How did Mali get here? (Part 3: Anti-imperialist explanations)

To account for the extent of state decay and recent political violence in Mali, Western journalists, diplomats and security specialists have often focused on proximate causes (e.g., Islamic radicalization, state corruption, the spread of small arms, and inter-ethnic tensions) with little attention to historical, social, and political-economic context. Better informed accounts by Malians and others seek to identify the long-term processes behind this instability. While these various narratives converge at points, for analytical purposes I will put them in three separate categories: anti-imperialist, geopolitical, and institutionalist. Each category has shaped policy and scholarly discourse regarding Mali, yet none can entirely illuminate Mali’s situation on its own. This post focuses on anti-imperialist analyses.

Russian charter image

Image from a Russian translation of the “Mande Charter

From the late colonial period, a strong anti-imperialist perspective informed Mali’s ruling elite. Emerging during the quest for liberation from French rule, this perspective led US-RDA intellectuals to pursue a strong central state and national identity (cohered through a single political party) at home and pan-Africanist policies abroad. Wary of neocolonial designs on the region, Malian nationalists in the 1960s accused France of opposing their new country’s full sovereignty by sabotaging its federation with Senegal and inciting the Tuareg to revolt (I. Sidibé, 2005; Lecocq, 2010; Mann, 2015). Certain Tuareg and Arab chiefs’ advocacy of continued French rule, e.g. through the OCRS (see part 1 of this series), constituted an unpardonable offense in Malian nationalist eyes (N. Keita, 2005). For its part the French government hoped to maintain troops on Malian soil, notably at the Tessalit garrison, after independence to support its ongoing war in Algeria. This desire fueled mistrust and resistance among Malian leaders, who fervently supported Algerian independence (Joly, 2013). Modibo Keita’s regime celebrated the final departure of French forces from Mali in September 1961 as a signature achievement for the young nation, and held up Mali’s new army as a symbol of national dignity (Mann, 2003).



Seydou Badian Kouyaté

Suspicion of French motives has shaped Malian politics and national identity ever since. More than half a century after Mali’s independence, the specter of French meddling in Mali’s internal affairs still aroused public fears (Koné, 2017). Denunciation of Western economic exploitation of Africa features in jihadi as well as nationalist propaganda. Anti-imperialist narratives represent Mali’s “Tuareg problem” as primarily exogenous and Tuareg rebels not only as feudal racists but also puppets of neocolonialism. Asked in 2015 how Modibo Keita’s government handled the 1963 Tuareg rebellion, Seydou Badian Kouyaté–a former minister in that government–replied, “We went to war. That crisis was provoked by French colonists who had served in southern Algeria and some in northern Mali. Those colonists… pushed our brothers into rebellion.” In this telling, the revolt stemmed not from heavy-handed administration nor from the nomads’ history of resistance to state control, but from covert French manipulation.


Aminata Dramane Traoré, altermondialiste par excellence

Malian anti-imperialism took on an altermondialiste tone in the 1990s, with activists such as former culture minister Aminata Dramane Traoré decrying neoliberal economic reforms as an affront to national sovereignty (Siméant, 2014). Once Mali’s crisis flared in 2012, she and other critics linked it to Western efforts to destabilize the country and region. “The West’s interest is for a central Malian state without real control over the northern part of its territory,” she asserted (Diop and Traoré, 2014: 141). Weeks after the coup, a group of Mali’s most prominent public intellectuals–including Traoré and Kouyaté–warned of the “planned recolonization” of the country and invoked the memory of the OCRS.

Anti-imperialist narratives sometimes nourish conspiracy theories casting Mali solely as a victim of a “great game” between global powers and ignoring domestic drivers of rebellion and state incapacity. Such theories were popular among Malian journalists and intellectuals. Malian officials, despite their own anti-imperialist sentiments, have generally refrained from openly accusing France or other foreign powers of interference. In one notable exception during a 2015 speech to Malian troops, IBK appeared to lend credence to reports in the Malian press of an arms embargo against the country. These reports accused Western governments, particularly France, of trying to destroy the country by preventing its military from rearming. Yet no embargo ever existed: the Malian government continued buying weapons from sources in Brazil, Russia, and elsewhere.

Malian nationalists’ concerns for their country’s sovereignty were both sincere and reasonable, though. French intelligence services had maintained close ties with Tuareg leaders (Marchal, 2013). With Mali’s once-vaunted army in disarray, over 4,000 French soldiers were deployed to Mali for Operation Serval (2013-14), followed by 1,000 posted there indefinitely for its successor Operation Barkhane. Operating out of sensitive bases including Tessalit (regarded by some, rightly or wrongly, as “one of the most geostrategically important locations on earth”!) and letting MNLA rebels control Kidal, even collaborating with them on the ground to hunt jihadi fighters, French forces only stoked Malian suspicions of their true purpose in the region (Notin, 2014; Wing, 2016). Many in Mali similarly saw the UN’s Mali peacekeeping mission, MINUSMA, as tainted by imperialist motives (Sabrow, 2017).


Operation Barkhane: Creeping recolonization?

Nostalgia for the US-RDA’s anti-imperialist ideals surged after the events of 2012. Some Malians blamed France for the 1968 coup, and lionized the late Modibo Keita as a martyr of neocolonialism. Political language regarding Mali’s present travails frequently echoed official rhetoric on Tuareg rebellion and imperialism from the early 1960s. Former prime minister Soumana Sako, for example, lambasted the 2015 peace accord signed by the Malian government, arguing that national reconciliation should not “condone impunity nor support the survival or resurgence of slavery-supporting feudal, racist, and obscurantist forces.” A political party in Bamako denounced a “vast plot to undo the Malian state as a unitary, democratic and secular republic.”

Such narratives thrive for good reason. As Chafer and Keese (2013: 5) noted,

conspiracy theories find fertile ground in the literature on Franco-African relations precisely because they have been dominated by secrecy. Moreover, France has in many cases done precisely what the conspiracy theories claim that it does–destabilize or prop up African regimes that are perceived as pro-French in order to further French interests.

Yet these and other authors find anti-imperialist suspicions of French influence overstated, as notions of a “French plot in the Sahara” often rest on unrealistic assumptions. Well before the 2012 crisis, Boilley (2005: 180) wrote that “a large portion of this fear was fantasy, ascribing to France interventionist designs that no longer operated through vague desires of political control like the OCRS, or the wish to unleash rebellions against the Malian central state.” France and other powers continue to defend their interests in Mali and elsewhere in the Sahel today, but their methods have changed since 1957.

Scholars have also challenged the nationalist assumption that Modibo Keita’s revolutionary regime was brought down by external forces, identifying strong internal factors behind the breakup of the Mali Federation, the 1963-64 Tuareg rebellion and the 1968 coup (e.g., Mann, 2003; Keita, 2005; Lecocq, 2010). Defenders of US-RDA rule tend to exaggerate its achievements and overlook its mistakes, not least in managing the economy. Ultimately, states Ibrahima Sidibé (2005: 351), “Malian socialism collapsed under the weight of its own contradictions.” Its corresponding anti-imperialist narratives have contradictions of their own which cannot be ignored.

