In the heart of central Mali, entire communities face a brutal reality: systematic blockades that choke off food, medicine, and hope. These aren’t mere wartime tactics—they’ve become a deliberate strategy to enforce control over territories that refuse allegiance to armed groups. The Katiba Macina, an offshoot of the Group for Support of Islam and Muslims (GSIM/JNIM), has perfected this method, turning local life into a battleground where survival itself is the prize.

Villages like Marébougou, Saye, and Kori-Maoundé now live under siege conditions reminiscent of historical conflicts, such as the 19th-century wars of the Ségou State. But today’s blockades are more sophisticated, targeting not just military resistance but the very fabric of daily existence—schools, markets, farms, and social freedoms. The aim? To crush dissent through starvation and isolation, forcing compliance under the guise of religious or communal pacts known locally as benkan.

forced submission in Marébougou

In Marébougou, the standoff began in 2021 when villagers rejected the Katiba Macina’s demands: closing schools, enforcing strict dress codes for women, and seizing livestock as “zakat.” Backed by regional security patrols and traditional hunters (donso), the community held firm—until their defenses collapsed in October 2021. The aftermath was swift: a six-month blockade cut off all access to food, medicine, and trade. Desperation set in. Salt, a staple resource in the Sahel, ran out. Markets vanished. The only option left was a forced agreement—one that ended the starvation but also reshaped life in the village.

Saye’s unyielding stand

Saye has taken a different path. Residents here refuse to bow to the benkan, even as the blockade tightens year after year. They see themselves as “good Muslims” and reject outside religious authority imposed by force. The Katiba Macina has responded with targeted violence, assassinating influential hunters who once led resistance efforts, burning crops, and seizing livestock. Yet, the village persists, relying on traditional leaders and youth groups to maintain defiance.

The human cost is staggering. Men are confined to the village perimeter, risking death if they venture into the fields. Women, though granted slightly more mobility, still face systemic violence as they search for food, firewood, and materials for their crafts. The blockade has become a tool of psychological warfare, overloading the community with humanitarian needs to break their resolve.

Kori-Maoundé: where resistance hardens

In Kori-Maoundé, the story is one of uncompromising defiance. Since 2018, this village has been a stronghold of Dan Na Ambassagou, an armed self-defense movement that refuses any negotiation with jihadist groups. The memory of colonial-era battles against French forces in 1892 fuels their resolve. Despite relentless pressure—roadblocks, targeted killings, and bans on farming—the village refuses to yield. It has also become a refuge for displaced families from neighboring areas, swelling its population and straining already limited resources.

Here, the blockade isn’t just an economic weapon; it’s a message. By strangling the village, the Katiba Macina aims to isolate and punish a community that embodies resistance. The result? A slow, suffocating collapse of daily life, forcing some to flee to larger towns like Bandiagara, Sévaré, or Bamako while others cling to survival in increasingly precarious conditions.

what’s at stake: schools, farms, and social fabric

The blockade’s impact extends beyond hunger. Schools, once a symbol of hope and state presence, have closed across these villages. Teachers fled. Children dispersed. The loss of education isn’t just an educational crisis—it’s the erosion of a future. Agriculture, the backbone of rural Mali’s economy, is equally devastated. Fields lie fallow, livestock is stolen, and markets are inaccessible. Women, who traditionally manage small-scale farming and trade, bear the brunt of these restrictions, losing both income and autonomy.

Yet, even in the darkest hours, communities find ways to endure. In Marébougou and Saye, residents share food, water, and labor to support the most vulnerable. These acts of solidarity don’t erase the suffering, but they delay the collapse of social bonds. They prove that survival isn’t passive—it’s an active, collective effort in the absence of state protection.

the role of mediation—and its limits

In some cases, mediation has offered a lifeline. In Marébougou, neighboring mayors helped negotiate temporary truces, allowing limited supplies to enter. In Saye, no such dialogue has emerged. The influence of Dan Na Ambassagou in Kori-Maoundé blocks any local mediation, and regional reconciliation efforts remain distant from the village’s urgent needs.

This highlights a harsh truth: blockades aren’t just military tools. Their success depends on the absence of alternative voices—political, traditional, or religious—that could shift the balance from violence to dialogue. Without mediation, the blockade becomes a self-perpetuating cycle of control and despair.

a new form of territorial control

The blockades in central Mali reveal a disturbing evolution. These groups no longer need to occupy villages to dominate them. By controlling roads, markets, schools, and social norms, they rewrite the rules of daily life. The result is a patchwork of submission, resistance, and flight—each village responding differently, but all paying the same price: a life suspended between fear and survival.

The question lingers: how do you live when every connection to the outside world—roads, fields, schools, markets—can vanish overnight? In Ségou and Mopti, the blockade isn’t just causing shortages. It’s establishing a new political order, one built on intimidation and the unspoken threat of total isolation.