, school closures, mandatory veiling for women, bans on music, and restrictions on social gatherings. The language of negotiation masks a harsh reality: survival depends on compliance under the threat of violence.
Marébougou: a brief stand against starvation
Across central Mali, resistance is met with intensified isolation. When armed resistance is weak, blockades force submission. But when local defense groups persist, the siege hardens into a prolonged ordeal where civilians bear the heaviest burden. Marébougou, in the Djenné district, defied JNIM orders in 2021, refusing school closures, mandatory veiling, and agricultural levies. This defiance was fueled by the presence of security patrols and a donso (traditional hunter) camp, reflecting a period of confidence in local defense groups—seen by some as a grassroots form of counterterrorism. Yet, after their defeat in October 2021, a six-month total blockade was imposed, cutting off markets, roads, and farmlands. The village ultimately accepted a painful “survival pact”—not out of conviction, but necessity—to end deaths from starvation (as locals recount, even salt became scarce) and restore minimal access to food and medicine. In exchange, daily life and religious practices were drastically altered.
The defeat at Marébougou emboldened the Katiba Macina to expand pressure into neighboring areas like Sofara, Macina, and Niono. Targeted assassinations of influential hunters—accused of collaborating with state forces—further weakened resistance. These leaders had once mobilized communities against the jihadists, but their elimination sent a chilling message: defiance would be met with lethal consequences.
Saye: a village that refuses to yield
In Saye, blockades since 2023 have grown more oppressive through 2024 and 2025, crippling economic and social life. Unlike Marébougou, Saye’s resistance is rooted in defiance—not religious identity. Residents reject the benkan outright, insisting they are “good Muslims” who need not obey an external religious authority. Many have already lost everything—burned crops, stolen livestock, and severed trade routes—leaving little to fear from further submission. Instead, resistance is organized around traditional leaders, youth groups, and donsow fighters, who uphold a hardline stance against negotiation.
The blockade restricts access to farmlands, pastures, and markets. Men are confined to the village perimeter, risking execution or abduction if they venture out. Women, though less targeted, face their own dangers: foraging for food, firewood, and materials for mats and fans exposes them to violence and exploitation. These gendered constraints highlight how blockades reshape social roles, deepening vulnerabilities while creating illusions of relative safety.
The humanitarian strain on Saye is deliberate. As a historic stronghold (resisting the Ségou state in 1782), it has become a refuge for displaced villagers since 2023. This influx overwhelmed local resources, stretched already depleted public services, and intensified pressure on Djenné and San’s urban centers. The siege doesn’t just isolate—it weaponizes scarcity to force surrender.
Kori-Maoundé: where history fuels defiance
In Bandiagara, Kori-Maoundé has endured blockades since 2018 under the watch of Dan Na Ambassagou, a self-defense movement that rejects any dealings with jihadists. Local authorities—village chiefs, imams, and mayors—uphold this rigid stance, leaving no room for dialogue with the Katiba Macina. The blockade here is punitive, targeting a community seen as an enemy bastion. Its roots trace back to resistance against French colonialism, particularly the 1892 Battle of Kori-Kori, a turning point in the fall of Bandiagara. For locals and Dan Na Ambassagou fighters alike, the idea of submitting to a benkan is unthinkable—despite escalating attacks, assassinations, and movement restrictions. The village has also become a haven for displaced families, further straining its already precarious situation.
The plateau’s rugged terrain and the presence of Dan Na Ambassagou fighters slow direct assaults, but they cannot halt the gradual asphyxiation of the village. Civilians pay the price of non-compliance, fleeing to Bandiagara, Sévaré, or Bamako—or surviving in increasingly dire conditions within the village itself.
Mediation: a fragile lifeline
Even in the most constrained environments, mediation can offer a path forward. In Marébougou, neighboring mayors acted as intermediaries between the village and jihadists. In Saye, no such efforts have materialized. In Kori-Maoundé, Dan Na Ambassagou’s influence stifles local mediation, and regional reconciliation teams remain disconnected from the community’s realities. This disparity underscores a critical truth: blockades are not just a military tactic. Their persistence—and the possibility of breaking them—depends on the presence of trusted political, traditional, or religious intermediaries who can transform armed confrontation into dialogue. Without mediation, violence becomes a self-perpetuating cycle.
Schools, farms, and livestock: the pillars of survival
Across these villages, schools are more than institutions—they are the last bastions of state presence, social cohesion, and hope for the future. When armed groups arrive, teachers flee, classrooms close, and students disperse. School closures aren’t collateral damage; they’re part of a broader shift where administration gives way to religious or armed control. The loss of an education system isn’t just about lost learning—it’s about eroding collective futures.
Agriculture, the backbone of rural economies, bears the brunt of blockades. Inaccessible fields, burned crops, and attacks on farmers devastate livelihoods. In Marébougou, only the land closest to the village remains cultivable. Elsewhere, insecurity shrinks arable zones, forcing households to rely on external supplies—supplies that become impossible to obtain under siege. Livestock and cattle markets, essential to the economies of Ségou and Mopti, are also crippled. Mass abductions of herds destroy families, while weekly fairs turn hazardous or vanish entirely. Women, who often manage market gardens, food processing, and small-scale trade, face the steepest losses in autonomy. The blockade doesn’t just destroy incomes; it dismantles the networks of exchange that sustain rural life.
Community bonds: the quiet strength of resistance
Yet, life under blockade is not only about suffering. In Marébougou, Saye, and Kori-Maoundé, our research uncovered remarkable acts of solidarity: shared food, communal water access, aid for the sick, task-sharing, and support for vulnerable households. Residents describe a deepening of community ties in the face of adversity. These networks don’t eliminate hunger or fear, but they delay the total collapse of social fabric. They prove that villagers are not passive victims; they actively shape their survival, creating local protections in the absence of state support.
Marébougou, Saye, and Kori-Maoundé reveal the blockade as more than a tactic—it is a technology of territorial control. By dominating roads, markets, schools, and social norms, armed groups reshape daily life, even without permanently occupying villages. Responses vary: forced surrender, prolonged resistance, pragmatic arrangements, or partial flight. But the question haunts every community: how do you live when the ties connecting you to the world—roads, fields, schools, markets—can be severed overnight? In Ségou and Mopti, the blockade isn’t just causing shortages. It is building a political order rooted in fear.
