Centuries-old conflicts in central Mali have long seen villages encircled, cut off from supplies and movement until surrender became inevitable. From the wars of the Ségou State to the Caliphate of Hamdallahi in the 19th century, historical records describe besieged communities starved into submission. Today, the Katiba Macina — an armed faction aligned with the Group for the Support of Islam and Muslims (JNIM) — has revived this brutal tactic with terrifying efficiency. No longer merely a weapon of war, the blockade has evolved into a calculated instrument of governance, designed to crush resistance not through battle alone, but through systematic suffocation of daily life.
The blockade is no accident of conflict. It is a deliberate strategy aimed at imposing control by severing roads, markets, schools and social freedoms. Research from the SIPRI/REcAP study “Living Under Siege: Case Studies from JNIM-Influenced Zones in Mali” reveals how this tactic has reshaped life in villages across Mopti and Bandiagara: Marébougou, Saye, Kori-Maoundé and the critical Parou-Songobia bridge on National Route 15. These communities are not just isolated — they are strategically dismantled. Mobility is restricted, agriculture halted, education banned, gender roles redefined and local authority replaced. The message is unmistakable: defiance will be met with annihilation.
Forced compromise or silent surrender: the illusion of negotiation
In areas under Katiba Macina influence, residents are often presented with a so-called benkan — a Bamanankan term that usually denotes a pact or agreement. But in practice, this is no negotiation. It is a one-sided ultimatum: forced payment of zakat on crops and livestock, mandatory veiling for women, bans on music and social gatherings. The language of compromise masks a brutal reality: survival depends on submitting to the demands of armed groups. Behind every “agreement” lies the shadow of violence — or worse, starvation.
Marébougou’s brief stand: when resistance meets blockade
All blockades follow the same pattern: suffocate until the people comply. But local dynamics shape the pace and cruelty of the siege. When armed resistance is weak, the blockade can force surrender quickly. When resistance persists — as it did in Marébougou — the siege tightens, dragging on for months, with civilians bearing the heaviest burden.
In Marébougou, located in the Djenné district, the breaking point came in 2021. Villagers refused to accept the closure of schools, mandatory veiling, bans on weekly markets and forced levies on agricultural produce and livestock. Their defiance was rooted in a mix of factors: regular patrols by government forces and the presence of a donso camp — a traditional hunter’s militia. Between 2019 and 2021, central Mali saw a surge of confidence in local defense groups, often seen as a grassroots form of anti-terrorism. Some leaders even enjoyed tacit support from security forces, though their methods sometimes blurred into extortion. But that resistance was short-lived. In October 2021, the hunter’s militia was defeated. Within six months, Marébougou faced a total blockade.
Targeted killings and the cost of defiance
The siege strangled Marébougou. Markets vanished. Roads became death traps. Fields lay fallow. Food and medicine shipments were halted. Essential goods like salt — usually abundant — disappeared entirely. After months of isolation, villagers had no choice but to accept a “survival pact.” It was not a surrender of belief, but a surrender of hope. In exchange for the lifting of the blockade, villagers agreed to radical changes in their way of life: schools closed, women covered, social rituals abandoned. The price of resistance had been too high.
The impact extended far beyond Marébougou. Across the flooded delta in the regions of Djenné and Macina, the defeat of the hunter’s militia shattered public confidence in local defense groups. The slow response from government forces emboldened the Katiba to expand its grip. Nearby villages such as Sofara, Macina and even Niono faced escalating harassment. Leaders of hunter militias were systematically assassinated. The Katiba accused them of collaborating with state forces and seizing resources — cattle, water sources, grazing lands — from pastoral communities. The message was clear: resist, and you will be erased.
Saye: where defiance burns brighter than fear
In Saye, the blockade that began in 2023 intensified through 2024 and 2025, crippling the village’s economy and social fabric. While Marébougou’s fate might suggest surrender, Saye’s people refuse to yield. They reject the benkan outright, insisting they are “good Muslims” who need no outside religious authority to dictate their lives. Many have already lost everything: crops burned, livestock stolen, markets choked off. For them, there is nothing left to protect — and nothing to gain from submission. Resistance is organized around traditional leaders, youth groups and donsow fighters, who vowed not to let their village fall under jihadist rule.
Humanitarian overload: how blockades crush communities
The siege in Saye has turned life into a trap. Fields are off-limits. Pastures inaccessible. Men are confined to the village perimeter; those who venture out risk being shot or abducted. Women, seen as less threatening, sometimes slip into the bush to gather food, firewood or thatch for mats and baskets. But this fragile freedom offers no safety. It only highlights how the blockade reshapes social roles and intensifies suffering.