Coming up in Part 4: Geopolitical explanations

Postscript, 30 May 2017: The anti-imperialist perspective is alive and well in Bamako’s political class, as evidenced by a press item on SADI party official Dora Cheick Diarra who explicitly traces Mali’s current destabilization to “the history of the OCRS.” Among the nationalist/anti-imperialist views expressed in this piece: “powerful invisible hands” profit from Mali’s destabilization to steal its riches; there was never a rebellion under Modibo Keita; and Mali’s supposed allies protracted the country’s emergency in 2012 by preventing the junta from dealing with northern rebels (though the words “rebel” and “rebellion” are tellingly absent from this piece, aside from the insistence that Modibo never faced any).

Offline references

  • Boilley, Pierre. 2005. Un complot français au Sahara ? Politiques françaises et représentations maliennes. In GEMDEV and Université du Mali, eds. Mali-France : Regards sur une histoire partagée. Paris: Karthala. 163-182.
  • Chafer, Tony and Alexander Keese. 2013. Introduction. In Tony Chafer and Alexander Keese, eds. Francophone Africa at Fifty. Manchester: Manchester University Press. 1-12.
  • Diop, Boubacar Boris and Aminata Dramane Traoré. 2014. La gloire des imposteurs : Lettres sur le Mali et l’Afrique. Paris: Philippe Rey.
  • Joly, Vincent. 2013. The French Army and Malian Independence. In Tony Chafer and Alexander Keese, eds. Francophone Africa at Fifty. Manchester: Manchester University Press. 75-89.
  • Keita, Naffet. 2005. De l’identitaire au problème de la territorialité : L’OCRS et les sociétés Kel Tamacheq du Mali. In GEMDEV and Université du Mali, eds. Mali-France : Regards sur une histoire partagée. Paris: Karthala. 91-121.
  • Koné, Kassim. 2017. A southern view on the Tuareg rebellions in Mali. African Studies Review 60(1):53-75.
  • Lecocq, Baz. 2010. Disputed desert: Decolonization, competing nationalisms and Tuareg rebellions in Mali. Leiden: Brill.
  • Mann, Gregory. 2003. Violence, Dignity and Mali’s New Model Army, 1960-68. Mande Studies 5:65-82.
  • Mann, Gregory. 2015. From Empires to NGOs in the West African Sahel: The Road to Nongovernmentality. New York: Cambridge University Press.
  • Marchal, Roland. 2013. Military (mis)adventures in Mali. African Affairs 112/448:486-497.
  • Sabrow, Sabine. 2017. Local perceptions of the legitimacy of peace operations by the UN, regional organizations and individual states – a case study of the Mali conflict. International Peacekeeping 24(1):159-186.
  • Sidibé, Ibrahima Baba. 2005. Les relations franco-maliennes à la recherche d’un nouveau souffle. In GEMDEV and Université du Mali, eds. Mali-France : Regards sur une histoire partagée. Paris: Karthala. 341-362.
  • Siméant, Johanna. 2014. Contester au Mali : Formes de la mobilisation et de la critique à Bamako. Paris: Karthala.
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How did Mali get here? (Part 2: From military rule to multiparty politics)

Introduction: This post is the second in a series reviewing Mali’s modern history and present trajectory. Subsequent posts will survey the distinct but overlapping analyses of Mali’s postcolonial development. As I work to improve my draft for publication, I invite readers’ comments and criticism. This post picks up in the late 1960s, where the previous one left off.

The coup that ousted Modibo Keita in November 1968 ended Mali’s period of revolutionary socialism. Under the presidency of junta leader Lieutenant (later General) Moussa Traoré, the government undid some unpopular US-RDA policies but kept a firm grasp on the economy and society and tolerated little dissent. Keita died in prison in 1977, and the regime’s detention of dissidents, including many former members of 131602370_title0h_872823418government, drew censure from abroad (Mann, 2015). Severe droughts in 1972-73 and 1983-84 left Mali dependent on foreign aid and government debt, intensifying historical patterns of emigration to neighboring countries and beyond. Migration for labor and trade had been a central part of the male life course for men throughout southern and central Mali for generations. From the 1970s, thousands of Tuareg joined this outflow and headed for Libya, where some joined the Libyan armed forces (Lecocq, 2010). In Bamako, the combination of neopatrimonial politics, elite predation of aid, and IMF-induced fiscal austerity further compromised the Traoré regime and damaged the economy to a degree scarcely offset by pragmatic policy decisions, such as abandoning the Malian franc and rejoining the CFA franc zone in 1984 (Baudais, 2015). Mali’s second Tuareg uprising began in 1990, and like the first elicited a harsh reaction from government security forces. 100,000 refugees fled the country, and many remained abroad for years (Lecocq and Klute, 2013). This rebellion, which saw the first explicit rebel demands for an independent homeland, continued through the mid-1990s.

Amidst the northern conflict, nationwide opposition to Traoré’s authoritarian rule culminated in massive street protests in Bamako. Traoré was forced from power in March 1991; Amadou Toumani Touré (known at “ATT”), the army colonel who toppled him, headed a transitional government which in 1992 organized Mali’s first democratic presidential election since the end of the colonial era. Thirty years of one-party rule gave 1059725637468way to a multiparty political system and new constitution. The new regime of President Alpha Oumar Konaré legalized private newspapers and radio stations, devolved some state powers to a new layer of elected local officials, and expanded public primary schooling from 28% of school-age children in 1991 to 62% in 2000 (Zobel, 2013). With the economy expanding by more than five percent annually, observers declared that Mali had achieved “a thriving multiparty democracy with competitive elections, a free press, better protection of civil liberties and political rights, less corruption, and stronger governance” (Radelet, 2010: 10).

This combination of growth and formal democracy, however, failed to foster sustainable, inclusive politics into the 21st century. Especially after the 2002 election of Amadou Toumani Touré as president, the government appeared increasingly unable to cope with att_mal_491620852persistent challenges. ATT adopted a “consensus approach,” bringing a host of political parties into his government. Without significant opposition, his government had little incentive to make hard political choices or enact meaningful reforms. Voter turnout was among the lowest in the region. Public schools became dysfunctional, social divisions widened, and state dependency on foreign aid increased (N. Keita, 2013; O. Sidibé, 2013; Charbonneau and Sears, 2014; Baudais, 2015; Bergamaschi, 2016). Public satisfaction with democracy plummeted from 63% to 31% of survey respondents while perceptions of corruption rose (Dulani, 2013). Lucrative smuggling interests, including the transit of South American narcotics across the Sahara, facilitated criminalization at every level of the state, from elected officials in the north to top-ranking authorities in Bamako, and magnified disputes between local communities (Ag Alhousseini, 2016). Sporadic, low-intensity rebellions in the north blended into criminal activity.

