Life under blockade in central Mali: survival, fear and forced compliance

In the central regions of Mali, blockades are not a new phenomenon. Historical conflicts, such as those of the Ségou State or the Hamdallahi Caliphate in the 19th century, left behind memories of villages encircled, cut off from movement and supplies until their surrender. However, with the rise of the Macina Katiba, an affiliate of the Group for the Support of Islam and Muslims (JNIM), this practice has evolved into a systematic, modern-day strategy. The blockade is no longer just a means to punish a territory; it has become a tool of governance through coercion, a way to enforce obedience without formal administration.

Research on “living under blockade”—conducted in key areas like Mopti and Bandiagara—reveals how this tactic disrupts mobility, agriculture, trade, education, gender relations, and even local authority structures. Its purpose is clear: to make life unbearable for those who refuse to submit. Villages like Marébougou, Saye, Kori-Maoundé, and the strategic Parou-Songobia bridge on National Road 15 bear the brunt of this strategy, which goes far beyond mere military isolation.

the false compromise of forced agreements

In these areas, fighters often impose what locals call a benkan—a term in the Bamanan language generally meaning a pact or compromise. In reality, however, it is far from an agreement. Instead, it consists of unilateral demands: forced payments of zakat (Islamic almsgiving) on crops 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 threats and violence.

marébougou: a brief stand against the tide

The blockade strategy follows a consistent pattern: asphyxiation to force compliance or, at minimum, resignation. Yet the methods vary depending on local power dynamics. Where armed resistance is weak or dismantled, submission may follow swiftly. But where self-defense groups persist, the siege tightens, turning into a prolonged ordeal where civilians bear the heaviest burden.

In Marébougou, within the Djenné district, resistance crumbled in 2021. Residents rejected the Macina Katiba’s demands—school closures, mandatory veiling, the abandonment of certain markets, and agricultural levies. Their defiance stemmed partly from the presence of security patrols and a donso camp. During these years (2019–2021), central Mali saw widespread confidence in self-defense groups, often framed as a form of grassroots counterterrorism. Some leaders even enjoyed close ties with state forces. However, Marébougou’s armed resistance was short-lived. After the self-defense groups were defeated by jihadists in October 2021, a total blockade was imposed for six months.

targeted killings and the collapse of resistance

Marébougou’s isolation deepened. Markets vanished, road travel became perilous, fields lay untended, and essential supplies were cut off. By the end of this period, the village accepted what many viewed as a survival pact—not out of conviction, but necessity. The cost had been high: food shortages, including critical staples like salt, forced villagers into submission. In exchange, they regained limited mobility to transport food, medicine, and restart frozen local economies. Yet their social and religious lives were irrevocably altered.

The defeat’s ripple effects extended across the flooded delta, from Djenné to Macina in the Mopti region. Hundreds of self-defense fighters had mobilized for the battle of Marébougou, but their loss shattered public trust. With no swift response from state forces, the Macina Katiba intensified pressure on nearby villages—Sofara, Macina, and Niono. Alongside harassment, targeted assassinations of influential hunters—some of whom had coordinated Marébougou’s mobilization—sent a chilling message. The jihadists accused them of collaborating with state forces and exploiting herders’ resources, such as livestock and water access.

saye: defiance in the face of starvation

In Saye, the blockade that began in 2023 intensified through 2024 and 2025, paralyzing economic and social life. While the dynamics mirrored those in Marébougou, resistance here was fiercer and more sustained. Residents argued they owed no obedience to an external religious authority, insisting they were already “good Muslims.” Beyond faith, they had little left to lose—crops burned, livestock seized, and markets cut off—so submission offered no protection. Instead, resistance drew strength from traditional leaders, youth organizations, and donsow fighters.

The blockade confined Saye’s men to the village perimeter, while those venturing outside risked abduction or death. Women, perceived as less threatening, occasionally slipped into the bush to gather food, firewood, and materials for weaving mats and fans. Yet this fragile freedom did not shield them from structural violence; it merely reshaped social roles and risks under siege.

Saye’s historical significance intensified the crisis. Its refusal to adhere to the benkan drew refugees from neighboring villages starting in 2023. The sudden influx overwhelmed local resources, straining food and medicine supplies and overburdening already weakened public services. Djenné and San, the nearest urban centers, were cut off. The blockade wasn’t just confinement—it was a deliberate humanitarian overload designed to break the village’s will.

kori-maoundé: a bastion of unyielding resistance

In Kori-Maoundé, within the Bandiagara district, the situation took a different turn. Since 2018, the village has hosted fighters from Dan Na Ambassagou, a self-defense movement refusing any negotiation with jihadist groups. Local leaders—village chiefs, imams, and mayors—adhere to this hardline stance, leaving no room for dialogue with the Macina Katiba. The blockade has grown increasingly punitive, targeting the village as an enemy stronghold.

Isolation escalated through targeted attacks, assassinations, and travel restrictions. By 2024, access to fields was nearly impossible. The blockade aimed not just to control the village but to send a message: Kori-Maoundé’s defiance would not be tolerated. Its history as a resistance bastion—echoing the 1892 battle against French colonial forces on the Kori-Kori hills—fueled its refusal to negotiate. The village also became a haven for displaced persons from other areas, further straining its already precarious conditions.

the human cost: schools, fields, and livestock

Across these villages, schools were more than learning spaces—they symbolized hope, social cohesion, and the last tangible presence of the state. In Kori-Maoundé, Marébougou, and Saye, the arrival or pressure of armed groups led to teacher displacements, school closures, and student dispersals. The loss of education wasn’t collateral damage; it was part of a broader shift where administration gave way to religious or armed control. When schools vanished, so did futures.

The first blow of the blockade often struck agriculture. Inaccessible fields, burned harvests, and attacks on farmers crippled rural economies. In Marébougou, only plots near the village remained cultivable. Elsewhere, insecurity shrank arable land, forcing households to rely on external supplies—supplies that vanished under siege.

Livestock and cattle trade, vital complements to farming, also collapsed. Mass cattle abductions destroyed families, while weekly markets—lifelines for economies in Ségou and Mopti—became rare, dangerous, or inaccessible. Women, who often managed small-scale trade or market gardening, saw their autonomy shrink. The blockade didn’t just destroy incomes; it eroded the exchange networks that held communities together.

community bonds in the shadow of fear

Yet life under blockade was not only about suffering. In all three villages, solidarity emerged as a lifeline: food sharing, water pooling, aid for the sick, task distribution, and support for vulnerable households. In Saye and Marébougou, many spoke of strengthened community ties in the face of adversity. These solidarities did not eliminate hunger or fear but delayed, at least temporarily, the collapse of social fabric. They proved that villagers were not passive victims; they actively shaped their survival through local forms of protection amid state absence.

Marébougou, Saye, and Kori-Maoundé reveal that blockades in Mali are more than military tactics. They function as territorial control technologies, mastering roads, markets, schools, and social norms to reshape daily life. While occupying forces do not always take physical control, they increasingly dictate the rhythms of survival. Responses vary—forced surrender, prolonged resistance, pragmatic arrangements, or partial flight—but the question remains the same: how do you live when everything connecting you to the outside world—roads, fields, schools, markets—can vanish overnight? In Ségou and Mopti, the blockade doesn’t just cause shortages; it enforces a political order built on fear.