Central Mali’s villages have long endured blockades, but the rise of the Katiba Macina—affiliated with the Group for the Support of Islam and Muslims (Jnim)—has transformed this tactic into a systematic tool of control. Unlike past sieges, which aimed to force surrender through isolation, today’s blockades are strategic instruments of governance, enforcing obedience without formal administrative structures.

Our field research in regions like Mopti and Bandiagara—covering areas such as Marébougou, Saye, Kori-Maoundé, and the Parou-Songobia bridge—reveals how these blockades disrupt mobility, agriculture, education, and social life. The goal is clear: to make resistance untenable by strangling communities into submission.

Imposing the benkan: a false compromise

Locals describe the benkan as a pact, but in reality, it’s a set of unilateral demands: forced payment of zakat (Islamic alms), school closures, mandatory veiling for women, bans on music, and restrictions on social gatherings. The language of negotiation masks a reality of coercion, where survival depends on compliance.

Marébougou: a brief stand against the tide

In 2021, residents of Marébougou (a village in the Djenné circle) rejected these demands, defying orders to close schools and enforce strict dress codes. Their resistance, bolstered by local defense groups and sporadic security patrols, was short-lived. After clashes with Jnim fighters in October 2021, the village faced a six-month total blockade. Markets vanished, roads became death traps, and fields lay fallow. Survival came at a cost: acceptance of the benkan to end starvation and restore some semblance of normalcy.

Beyond Marébougou, the defeat of local defense groups emboldened the Katiba Macina to tighten its grip on neighboring areas like Sofara and Macina. Targeted assassinations of influential hunters—accused of collaborating with security forces—further destabilized communities, leaving civilians to bear the brunt of the violence.

Saye: defiance amid starvation

In Saye, resistance to the benkan has been fierce. Residents, who view themselves as devout Muslims, refuse to submit to externally imposed religious authority. Their defiance stems from losses already inflicted by Jnim: burned crops, stolen livestock, and severed market access. Women, often less targeted by armed groups, risk raids to gather food and firewood, but even this fragile freedom comes with harrowing conditions.

The blockade has turned Saye into a humanitarian pressure cooker. Displaced populations from surrounding villages have flooded in, straining local resources. With no access to nearby urban centers like Djenné or San, even basic supplies—food, medicine, and fuel—have become scarce. The siege isn’t just about confinement; it’s a calculated effort to break the community’s spirit.

Kori-Maoundé: a village that refuses to yield

In Kori-Maoundé, the Dan Na Ambassagou—an armed self-defense group—has dug in its heels, rejecting any dialogue with Jnim. Since 2018, the village has faced relentless attacks, assassinations, and restrictions on movement. Fields lie untended, and traders risk execution if caught transporting goods. The blockade here isn’t just punishment; it’s a message to other resistance strongholds.

Kori-Maoundé’s defiance is rooted in history. The village, a refuge during colonial resistance in 1892, clings to its identity as a bastion of hardline opposition. Civilians pay the price: many flee to cities like Bandiagara, Sévaré, or Bamako, while those who stay endure worsening conditions.

Schools, farms, and the erosion of daily life

In all three villages, schools are more than classrooms—they’re symbols of state presence and hope for the future. Their closure doesn’t just halt education; it signals the withdrawal of state authority, leaving a vacuum filled by armed or religious groups. Similarly, agriculture—the backbone of rural economies—has collapsed under the blockade. Fields are inaccessible, crops are burned, and livestock is stolen, forcing families to rely on dwindling external supplies.

Women, often the backbone of local economies through small-scale trade and farming, see their autonomy shrink. Weekly markets, vital for trade in Ségou and Mopti, disappear or become battlegrounds. The blockade doesn’t just destroy livelihoods; it dismantles the social fabric that once held communities together.

Community resilience: the last line of defense

Yet, amid the suffering, communities are finding ways to endure. Shared meals, pooled resources, and mutual aid have become lifelines. In Saye and Marébougou, residents describe a strengthened sense of solidarity, a testament to their refusal to surrender entirely. These acts of resilience aren’t just coping mechanisms; they’re active forms of resistance against the siege’s dehumanizing effects.

The blockade as a tool of control

Marébougou, Saye, and Kori-Maoundé illustrate how blockades have evolved from military tactics into tools of territorial governance. By controlling roads, markets, schools, and social norms, armed groups like the Katiba Macina shape the contours of daily life. They may not occupy every village, but their influence seeps into the most mundane aspects of existence.

From forced surrender to prolonged resistance, the responses vary, but the question remains the same: How do communities survive when every link to the outside world—roads, fields, schools, markets—can be severed at a moment’s notice? In central Mali, blockades aren’t just creating shortages; they’re imposing a new order, one built on fear.