The 2011 demise of Libyan President Muammar Kadhafi and his regime sparked the gravest threat to Malian stability: Tuareg fighters returning from Libya joined forces with Tuareg groups in northern Mali to organize new rebel movements. One, the Mouvement National pour la Libération de l’Azawad (MNLA), fought for a secular, independent state within Mali’s existing borders. Another, Ansar Dine, fought for the establishment of Islamic law throughout Mali. Both groups allied with Al Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb (AQIM), which had been present in Mali’s north since at least 2006. These were the main entities responsible for expelling the Malian armed forces from the country’s three northern regions in early 2012. Soon after occupying northern cities and towns, though, the MNLA lost support due to abuses carried out by its fighters, leading to a complete northern takeover by jihadi groups imposing a harsh interpretation of Islamic law (Lecocq and Klute, 2013; F. Keita, 2014; Schulz, 2016).

Meanwhile the March 2012 coup exposed Malian democracy’s failings. Many Bamako residents saw it as divine punishment of a corrupt ruling elite, viewing elections as merely ”arrangements between those in power to perpetuate their hold on society and the economy” (Diawara, 2014: 111). Many greeted the coup as a chance to free the country from predatory rule and establish the true democracy that had eluded them since the 1990s. A return to the political status quo ante was, for them, out of the question. Neither the army junta nor the civilian transitional government officially succeeding it, however, could reunite the fractured nation.

In January 2013 French President François Hollande deployed French forces against an Ansar Dine- and AQIM-led offensive in central Mali. Operating alongside troops from IBK_509189415Mali, Niger and Chad, “Operation Serval” retook the north of the country, ending the jihadi occupation and enabling transitional authorities in Bamako to organize a nation-wide presidential election later that year. Ibrahim Boubacar Keita or “IBK,” a former prime minister, received over 77% of second-round votes.

Key problems persisted, however. Kidal, the country’s sole administrative region in which Tuareg constitute a majority, had been the scene of the 1963-64 rebellion and remained a stronghold of separatist sentiment; it reverted to MNLA control once French troops drove out jihadi groups (Ag Alhousseini, 2016). Kidal’s continued exclusion from central government authority sapped IBK’s domestic support. The deployment of UN peacekeepers from July 2013 brought only limited stability to the north, where jihadi attacks on UN, French, Malian government and civilian targets increased year by year. Violence soon spread from the northern regions of Kidal, Gao and Timbuktu to the central regions of Mopti and Segou. In 2015 Bamako was the unprecedented scene of jihadi terrorist tactics when gunmen targeted two businesses catering to Westerners, killing five civilians at a bar and 20 at a hotel in separate incidents.

These events’ potential to spur a “credible, state-led rethinking of the state” (Charbonneau and Sears, 2014: 11) was squandered in the years following IBK’s election, and Mali’s political establishment demonstrated neither the willingness nor the capacity to undertake serious reform. Implementation of a 2015 peace agreement brokered with separatists, mandating among other things a degree of self-rule at the regional and community level, lagged. As president, IBK outsourced difficult issues to associates rather than deal with them directly (Baudais, 2015). Public service provision remained poor, and in rural areas where the majority of the population lived, most government services never existed to begin with. For rural Malians, the crisis “merely exacerbated what was an ongoing empirical state failure” of long standing (Bleck and Michelitch, 2015: 26; see also Bleck et al., 2016).

This failure left the field open for non-state actors advocating alternative forms of political change, many of them violent. With government authority increasingly tenuous, a proliferation of armed groups in central and northern regions blurred the boundaries between criminality, insurgency and terrorism (Boeke, 2016). Conflicts between herders and farmers and between rival ethnic self-defense militias intensified throughout the Mopti region, with factions sometimes seeking redress for local grievances under the banner of jihad (International Alert, 2016; Sangaré, 2016). Jihadi groups gained strength in northern zones completely outside the control of the Malian state, the French military or UN peacekeepers (Ahmed and Carayol, 2017). For its part the international community was unable to impose a lasting solution, as the French and UN military missions lacked legitimacy in the eyes of the Malian public (Sabrow, 2017).

Creeping instability in Mali also laid bare the country’s “Tuareg question”: after multiple generations of Tuareg-led rebellion against the Malian central state, the place of Tuareg people within Malian society remained a raw issue. Neither the government nor rebel groups held much confidence in their 2015 peace deal (International Crisis Group, 2017). A significant portion of Tuareg–particularly members of high-status groups–held out for a Tuareg-dominated, self-governing “Azawad.” Down south, where most of Mali’s population lived, Tuareg irredentism was widely viewed as the root cause of the country’s calamities. “For many southern Malians, the MNLA and other Tuareg rebel fronts are responsible for the disastrous conditions all of Mali has experienced since the onset of this recent conflict,” wrote a Malian anthropologist (Koné, 2017: 56).

Before 2012, political violence was foreign to most Malians, but structural violence–in the form of poverty, political exclusion, and social hierarchies based on race, caste, gender, and education–was rooted deep in Malian life (Bayart, 2013). The country’s economy, dominated by the production of a few primary commodities (gold, cotton, cereals, and livestock), never brought about widespread prosperity despite sustained economic growth (Moseley, 2017). Agriculture, employing three-quarters of the population, remained precarious due to erratic rainfall, and food insecurity was rife. As in much of the Sahel, climate change and high fertility rates placed significant economic and demographic pressure on Malian communities. With the nation’s population approaching 20 million–four times its size at independence in 1960–the scale of the human drama playing out in Mali had never been greater.

