How communities in central Mali face jihadist blockades amid hunger and fear

In central Mali, sieges imposed by armed groups have evolved from temporary military tactics into a systematic strategy of control. What began as punitive measures in conflicts like the 19th-century siege of Ségou or the Caliphate of Hamdallaye has now become a deliberate governance tool used by the Katiba Macina—an affiliate of the Group for the Support of Islam and Muslims (JNIM). This modernized blockade isn’t just about cutting off supply lines; it’s designed to suffocate resistance by making life unlivable for those who refuse to submit.

The consequences are devastating. Villages like Marébougou, Saye, and Kori-Maoundé in the Mopti and Bandiagara regions face collapsed economies, shuttered schools, and collapsing social structures. The blockade restricts movement, burns crops, and seizes livestock, pushing communities to the brink of starvation. In Marébougou, residents initially resisted the forced closure of schools and the imposition of religious dress codes, but after the defeat of local self-defense militias in 2021, a six-month blockade forced the village into a survival pact—one that came at the cost of autonomy and dignity.

forced submission or prolonged resistance

The approach varies depending on local dynamics. In some areas, armed groups allow limited humanitarian access to ease pressure, while in others, sieges are tightened to the point of total isolation. In Saye, residents have resisted the imposition of a benkan—a local term often used to describe a forced agreement—sharply rejecting demands for religious taxes, school closures, and gender restrictions. The blockade there has become so severe that women risk their lives to forage for food, while men face targeted killings if caught outside the village perimeter. The siege isn’t just about control; it’s a calculated effort to break communal bonds and force surrender.

At Kori-Maoundé, a stronghold of the Dan Na Ambassagou self-defense movement, resistance remains steadfast. The village’s geography and militant presence have slowed direct attacks, but the blockade is tightening. Access to fields is nearly impossible, and civilians are fleeing to nearby towns like Bandiagara or Sévaré. The siege sends a message: defiance will be met with starvation and displacement. Yet, even here, the memory of past resistance—against both jihadists and colonial forces—fuels determination to avoid negotiation at all costs.

when schools, farms, and livestock vanish

The blockade’s impact isn’t just economic; it’s existential. Schools, once a symbol of hope and state presence, have closed across the region. Teachers have fled, and children are left without education—a loss that echoes far beyond the classroom. Agriculture, the backbone of rural life, is crippled. Fields lie fallow as farmers are attacked or forced to abandon their land. Livestock, a key source of income and food security, is stolen or slaughtered, leaving families destitute. Markets, where women trade produce and crafts, are either inaccessible or destroyed. The blockade doesn’t just impoverish; it erodes the social fabric that holds communities together.

Yet, amid the devastation, solidarity persists. In Marébougou and Saye, neighbors share food, water, and medical supplies. Women organize to collect firewood and weave mats, while men risk their lives to retrieve essentials. These acts of resilience aren’t just survival strategies; they’re defiance against the blockade’s intended goal: to reduce people to passive victims. Communities are fighting back—not with weapons, but with mutual aid.

mediation in the shadow of violence

Can dialogue break the siege? In some cases, yes. Local leaders, imams, or even neighboring mayors have brokered limited agreements, allowing restricted access to markets or medical supplies. But these efforts are fragile. In Kori-Maoundé, the presence of Dan Na Ambassagou’s hardline leadership has blocked mediation entirely. Regional reconciliation teams, tasked with easing tensions, often find their efforts stymied by the realities on the ground. Without trustworthy intermediaries, the blockade’s grip only tightens.

The blockade in central Mali is no longer just a military tactic—it’s a political weapon. By controlling roads, markets, schools, and social norms, armed groups are reshaping daily life. Villages face impossible choices: submit to an oppressive order, resist and starve, or flee into uncertainty. The question isn’t just how to survive the blockade; it’s how to preserve humanity when survival itself is under siege.