Mali villages under jihadist siege: survival by force and adaptability

The central regions of Mali have long endured blockades, a practice rooted in historical conflicts such as those of the Ségou State or the Caliphate of Hamdallahi in the 19th century. Villages once encircled and deprived of resources until surrender now face a modern, systematic form of isolation led by the Katiba Macina, an arm of the Group for the Support of Islam and Muslims (JNIM). This contemporary siege transcends mere military closure; it has evolved into a calculated strategy of territorial governance, imposing obedience through coercion rather than formal administration.

Anthropological research conducted in 2025 by the SIPRI and Recap networks highlights how blockades in regions like Mopti and Bandiagara—particularly in villages such as Marébougou, Saye, Kori-Maoundé, and the strategic Parou-Songobia bridge on National Road 15—disrupt mobility, agriculture, commerce, education, and social structures. The goal is unmistakable: to make life unbearable for those who refuse submission. This strategy weaponizes daily life itself, targeting pillars of rural society such as schools, markets, and livestock.

In these besieged localities, fighters impose what locals call a benkan, a term from the Bambara language usually associated with pacts or compromises. However, the reality is far from mutual agreement. Instead, it consists of unilateral demands: forced payment of zakat (religious tithe) on harvests and livestock, school closures, mandatory veiling for women, bans on music, and restrictions on social ceremonies. The local terminology masks an unequal power dynamic grounded in threat and violence.

Marébougou: when resistance collapses under pressure

Across Mali’s central belt, the pattern is consistent: suffocate to force compliance or resignation. Yet the intensity of isolation varies depending on local power dynamics. Where armed resistance is weak, blockades may lead to forced submission. Where self-defense groups endure, sieges tighten into prolonged ordeals, with civilians bearing the heaviest toll.

In Marébougou, situated in the Djenné district, resistance flared in 2021, as villagers rejected orders to close schools, enforce veiling, suspend markets, and seize agricultural produce and livestock. Their defiance stemmed partly from the presence of security patrols and a donso camp, reflecting a broader 2019–2021 wave of confidence in local defense forces—then seen as a grassroots form of counterterrorism. Some leaders, however, enriched themselves through cattle raiding and extortion, blurring the line between protection and predation. After a decisive defeat in October 2021, a total blockade was imposed for six months, reducing Marébougou to a survival struggle. Salt shortages—normally abundant—highlighted the extreme deprivation. In exchange for lifting the siege, villagers accepted a pragmatic survival pact: not a change of heart, but an adjustment to end starvation and restore minimal mobility for food and medicine. In return, social and religious life were reshaped under coercion.

The consequences of this defeat extended across the flooded delta, from Djenné to Macina in the Mopti region. The loss of morale emboldened the Katiba Macina to escalate pressure on neighboring villages like Sofara and Niono. Targeted assassinations of influential hunters—accused of collaborating with security forces and exploiting pastoral resources—further fragmented local resistance. In Saye, where the blockade intensified from 2023 to 2025, villagers rejected the benkan outright, asserting their identity as good Muslims and refusing external religious authority. Having already lost homes, livestock, and market access, they saw no value in capitulating to a system that had already stripped them bare.

Saye: humanitarian pressure as a weapon of surrender

The blockade in Saye cut off farmland, pastures, and weekly markets. Men were confined to the village perimeter; venturing beyond risked abduction or execution. Women, perceived as less threatening, could forage for food, firewood, and thatch—but even this fragile freedom came under the structural violence of siege. As Saye became a refuge for displaced villagers from 2023 onward, its population swelled, straining local resources. Food and medicine shortages grew acute, while public services—already weakened by the blockade and cut off from urban centers like Djenné and San—collapsed under the strain. The siege was not just about confinement; it was a deliberate creation of humanitarian crisis to break the will of the village.

In Kori-Maoundé, in the Bandiagara district, resistance has been steadfast since 2018 under the banner of Dan Na Ambassagou, a self-defense movement that refuses all dialogue with jihadist groups. Local authorities—village chiefs, imams, and mayors—maintain a hardline stance, leaving no room for negotiation. The blockade has grown increasingly punitive, targeting a village seen as an enemy stronghold. Its topography and the presence of armed defenders slow direct assaults, but not the progressive asphyxiation of civilian life. Displaced families flee to Bandiagara, Sévaré, or Bamako, while those who remain survive in increasingly precarious conditions.

Mediation: the fragile hope in dialogue

Even under extreme constraint, dialogue remains possible—when mediators exist. In Marébougou, neighboring mayors acted as intermediaries between the village and the Katiba. In Saye, no such initiative took root. In Kori-Maoundé, Dan Na Ambassagou’s influence blocks local mediation, and regional reconciliation teams remain disconnected from on-the-ground realities. This underscores a critical truth: blockades are not just military tactics. They depend on the presence and capacity of political, traditional, or religious intermediaries to transform armed confrontation into negotiation. Without mediation, violence persists.

Schools, fields, and herds: the pillars of rural life under siege

Schools are more than classrooms; they are hubs of social life, symbols of state presence, and promises of the future. In Kori-Maoundé, Marébougou, and Saye, the arrival of armed groups forced teachers to flee, closed classrooms, and scattered students. The closure of schools is not collateral damage—it signals the retreat of the state and the rise of alternative, often religious or armed, forms of governance. When an education system disappears, so does collective hope.

Agriculture, the backbone of rural economies, is the first casualty of blockades. Inaccessible fields, burned crops, and attacks on farmers reduce viable farmland. Livestock and cattle trade are equally devastated. Mass kidnappings of herds destroy families, while weekly markets—essential to local economies—become dangerous or vanish. Women, often engaged in market gardening, food processing, and small-scale trade, see their autonomy shrink. The blockade doesn’t just erase income; it erodes the social fabric that sustains communities.

Community solidarity: the invisible shield of survival

Yet life under blockade is not defined solely by suffering. Across the three villages, research reveals deep networks of mutual aid: shared food, water distribution, care for the sick, task-sharing, and support for vulnerable households. In Saye and Marébougou, many residents speak of strengthened communal bonds in the face of hardship. These solidarities do not eliminate hunger or fear, but they delay the total collapse of social life. They prove that villagers are not passive victims—they actively shape their survival, creating local forms of protection where the state is absent.

Marébougou, Saye, and Kori-Maoundé reveal that blockades in Mali have become a sophisticated technology of territorial control. By dominating roads, markets, schools, and social norms, armed groups reshape daily life—even without occupying every village. Responses vary: forced surrender, prolonged resistance, refusal to negotiate, partial displacement, or pragmatic arrangements. But one question haunts all: how to live when everything connecting a territory to the outside world—roads, fields, schools, markets—can be severed overnight? In the Ségou and Mopti regions, blockades are not just causing shortages; they are establishing a political order built on fear.