Coming up in Part 3: Anti-imperialist analyses of Mali’s instability


  • Ag Alhousseini, Mohamed. 2016. Du conflit aux conflits, Kidal dans l’espoir d’une paix jamais retrouvée. FES Mali Policy Paper, Friedrich Ebert Foundation.
  • Baudais, Virginie. 2015. Les trajectoires de l’Etat au Mali. Paris: L’Harmattan.
  • Bayart, Jean-François. 2013. Les racines du mal : entretien avec Jean-François Bayart. Politique International 139.
  • Bergamaschi, Isaline. 2016. The politics of aid and poverty reduction in Africa: A conceptual proposal and the case of Mali. Global Cooperation Research Papers 16:5-33.
  • Bleck, Jaimie and Kristin Michelitch. 2015. The 2012 crisis in Mali: Ongoing empirical state failure. African Affairs 114:1-26.
  • Bleck, Jaimie, Abdoulaye Dembele and Sidiki Guindo. 2016. Malian crisis and the lingering problem of good governance. Stability: International Journal of Security & Development 5(1):1-18.
  • Boeke, Sergei. 2016. Al Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb: Terrorism, insurgency, or organized crime? Small Wars and Insurgencies 27(5):914-936.
  • Charbonneau, Bruno and Jonathan M. Sears. 2014. Fighting for liberal peace in Mali? The limits of international military intervention. Journal of Intervention and Statebuilding 8(2-3):192-213.
  • Diawara, Mahamadou. 2014. La crise malienne et la politisation des catégories populaires. In Joseph Brunet-Jailly, Jacques Charmes and Doulaye Konaté, eds. Le Mali contemporain. Bamako: Editions Tombouctou. 89-116.
  • Dulani, Boniface. 2014. Malian democracy recovering / Military rule still admired. Afrobarometer Policy Paper 12.
  • International Crisis Group. 2017. The Sahel: Mali’s crumbling peace process and the spreading jihadist threat. 1 March.
  • Keita, Naffet. 2005. De l’identitaire au problème de la territorialité : L’OCRS et les sociétés Kel Tamacheq du Mali. In GEMDEV and Université du Mali, eds Mali-France : Regards sur une histoire partagée. Paris: Karthala. 91-121.
  • Keita, Naffet. 2013. Y a-t-il un gouvernement légitime au Mali ? In Patrick Gonin, Natalie Kotlok and Marc-Antoine Pérouse de Montclos, eds. La tragédie malienne. Paris: Vendémiaire. 83-92.
  • Koné, Kassim. 2017. A southern view on the Tuareg rebellions in Mali. African Studies Review 60(1):53-75.
  • Lecocq, Baz. 2010. Disputed desert: Decolonization, competing nationalisms and Tuareg rebellions in Mali. Leiden: Brill.
  • Lecocq, Baz and Georg Klute. 2013. Tuareg separatism in Mali. International Journal 68(3):424-434.
  • Mann, Gregory. 2015. From Empires to NGOs in the West African Sahel: The Road to Nongovernmentality. New York: Cambridge University Press.
  • Moseley, William G. 2017. The minimalist state and donor landscapes: Livelihood security in Mali during and after the 2012-2013 coup and rebellion. African Studies Review 60(1):37-51.
  • Radelet, Steven C. 2010. Emerging Africa: How 17 Countries are Leading the Way. Washington, DC: Center for Global Development.
  • Sabrow, Sabine. 2017. Local perceptions of the legitimacy of peace operations by the UN, regional organizations and individual states – a case study of the Mali conflict. International Peacekeeping 24(1):159-186.
  • Schulz, Dorothea E. 2016. “Shari’a” as a moving target? The reconfiguration of regional and national fields of Muslim debate in Mali. In Robert W. Hefner, ed. Shari’a Law and Modern Muslim Ethics. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. 203-228.
  • Sidibé, Ousmane Oumarou. 2013. La déliquescence de l’etat : un accélérateur de la crise malienne ? In Doulaye Konaté, ed. Le Mali entre doutes et espoirs : Réflexions sur la Nation à l’épreuve de la crise du Nord. Bamako: Editions Tombouctou. 171-192.
  • Zobel, Clemens. 2013. Le Mali postcolonial : Perspectives politiques. In Patrick Gonin, Natalie Kotlok and Marc-Antoine Pérouse de Montclos, eds. La tragédie malienne. Paris: Vendémiaire. 57-81.
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How did Mali get here? (Part 1: Echoes of decolonization)

Introduction: Recently I’ve been drafting a brief overview of Mali’s modern history and present trajectory. The aim is to excavate the long-term political, economic, and historical underpinnings of Mali’s ongoing instability. This post is the first in a series on this overview; subsequent posts will survey more recent history and the distinct but overlapping analyses of Mali’s postcolonial development. As I work to improve my draft for publication, I invite readers’ comments and criticism.

The final years of French control over what was then called le Soudan Français or French Sudan set the mold for much of what followed independence. The legacy of seven decades of colonial rule continues to shape questions of governance, relations among various segments of society, and foreign relations for Malians today. Indeed, reading the Malian press in the early 21st century, one often finds that political discourse about key issues has scarcely changed since the late 1950s.

The government of France’s Fourth Republic (1946-1958) sought to preserve its influence over French possessions in Africa and elsewhere. It created the French Union, a political framework that bestowed certain rights upon erstwhile colonial subjects, including political participation and representation in the metropolitan National Assembly. On the heels of French military defeat in Indochina, a bloody war for independence in Algeria–France’s largest colony and Mali’s neighbor to the north–helped bring down the Fourth Republic and put Charles de Gaulle back in power. To forestall the breakup of its overseas possessions, in 1958 de Gaulle’s government created the French Community, granting limited self-rule to former colonies but maintaining the metropole’s power over their defense, diplomacy, and currency. A territorial body known as the Organisation commune des régions sahariennes or OCRS had been established in 1957 to keep French sovereignty over a vast expanse of the Sahara Desert stretching from the eastern borders of Morocco and Mauritania to northern Chad and its borders with Libya and Sudan (see map below). This territory was meant to guarantee French access to newly discovered mineral resources in the region, including oil and gas, as well as France’s nuclear testing site in southern Algeria (N. Keita, 2005; Lecocq, 2010).


Both the French Community and the OCRS were overtaken by events, however. The Community became defunct as former colonies opted for full independence. In 1959 French Sudan and Senegal formed a union called the Mali Federation, taking its name from the Empire of Mali which spread over much of the western Sahel from the 13th through the 17th century. The Federation fell apart just weeks after independence from France in August 1960, splitting into two sovereign republics. As for the OCRS, it was dissolved after Algerian independence in 1962 (Mann, 2015).

Throughout this gradual transition from colony (French Sudan) to member of the French Community to member of the Mali Federation to independent republic, a new generation of leaders in Bamako fought to assure their homeland’s emerging sovereignty. The Union 220px-keita_stamp_1961Soudanaise – Rassemblement Démocratique Africain or US-RDA, a pan-Africanist party headed by former schoolteacher Modibo Keita and drawn from a small cadre of civil servants educated in French colonial schools, became the dominant faction. In many respects the US-RDA stood firmly against lingering French control, opposing the OCRS in particular. After becoming Mali’s first president in September 1960, Keita demanded that French military personnel evacuate their bases on Malian soil (including Tessalit in the far north, which was useful for the war effort in Algeria). He forged military links with the Soviet Union and communist China, and later established a new currency, the Malian franc. In these regards Mali diverged from its neighbors such as Senegal and Cote d’Ivoire, which continued to house French military bases and retained a currency, the CFA franc, pegged to the French franc. Yet the Malian government made no diplomatic or economic break with France, and retained French as its official language (I. Sidibé, 2005; Joly, 2013). Moreover, Mali’s first constitution was heavily drawn from France’s 1958 constitution, marked by a strong presidency and highly centralized state authority (Baudais, 2015). While the people governing had changed, the same style of governing–secular, bureaucratic, autocratic and occasionally brutal–endured (I. Sidibé, 2005).

Perhaps the most significant resistance to Malian government authority in these early years came from northern Tuareg communities. Tuareg nomads had long roamed large swathes of the Sahara; their zone of activity straddled the borders of five newly independent states in the region. French colonial administrators had upended Tuareg society by banning slavery, dismantling local polities and favoring some clans over others (N. Keita, 2005). Despite, perhaps even because of, their repeated armed opposition to colonial rule, Tuareg people occupied a “privileged place in the French colonial imagination” (Lecocq and Klute, 2013: 425) and were exempted from forced labor, conscription and schooling requirements.

