In the central regions of Mali, the tactic of the blockade is a haunting echo of the past. Historical conflicts involving the State of Ségou or the Hamdalahi Caliphate in the 19th century often saw villages encircled and starved into submission. Today, however, the Katiba Macina—an affiliate of the JNIM (Group for the Support of Islam and Muslims)—has modernized this practice. It is no longer merely a punitive measure; it has become a systematic method of governance through coercion, designed to enforce authority without a formal administrative presence.
Recent observations in the Mopti and Bandiagara regions, specifically in Marébougou, Saye, and Kori-Maoundé, reveal that these sieges go far beyond military closures. They paralyze movement, destroy agriculture, stifle trade, and dismantle education. The ultimate objective is clear: to make daily existence impossible for any community that refuses to bow to their will.
In many of these targeted areas, militants attempt to impose what is locally called a benkan. While the Bamanan term usually implies a mutual pact or compromise, the reality is a set of unilateral demands. These include the forced payment of zakat on crops and livestock, the closure of secular schools, the mandatory wearing of the veil for women, and the prohibition of music and traditional social gatherings. This local vocabulary masks a deeply lopsided relationship rooted in the threat of violence.
The fall of resistance in Marébougou
The strategy remains consistent across the region: suffocate the population to force either genuine adherence or weary resignation. In Marébougou, located in the Djenné circle, the breaking point arrived in 2021. For years, residents had defied Katiba Macina orders, protected by regular security patrols and a local Donso hunter camp. During this period, arming self-defense groups was seen as a form of grassroots counter-terrorism, though some local leaders also exploited the situation for their own gain.
However, this armed defiance was short-lived. Following a decisive defeat of the self-defense groups by militants in October 2021, Marébougou was subjected to a total blockade lasting six months. The isolation was absolute. Access to markets was severed, roads became death traps, and the supply of basic necessities vanished. Witnesses recall that even salt, usually a common commodity, became a luxury.
Ultimately, Marébougou accepted a survival pact. This was not a choice of conviction but a desperate move to stop the mounting deaths from starvation and to restore enough mobility to obtain food and medicine. In exchange, the social and religious fabric of the village was forcibly rewritten.
Targeted assassinations and economic strangulation
The consequences of such defeats ripple through the Inland Niger Delta, affecting Djenné and Macina. The Katiba Macina has followed military victories with a campaign of targeted assassinations against influential hunters and community leaders. These figures are often accused of collaborating with state forces or monopolizing resources like water and grazing land. By removing these leaders, the militants dismantle the local capacity for future resistance.
In Saye, the blockade intensified throughout 2024 and 2025. Unlike other areas, the rejection of the benkan here has been more persistent. Residents argue that as “good Muslims,” they do not need to submit to an external religious authority. Furthermore, having already seen their crops burned and their cattle stolen, many feel they have nothing left to lose. Resistance is organized through traditional authorities and youth organizations, but the cost is staggering.
Men are largely confined to the village perimeter; those who venture out risk being kidnapped or killed. Women, perceived as less of a threat, often take the risk of entering the bush to gather firewood, fodder, or materials for weaving. While this gives them a slight degree of mobility, it places the entire burden of family survival on their shoulders within the structural violence of the siege.
Humanitarian pressure as a weapon
The militants also use displaced populations as a tool of pressure. Saye, which has a long history of defiance dating back to the 18th century, became a sanctuary for people fleeing nearby villages. This sudden influx of refugees has created a humanitarian crisis, overwhelming local food supplies and medical services already weakened by the blockade. The siege does not just confine; it intentionally creates a state of overpopulation and scarcity to break the village’s spirit.
In the Bandiagara region, the village of Kori-Maoundé remains a bastion of the Dan Na Ambassagou self-defense movement. Here, the local leadership refuses any dialogue with JNIM. The response from militants has been a punitive isolation that has escalated since 2018. By 2024, access to farmland was almost entirely blocked. The blockade here serves as a message to other “enemy bastions.” For the residents, the memory of resisting French colonialism in the late 19th century still fuels their refusal to sign any pact of submission, even as conditions grow increasingly dire.
The collapse of social pillars
Beyond the physical hunger, the blockade attacks the future of these communities. Schools, once the most visible sign of the state’s presence and a promise of a better life, have largely vanished. As teachers flee and classrooms close, the withdrawal of the administration is replaced by the rigid regulations of armed groups. When a school closes, it is not just education that is lost, but the collective hope of a generation.
Agriculture and livestock, the twin pillars of the rural economy, are also in ruins. In Marébougou, only the fields immediately adjacent to the village can be safely farmed. Weekly markets, the lifeblood of Ségou and Mopti, have become inaccessible. This economic destruction hits women particularly hard, as they are often the ones managing small-scale trade and gardening.
Yet, in the shadow of the blockade, new forms of survival have emerged. In all three villages, residents have developed deep networks of mutual aid. Sharing water, pooling food, and caring for the vulnerable have become daily acts of resistance. These solidarities do not end the fear or the hunger, but they prevent the total collapse of the social fabric.
The blockades in Mali are more than a tactic; they are a technology of territorial control. By mastering the roads and markets, JNIM is fundamentally altering how people live. Whether through forced surrender, prolonged defiance, or pragmatic arrangements, the question for these communities remains the same: how can a society survive when every link to the outside world is held by those who rule through fear?