The blockade does more than isolate — it creates a humanitarian crisis by design. Saye, with its long history of resistance — it defied the Ségou State in 1782 — became a refuge for displaced villagers starting in 2023. The sudden influx overwhelmed local resources. Food and medicine shortages surged. Public services, already weakened by the siege and cut off from nearby towns like Djenné and San, were stretched to the breaking point. The blockade wasn’t just confining — it was weaponizing scarcity, pushing communities toward collapse.
Kori-Maoundé: a village that refuses to kneel
In Bandiagara, the village of Kori-Maoundé has long been a bastion of defiance. Since 2018, it has hosted fighters from Dan Na Ambassagou, a self-defense movement that rejects any dealings with jihadist groups. Local leaders — village chiefs, imams, mayors — uphold this uncompromising stance. No dialogue with the Katiba Macina is entertained. The blockade here is purely punitive.
The siege has tightened over time: targeted attacks, assassinations, travel bans, and roadblocks where transporters are forbidden to stop or pick up passengers. By 2024, access to farmland was nearly impossible. The blockade is not just about control — it is a message. Kori-Maoundé is seen as an enemy stronghold, a place clinging to armed resistance despite relentless pressure. Its people draw strength from history: in April 1892, a pivotal battle against French colonial forces was fought on the hills of Kori-Kori, just outside Bandiagara. For the villagers and the Dan Na Ambassagou fighters alike, the idea of surrender is unthinkable. The village has also become a haven for displaced families from surrounding areas.
The geography of the plateau and the presence of the self-defense group have slowed direct assaults, but they cannot stop the slow asphyxiation of the village. Civilians pay the heaviest price for this refusal to negotiate: they flee toward Bandiagara, Sévaré or Bamako, or they endure worsening hardship in place. Mediation remains elusive. In Marébougou, neighboring mayors once acted as intermediaries between the village and the Katiba. In Saye, no such effort has gained traction. In Kori-Maoundé, Dan Na Ambassagou’s rigid stance blocks any local dialogue, and regional reconciliation teams remain too distant from the village’s realities to make a difference.
This contrast reveals a harsh truth: the blockade is not just a military tool. It depends on the presence and capacity of political, traditional or religious intermediaries who can turn armed confrontation into meaningful dialogue. Without mediation, violence persists — and civilians suffer.
Schools, farms and livestock: the pillars of life under siege
In every besieged village, schools are more than classrooms. They are anchors of family life, social hubs, symbols of hope and the last visible sign of state presence. In Kori-Maoundé, Marébougou and Saye, the arrival or pressure from armed groups forced teachers to flee, classes to close and students to scatter. The closure of schools is not collateral damage — it is part of a broader shift, where the absence of government administration gives way to religious or armed rule. When a school disappears, so does a collective future.
The first blow of the blockade often falls on agriculture. Fields become inaccessible. Farmers are attacked. Crops are burned. The rural economy, built on seasonal harvests, collapses. In Marébougou, only plots near the village could still be cultivated. Everywhere else, insecurity shrank arable land. Households began to rely on external supplies — but those too were cut off by the siege.
Livestock and cattle markets, which complement farming, were also devastated. Mass abductions of herds destroyed entire families. Weekly fairs — the lifeblood of rural economies in Ségou and Mopti — became rare, risky or impossible. Women, who play key roles in market gardening, food processing and small trade, saw their autonomy shrink. The blockade didn’t just destroy income — it severed the trade networks that sustained entire communities.
Community solidarity: the hidden strength of besieged villages
Yet life under blockade is not only suffering. In all three villages, fieldwork uncovered remarkable acts of solidarity: shared meals, pooled water, care for the sick, shared labor, support for vulnerable households. In Saye and Marébougou, residents spoke of strengthened community bonds in the face of adversity.
These networks of mutual aid do not eliminate hunger or fear. But they delay — at least temporarily — the total collapse of social fabric. They prove that villagers are not passive victims. They are active agents in their own survival, improvising local forms of protection when the state is absent.
Marébougou, Saye and Kori-Maoundé show that the blockade in Mali is far more than a military tactic. It has become a sophisticated territorial control technology. By dominating roads, markets, schools and social norms, armed groups are reshaping daily life. Though they do not occupy every village, their influence increasingly shapes how people live, work and survive.
Each community responds differently: forced surrender, prolonged resistance, refusal to negotiate, partial flight or pragmatic arrangements. But one question unites them all: how do you live when the very links tying your village to the world — roads, fields, schools, markets — can be severed without warning? In Ségou and Mopti, the blockade does more than create shortages. It establishes a political order built on fear.