Like their French predecessors, Malian leaders in Bamako interpreted the hierarchies within Tuareg society as evidence of an essentially feudal political order marked by vestiges of slavery. The ruling US-RDA, guided by pan-Africanist and modernist ideals, worked to coalesce a unified Malian national identity and historiography, but did so largely around the dominant Mande cultures of the south (Lecocq, 2010; Baudais, 2015). In promoting this model of nationhood, Malian government officials saw themselves as opposing an unjust Tuareg social order that permitted light-skinned elites to impose their will upon darker-skinned vassals as well as other racially “black” peoples inhabiting the region (Lecocq, 2010). The US-RDA spoke out against the forces of “ethnic particularism” and “obscurantism,” not to mention the lingering influence of colonialism throughout the country. This struggle was especially acute in the north, where several Tuareg and Arab leaders had lobbied French officials in the late 1950s for inclusion in the OCRS instead of a new, black-led nation-state (N. Keita, 2005; Hall, 2011; Koné, 2017).

These tensions formed the backdrop of Mali’s first Tuareg revolt in 1963-64 when nomads in the northern Adrar mountains–probably no more than a few hundred in all–took up arms. Malian troops violently suppressed the rebels and abused civilians suspected of aiding them; trauma from this period remains seared into many Tuareg communities’ memories (Lecocq, 2010; Rasmussen, 2017). Suspecting a French hand in the uprising, Malian authorities courted the support of historically marginalized segments of Tuareg society to cement their control over the north (Boilley, 2005). Much of northern Mali would remain under direct military administration for decades.

Political power, marked by the authoritarian culture of commandement inherited from French colonial administrators, became increasingly personalized under Keita’s presidency. Official socialist rhetoric and economic policies proved divisive. The government was forced to devalue the Malian franc in 1963 and again in 1967, and cracked down on groups it accused of undermining its revolutionary aims, such as migrants seeking work abroad and merchants opposing import controls. Heavy-handed rule sapped the state’s legitimacy and stoked disaffection in segments of society and the state apparatus (Baudais, 2015). New troubles were brewing.

Coming up in Part 2: From military rule to multiparty politics

Offline references

  • Baudais, Virginie. 2015. Les trajectoires de l’Etat au Mali. Paris: L’Harmattan.
  • Boilley, Pierre. 2005. Un complot français au Sahara ? Politiques françaises et représentations maliennes. In GEMDEV and Université du Mali, eds Mali-France : Regards sur une histoire partagée. Paris: Karthala. 163-182.
  • Hall, Bruce. 2011. A History of Race in Muslim West Africa. New York: Cambridge University Press.
  • Joly, Vincent. 2013. The French Army and Malian Independence. In Tony Chafer and Alexander Keese, eds. Francophone Africa at Fifty. Manchester: Manchester University Press. 75-89.
  • Keita, Naffet. 2005. De l’identitaire au problème de la territorialité : L’OCRS et les sociétés Kel Tamacheq du Mali. In GEMDEV and Université du Mali, eds Mali-France: Regards sur une histoire partagée. Paris: Karthala. 91-121.
  • Koné, Kassim. 2017. A southern view on the Tuareg rebellions in Mali. African Studies Review 60(1):53-75.
  • Lecocq, Baz. 2010. Disputed desert: Decolonization, competing nationalisms and Tuareg rebellions in Mali. Leiden: Brill.
  • Lecocq, Baz and Georg Klute. 2013. Tuareg separatism in Mali. International Journal 68(3):424-434.
  • Mann, Gregory. 2015. From Empires to NGOs in the West African Sahel: The Road to Nongovernmentality. New York: Cambridge University Press.
  • Rasmussen, Susan. 2017. Global media and local verbal art representations of northern Malian Tuareg. African Studies Review 60(1):77-100.
  • Sidibé, Ibrahima Baba. 2005. Les relations franco-maliennes à la recherche d’un nouveau souffle. In GEMDEV and Université du Mali, eds Mali-France : Regards sur une histoire partagée. Paris: Karthala. 341-362.
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Mafiacracy: The Malian state adrift

ibrahim-boubaca-keita-ibk-logo-caricature-logo-corruption-213x300This post  was written by A. Karim Sylla of the MaliLink Investigative Reporting Group. A longer version in French, featuring additional coverage of irregularities in public finance and high-level government appointments, appeared on 24 January in Bamako’s Le Républicain newspaper.

Malian government bureaucracy costs taxpayers dearly. More than half the state budget goes to civil service salaries and administrative expenses–buildings, motor pools, telecommunications, trips, supplies, etc. For every franc spent on public infrastructure, roads, or schools, another 1.37 francs is spent on the bureaucracy. From 2010 to 2017, the Malian budget more than doubled, from 1.1 trillion to 2.27 trillion CFA francs (about US$4.5 billion), an increase of 106% that yet had little impact on key sectors like education and health, or even the effectiveness of government services. But worse than its poor productivity, the Malian state sector has become a place where funds meant for public investment either disappear or are misspent. Through fraud and theft of public funds, a mafia has taken over the public sector.

And this goes back a long time. In its 2007 report, Mali’s Bureau du Vérificateur Général (BVG) or inspector general’s office singled out the Ministry of Urban Housing for its spending on household goods:

Average annual « food expenses » reaches 34 million francs. Add to that 500,000 francs for buying soap, cooking oil and cooking utensils, the purchase of 2645 cans of Nido powdered milk, and some 3 million francs to buy 141 bags of sugar. This department’s food costs are clearly excessive.

CHU GT.jpeg

Why was the ministry buying cooking oil? Couldn’t that 34 million francs have been put to better use in the pediatrics department of Gabriel Touré Hospital? Civil servants buying themselves Nido milk with public funds while children die of malnutrition!

Fraud is now done in the open. According to the 2012 BVG report, in the Ministry of Mines:

Purchases made by the DFM [Direction des Finances et du Matériel] cannot be justified. For example, even though the department has only 23 HP printers, it purchased 813 ink cartridges worth for 52.29 million francs in just nine months. That quantity suggests that each printer used 4 cartridges per month. Moreover, some of the cartridges purchased did not match the type of printer used by the DFM.

Many BVG reports have come and gone, and nothing ever comes of them. Everyone blames everyone else; the executive branch accuses the judicial branch of foot dragging while the judiciary blames the executive or even the BVG. Meanwhile, fraud and corruption run rampant. The social fabric is indelibly stained to the point that nothing is shocking anymore, even at the highest levels of the state.

After a journalist asked whether it was normal for the family of Prime Minister Modibo Keita to get state-subsidized housing from a program designed to enable low- and middle-income households to gain access to new homes, President Ibrahim Boubacar Keita claimed that the prime minister, after loyal and honest service as a civil servant truly deserved this “gift” (six villas in all: one each for his wife and five children).

The omnipresence of fraud gives it a whole new meaning in public affairs. Ordinary citizens accept it as the norm; the courts rarely intervene, even when the abuse is excessive. Nevertheless, the case of the telecommunications regulatory agency stands out and demands an explanation.

Open-air fraud

The Malian Telecommunications and Postal Regulation Authority (l’Autorité Malienne de amrtpRégulation des Télécommunications et Poste or AMRTP) is charged with managing and regulating telecommunications in Mali. It oversees application of government policy, guarantees competition and protects the interests of customers. It also enjoys fiscal autonomy, and its resources come mainly from a 2% tax on telecom companies. That’s a lot of money: AMRTP coffers held close to 46 billion FCFA in late 2015. And this being Mali, such a sum generated considerable envy.

