In the heart of central Mali, blockades have become a grim reality reshaping lives. From the battlefields of the Ségou State in the 19th century to today’s confrontations, villages have endured encirclement, severed supply lines, and relentless pressure. Yet the contemporary siege tactics deployed by armed groups, particularly the Katiba Macina affiliated with the Group for the Support of Islam and Muslims (JNIM), represent a calculated evolution of this strategy. No longer mere military maneuvers, these blockades have transformed into instruments of territorial control, where survival itself becomes a bargaining chip.
The consequences ripple through every aspect of daily life. In villages like Marébougou, Saye, and Kori-Maoundé, the blockade isn’t just a physical barrier—it stifles mobility, cripples agriculture, halts trade, and dismantles education. The term *benkan*, borrowed from the Bamanan language, masks the harsh truth: these are not negotiations but unilateral impositions. Forced payments of *zakat* on harvests, closure of schools, mandatory veiling for women, and bans on music and social gatherings are presented as religious or social compromises. Yet behind the rhetoric lies a reality of coercion, where resistance invites punishment.
Marébougou: a defiance met with starvation
In 2021, Marébougou’s refusal to submit to Katiba Macina’s demands sparked a brutal response. The village rejected closures of schools, mandatory veiling, and agricultural levies, buoyed by the presence of security patrols and a *donso* camp. However, the resistance was short-lived. After the village defense groups were defeated in October 2021, a total blockade was imposed for six months. Markets vanished, roads became death traps, and fields lay barren. The blockade wasn’t just about control—it was a siege designed to break wills through hunger. Locals recount shortages so severe that even salt, a staple commodity, became scarce.
The aftermath extended beyond Marébougou. Nearby localities like Sofara and Macina faced intensified pressure, with targeted assassinations of influential hunters accused of collaborating with security forces. These figures, once seen as protectors, became targets, accused of exploiting resources and undermining the armed group’s authority. The blockade’s ripple effects forced a wave of displacement toward cities like Djenné, San, and Bamako, leaving villages emptied and economies in ruins.
Saye: defiance amid isolation
Saye’s story contrasts sharply with Marébougou’s surrender. The village, with its deep-rooted Islamic traditions, rejected the *benkan* outright, refusing to bow to an external religious authority. Residents argued they were already stripped of their livelihoods—burned crops, stolen livestock, and severed market access had left little to lose. Instead, they turned to traditional leaders, youth organizations, and *donso* fighters to organize resistance. Yet isolation took its toll. Men dared not venture beyond village limits, risking abduction or death. Women, though granted limited mobility, navigated a landscape of structural violence, fetching firewood and food under constant threat.
The blockade’s cruelty lay in its amplification of humanitarian needs. Saye became a refuge for displaced villagers from surrounding areas, swelling its population and straining already scarce resources. Food and medicine shortages intensified, public services collapsed, and the village’s historic defiance transformed into a humanitarian crisis. The siege wasn’t just about control—it was a deliberate strategy to overwhelm Saye until submission became the only option.
Kori-Maoundé: where memory fuels resistance
In Kori-Maoundé, resistance is not just a choice—it’s a legacy. Since 2018, the village has stood firm against dialogue with Katiba Macina, aligned with Dan Na Ambassagou’s hardline stance. The blockade here is punitive, targeting a community that sees itself as a bastion of defiance against both armed groups and historical oppression. The memory of the 1892 Battle of Kori-Kori, where French colonial forces clashed with local warriors, fuels a collective refusal to negotiate. Yet the cost is steep. Fields lie fallow, access to water is restricted, and civilian survival hinges on fleeing to Bandiagara, Sévaré, or Bamako. The blockade doesn’t just starve bodies—it erodes hope.
Schools, fields, and livestock: the pillars of survival
The blockade’s most insidious weapon is its attack on the foundations of rural life. Schools, once symbols of progress and state presence, are shuttered as teachers flee. Agriculture, the lifeblood of communities, withers under restricted access and burned crops. Livestock, the pride of herders, is stolen or slaughtered, while weekly markets—the lifelines of trade—become battlegrounds. Women, often the backbone of local economies through small-scale farming and trade, see their autonomy shrink. The blockade doesn’t just destroy livelihoods—it dismantles the social fabric that holds communities together.
Yet in the face of such devastation, solidarity emerges as a lifeline. In all three villages, residents recount stories of shared meals, pooled water, and collective labor. These acts of mutual support, while temporary, delay the collapse of social structures. They reveal a truth often overlooked: civilians are not passive victims. They are active participants in their survival, forging local solutions where the state’s presence has failed.
The blockade as a tool of governance
The Katiba Macina’s blockade strategy transcends military tactics. It is a form of governance by coercion, where control is exerted not through formal administration but through fear and deprivation. By mastering roads, markets, schools, and social norms, armed groups reshape daily life, influencing populations even when they don’t occupy villages. The blockade’s power lies in its unpredictability—today, a road is open; tomorrow, it’s a death trap. This uncertainty paralyzes life, leaving communities in a state of perpetual siege.
In central Mali, the blockade is more than a tactic—it is a silent war on civilians. Villages like Marébougou, Saye, and Kori-Maoundé embody the struggle to endure under such conditions. Their stories are not just about hunger or violence; they are about the erosion of autonomy, the collapse of institutions, and the desperate search for a way forward. The question they ask is universal: How does one live when every connection to the outside world can be severed in an instant? The answer, for now, lies in resilience—and the fragile hope that the siege will one day lift.