Earlier last year, the AMRTP hosted a visit by the Contrôle Général des Services Publics–one of many agencies in charge of seeking out irregularities and violations of financial procedures. Auditors finished their report in June 2016. This document, of which we obtained a copy, exposed instances of fraud and graft during the period 2012-2015. Among the examples of the regulatory authority’s questionable expenses are the following:

  • Organizing a summer camp abroad for the children of AMRTP personnel (cost: 494 million FCFA);
  • Buying 227 iPads, 80 iPhones and 100 computers for ministers, presidential staff, the National Assembly, and AMRTP personnel (cost: 468 million FCFA)
  • Communication expenses for the AMRTP’s administrative council (cost: 28 million FCFA)

How can the AMRTP spend 500 million francs on a children’s summer camp in a country where 43% of the population lives in total poverty, and where 2000 people die of malaria every year because they can’t afford a 500-franc dose of Maloxine? All told, the agency spent over a billion francs of public funds without justification.


The Toyota Landcruiser (Note: has only 2 front wheels, 2 rear wheels, 2 headlights and 1 windshield)

The reports of various oversight agencies show that the Malian state is being looted in a multitude of ways. Euphemisms such as “irregularities,” “managerial errors,” “discrepancies,” “non-collection of fees,” etc. boil down to just one thing: a fraudulent system kept in place to enrich certain civil servants at state expense. Some civil servants’ greed knows no boundaries. The staff of the Ministry of Mines surely wins the prize for sheer brazenness in this regard (BVG 2012 report, p. 89):

With respect to vehicles, maintenance records show, for instance, that for a single repair job, 150 parts were installed on a single vehicle [including] 3 windshields, 3 oil filters, 3 air filters, 3 fuel filters, 4 front shocks and 4 rear shocks; 2 windshields, 4 front and 4 rear shocks, 2 radiators, 4 sets of motor brackets, 4 crankshafts, 4 fuel pumps and 6 headlights were installed on another. Such cases have become common and recurring.

Such effrontery may seem amusing, but it’s the root of the problem. Theft doesn’t even bother to escape oversight–since punishment never materializes–and concentrates on extracting maximum funds from state accounts. The 2014 BVG report (the last one published) includes examples like these:

  • At the Roads Authority, some 11.8 billion francs simply disappeared, including 4 billion misallocated by a single individual (p. 106).
  • 667 million francs disappeared from the Office de la Haute Vallée du Niger (OHVN), including 183 million stolen by the head of marketing (p. 118).
  • At Gabriel Touré Hospital, the BVG found that the staff basically stole x-ray film worth 115 million francs; as a result of the shortage of x-ray film, the radiology unit stopped functioning for two weeks (p. 125).
  • In all, 1.4 billion francs disappeared from Gabriel Touré Hospital accounts from 2011 to 2014. This sum is the equivalent of the combined budgets of the public hospitals of Ségou (Hôpital Nianankoro Fomba) and Kayes (Hôpital Fousseyni Daou).
  • At the Centre International de Conférence de Bamako (CICB), where the controller set himself up as a bank teller for ministry of culture personnel, the public lost nearly 995 million francs (p. 131).

What future for Mali?

By our estimate, the Malian public lost 2.5 billion francs at the AMRTP alone with no outcry whatsoever. This is, alas, no isolated case; all government offices are involved. The problem lies in the very nature of civil service in Mali, where the least competent are named to strategic posts, not because of nepotism but to perpetuate chaos and facilitate fraud. Honest civil servants can never hold important positions for long. All Malians suffer from this problem caused by the few, the civil servants who haven’t grasped that a well-run Mali will benefit everyone, including them. The out-of-order hospital scanner affects everyone; the polluting car that nevertheless passes inspection worsens everyone’s respiratory problems; the poorly built road increases transport costs and the price of produce for all; the corrupt education sector undermines economic growth. We are all victims, and the damage is not only financial: we are witnessing the breakdown of society in which the extreme has become the norm.

The 2.27 trillion francs in Mali’s 2017 budget put the country at the forefront of the West African Economic and Monetary Union: only Côte d’Ivoire and Senegal spend more. Yet everything is lacking in Mali. Malians pay all sorts of taxes and fees just to support an administration that does not serve them. Despite the 106% rise in public spending from 2010 to 2017, can we truly claim to be better off? Slashing the budget by half would make it possible to lower the value-added tax from 18% to 9%, and everyone would live better except the bureaucrats who’ve grown accustomed to getting rich off the backs of peasants. The Malian taxpayer is the worst kind of sucker.

Postscript, 31 January: In a speech to his party this week, former prime minister Moussa Mara declared that “what weakens and handicaps [Mali] is, first, corruption, individualism and the unbridled quest for money…. Nobody is ashamed anymore of stealing, lying, or debasing oneself to get money or a position allowing one to get it.” Yet Mara’s party retains its position within the majority of President Keita, whose regime has done remarkably little to stem the tide of corruption described in Sylla’s article above.              – Bruce Whitehouse

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Africa comes to Washington

English novelist David Lodge once observed that professional conferences have become a modern form of pilgrimage. Much like medieval pilgrims, he wrote, conference-goers today “indulge themselves in all the pleasures and diversions of travel while appearing to be austerely bent on self-improvement.”


Pillars of wisdom in the Africanists’ house of pilgrimage

I remembered this observation while attending last week’s annual meeting of the African Studies Association in Washington, DC. For me, though, the pleasure lies not in the travel but in the encounters with fellow participants, both in and out of formal panel presentations, roundtable discussions and special sessions. Whether sitting in a hushed meeting room in the bowels of the Marriott Wardman Park, crossing the lobby buzzing with fellow Africanists, or sharing a meal with old and new friends who study the continent’s affairs, I gain invaluable opportunities to expand my horizons at this conference. Daunting as it may be, finding myself the least-informed person in a room is both edifying and rare. (Well, it’s rare here in the US. It happens to me all the time in Mali.)

Another aspect that draws me to the African Studies meeting is that it’s attended not only by academics like me but also by federal government employees keen to share their views and acquire new insights. You might spot a USAID bureau director alongside tenured political scientists on a governance panel, or bump into an intelligence analyst in the book exhibit, or listen to a fairly high-ranking State Department official trying to predict Trump’s policy toward Africa (upshot: nobody has a clue what to expect, but nobody’s expecting much.) Such exchanges allow me to keep believing that empirical knowledge still carries value outside the ivied halls of academe. For the time being, at least.

Mali was the natural focus of my interest throughout most of the conference. I heard presentations about labor and gender during the early days of COMATEX, about diaspora-led development in a Soninké community, and about critiques of polygamy in the songs of famous jelimusow (a.k.a. “griottes”); my own presentation dealt with monogamy rates in Bamako. Meeting programs have long featured such contributions based on Mali research. What was striking this year, however, was the number of talks examining much more dire subjects, including the loss of cultural heritage in Djenné and Timbuktu, the origins of the present violence in the north, and especially the weakness of the Malian government. One scholar described Mali as having a “Potemkin state” incapable of serving its people’s needs, while another characterized efforts to enhance rule of law as futile in a country where the ruling class has no interest in being held accountable. The Malian state, to use one colleague’s analogy, was like a house with no foundation, kept standing only by donors and a self-serving elite.

Such critiques are not new and have been articulated in recent years by some of Mali’s opposition activists and junta leaders. But they sound especially alarming coming from seasoned scholarly observers who tend to be in favor of reform, not revolution. The question raised by many of the presenters I heard, implicitly or explicitly, was “Can the Malian state be saved?” I did not sense much optimism among those present, and nobody I talked to sees a leader on Bamako’s political scene capable of turning things around. Has the time come, we wondered, to question longstanding assumptions about what the state in Mali ought to look like? Perhaps a centralized, dirigiste secular state has never been what most Malians really needed.

It’s worth noting that the participants in these conversations were, like me, mostly non-Africans. Yet Malian and other West African participants, some of them having flown in just to attend the meeting, were on the same page with respect to Mali’s outlook: the future appears bleak, and big changes to the political system are long overdue. The ongoing intervention by France and the UN to prop up the existing government structure may merely delay the inevitable day of reckoning.the-vert

Listening to all this as I sat sipping the cup of mint tea I’d purchased in the hotel cafe, I noticed it was branded “Touareg green tea” by a French company. No doubt some of my Malian friends would wonder, What makes this tea “Touareg”? Don’t the region’s Arabs, Sonrai, Fulani and Bambara also drink their green gunpowder tea with mint? Why has Dammann Frères appropriated Tuareg ethnicity to sell this particular tea (which, in any case, is probably grown in China)?

But these questions only reminded me of something I did not hear expressed at this conference: the idea that Mali should be partitioned and that Tuareg and other northerners should have an independent homeland. While many Malians I know assume that the Tuareg separatist cause enjoys strong support in Western capitals, I have heard no one in US policy circles express such support in public or in private. Nor have I ever heard anyone in these circles call Mali’s present borders into question. The South Sudan example suggests that partition, even when overwhelmingly desired by the local population, doesn’t address underlying political problems and may actually exacerbate them. I suspect that the assumption most of us at the African Studies Association make is that what ails Mali is not its boundaries but the way it is governed. This assumption is shared by a great many people in Mali, as Jaimie Bleck and colleagues have recently found. And questions of governance, both in Mali and more broadly, seem to be generating increasing discussion, even among scholars and policy specialists who used to care mainly about economic growth.

My African studies pilgrimage over, I felt compelled to reflect on what I learned from my fellow pilgrims. The outlook may be grim where Mali is concerned, but I take heart in the fact that growing numbers of us see governance as central, not secondary, to problems of poverty and conflict resolution. If this emerging consensus is indeed genuine, perhaps it will help people to usher in the necessary changes–both in Bamako and in Washington.

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Changement et désespoir : lettre d’un ami américain

Mon cher Lamine,

Tu m’as demandé, une fois les résultats du scrutin présidentiel américain connus, “Comment cela a-t-il pu se produire ? Comment la démocratie la plus puissante du monde a-t-elle élu un démagogue déséquilibré à la présidence ?”

Comme beaucoup de mes compatriotes, j’ai du mal à accepter cette nouvelle réalité. Ma réponse à la victoire électorale de Donald Trump cette semaine n’était pas seulement faite de déception ou de désespoir. J’ai plutôt eu le sentiment inquiétant que mon pays ne ressemblait  pas à ce que je pensais. « Sonné », envahi par le chagrin et l’anxiété, j’ai passé quelques jours comme paralysé par la crainte, incapable d’affronter l’énormité de ce qui se passait.

Et puis, je me suis rendu compte que j’avais eu ce même sentiment dans le passé, à Bamako, en mars 2012.

Tu te souviens bien sûr que nous étions tous deux à Bamako quand les soldats en colère ont renversé le gouvernement. Humiliés par les avancées des rebelles et dégoûtés par les élus, des soldats maliens, menés par un certain Capitaine Sanogo, ont pris le contrôle de l’état et ont mis fin à ce qui était considéré comme une démocratie multi-partite imparfaite, mais en marche. Quel étonnement que presque personne ne s’y soit opposé et qu’il y ait même eu des scènes de liesse dans les rues bamakoises. Les Maliens comme toi ont toujours marqué leur soutien au processus démocratique. Même si je savais que vous n’étiez pas satisfaits de vos hommes politiques (comme tout le monde d’ailleurs), je ne comprenais pas la profondeur du mécontentement. Je supposais simplement qu’on allait tenir bon jusqu’aux élections pour attendre une amélioration.

Ce que j’ai assez vite saisi, c’est que beaucoup, sinon la majorité des Maliens, se sentaient méprisés par un gouvernement et une élite politique qui se servaient sévèrement au dépens des citoyens lambda. Tu ne pensais pas que le système, qui ne semblait produire que de la corruption, un manque d’opportunité et une inégalité croissante, pouvait faire mieux. Te souviens-tu m’avoir dit que le vote du peuple ne comptait pas, que le prochain président du Mali serait choisi par une cabale d’hommes politiques en catimini ? Pas mal d’autres Maliens considéraient leur démocratie comme illusoire aussi. Ils ne pouvaient pas dépendre des initiés du système pour régler leurs problèmes et ils ont donc jugé le coup d’état comme un choc nécessaire au système.

Lamine, durant cette année, le sentiment public ici, aux E-U, présente des points communs avec celui qui prévalait à Bamako en 2012. Nombre de mes concitoyens se sentent exclus du système politique. Troublés par les changements démographiques et économiques du pays, ainsi que par les menaces sécuritaires à l’extérieur, croyant le système truqué, ils ont préféré un pari risqué sur un “outsider” à la fausse sécurité du statu quo. Que l’on ne se “Trump” pas : nombre d’entre eux ont également été motivés par la crainte… des immigrés, des musulmans, de ceux que ne leur ressemblaient pas. Beaucoup aussi n’étaient pas prêt à voir une femme comme chef suprême des armées (même s’ils ne l’admettront jamais). Pourtant, l’unique désir partagé par tous les Trumpistes, c’était le changement–parce qu’ils ne croyaient plus à l’alternative.

 Tu voulais savoir ce à quoi on doit s’attendre avec Trump. Personnellement, je pense que son administration se montrera aussi incohérente et sa direction aussi incompétente que celles du Capitaine Sanogo. Comme Sanogo, Trump communique d’une façon brusque mais habile, et il sait bien manipuler les craintes et les soupçons de ses citoyens. Comme Sanogo, c’est un homme obsédé de lui-même et de sa grandeur. Mais également comme Sanogo, Trump n’a aucune solution pratique à proposer ; il est aveugle à ses propres limites et il guette sans cesse ses ennemis (on dit qu’il en fait une liste).

Nous connaissons bien le sort de Sanogo : son régime s’est vite perdu dans le maintien du pouvoir et la commission de crimes haineux, pour lesquels il sera jugé fin-novembre. Nous connaissons d’ailleurs le sort du Mali qui ne vit que sous perfusion de la communauté internationale. Je parie que la plupart de tes concitoyens, même ceux qui soutenait Sanogo à l’époque, regardent son règne court comme une faute tragique. Peut-être les Trumpistes regretteront-ils aussi un jour leur choix (selon David Brooks, Trump “va soit démissionner, soit se voir inculpé d’ici un an”).

Ton pays et le mien, Lamine, ont des cultures et des systèmes de gouvernement très différents. La pauvreté et la faiblesse des institutions de l’état sont certes plus graves au Mali qu’aux E-U. Mon séjour au Mali m’a appris que la démocratie est une chose très fragile. Ce scrutin présidentiel m’a appris que, du point de vue politique, les Maliens et les Américains sont beaucoup plus semblables que je ne le pensais auparavant. Pourtant, malgré ce qui s’est passé au Mali depuis 2012, et malgré ce qui s’est passé aux E-U cette semaine, j’espère que le but d’une société stable et inclusive reste à la portée de nos deux peuples. Que Dieu nous protège de ceux qui nous écarteraient de ce but.



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Despairing for change: A letter to a Malian friend

Dear Lamine,

You asked me, once the outcome of the 2016 US presidential election was apparent: How could this happen? How could the world’s most powerful democracy elect a volatile demagogue to the highest office in the land?

Like many around me, I have struggled to come to terms with this new reality. My reaction to Donald Trump’s victory this week was more than mere disappointment or even despair. It was the unsettling sense that this country was not the place I’d thought it was. Stunned, chagrined, anxious, I went through the next few days with a numb feeling of dread, trying to process the enormity of what was happening around me.

Then it dawned on me: I’ve had this feeling before. Bamako, March 2012.

Of course you remember that time–we were both there when Mali’s ruling establishment was upended by angry soldiers. Stung by recent rebel advances and disgusted with their elected leaders, Malian soldiers led by a certain Captain Sanogo took over the government and put an end to what had been considered a functioning if somewhat under-performing  multiparty democracy. It surprised me that hardly anyone in Mali tried to oppose them, and that jubilant crowds even celebrated their takeover on the streets of Bamako. Malians like you had always said you were in favor of the democratic process. I knew you were dissatisfied with your politicians (who isn’t?), but I hadn’t realized just how deep the discontent ran. I simply assumed people would hold out for improvements following the next elections.

What I soon understood was that many, perhaps even most Malians felt they had been spurned by both a government and a political elite that had callously served its own needs at ordinary citizens’ expense. You had little faith in the system to deliver anything but more of the same–corruption, lack of opportunity, and rising inequality. Remember when you told me before the coup that voting was irrelevant, that Mali’s next president would really be chosen by a clique of politicians behind closed doors? A lot of other Malians felt their democracy was a sham, too. They didn’t trust political insiders to fix it, and they saw the coup as a necessary shock to the system.

Lamine, for the past year the public mood here in the US has felt a lot like the mood in Bamako back then. A great many of my fellow Americans feel left out by their government and political system. Troubled by economic and demographic changes at home and by security threats abroad, believing that the system was rigged, they decided to take a risk on an outsider rather than stick with the status quo. Make no mistake: many of them were also motivated by fear–of immigrants, of Muslims, of people different from themselves. Many also weren’t ready to see a woman as commander in chief, even if they would never admit as much. But the one thing all Trump’s supporters seemed to desire was change, because they didn’t trust the alternative.

You wanted to know what we can expect from Trump. Personally I think his administration will prove as incoherent and his leadership as incompetent as Captain Sanogo’s did. Like Sanogo, Trump is a brusque but skilled communicator who plays expertly on the fears and suspicions of ordinary citizens. Like Sanogo, he is a man obsessed with himself and his greatness. But also like Sanogo, Trump has no practical solutions to offer, is blind to his own failings and is constantly in search of enemies (apparently he’s keeping a list).

Of course we know what happened to Sanogo: his regime quickly got carried away with ensuring its own survival and committed some heinous crimes, for which he’s set to be judged later this month. And we know what happened to Mali: the country is now on international life support. I suspect that most of your fellow citizens today, even those who supported Sanogo back then, look back on his brief period of rule as a tragic mistake. Who knows, maybe a lot of Trump supporters will feel the same way someday (David Brooks thinks Trump “will probably resign or be impeached within a year”).

Your country and mine, Lamine, have very different cultures and systems of government. Mali certainly has far greater poverty and weaker state institutions than the US. My time in Mali taught me that democracy is a very fragile thing. This election taught me that, at least politically speaking, Malians and Americans are much more alike than I used to think. But despite what’s happened to Mali since 2012, and despite what happened in the US this week, I hope the goal of a stable, inclusive society is still within reach for both our peoples. May God protect us from those who would deny that goal.

A bientôt,


Postscript, 21 November 2016: Observers who have compared Donald Trump’s popular appeal and leadership style to those of African strongmen include Kenyan writer Patrick Gathara (in November 2016) and South African satirist Trevor Noah (in October 2015) who said “Trump is basically the perfect African president.”

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Kicking the foreigners out


Paris, 24 August 1996

Amid the recent hype over Donald Trump’s xenophobic rhetoric in the US, the anniversary of a landmark crackdown on unwanted foreigners has quietly slipped past. 20 years ago this week, police broke down the doors of the Eglise Saint-Bernard in Paris and “evacuated” the 210 undocumented migrants within, mostly West Africans. The brusque removal of these men and women from their supposed place of sanctuary mobilized political opposition to President Chirac’s conservative immigration policies and helped bring a leftist government to power in France the following year.

While the Saint-Bernard operation was dramatic and highly mediatized, it was by no means unusual in the experience of Malians who go abroad. In August 1996, the very same month France expelled dozens of Malians, with little fanfare the Angolan government began a massive roundup (dubbed “Operation Cancer II”) of foreign migrants on its territory. On 22 August, the eve of the Saint-Bernard raid, Angolan police surrounded a mosque in one Luanda neighborhood and detained everyone inside–again, mostly West Africans. The campaign lasted four months and led to the deportation of 4000 migrants, including 1000 from Mali. “Cancer II” and many similar mass expulsions of immigrants by African governments have scarcely garnered any attention internationally. Over the years Malians have been targeted by sweeps in countries including Burundi, Congo-Brazzaville, Congo-Kinshasa, Equatorial Guinea, Gabon, Libya, Mozambique, South Africa, and Zambia. (One passage in my book Migrants and Strangers in an African City details the expulsion of thousands of West Africans from Congo-Brazzaville.) Most recently, dozens of would-be asylum seekers from African countries were deported by the US government, while Algeria repatriated over 400 Malians allegedly bound for Europe.

International migration is important to Mali. It’s difficult to know how many Malians live outside their country’s borders; most Malians who move from one place to another remain within Mali (the 2009 census found 2.6 million of these “internal migrants” in the country, some 20% of the total population). Reckoning the number abroad is much harder. For years the Malian Ministry of Malians Abroad has estimated that four million Malians live outside the country, a figure that seems wildly inflated even if we expand the category of “Malians abroad” to include anyone having one or more Malian parents. The Malian government’s RAVEC administrative census identified 265,000 Malian voters living abroad, while the World Bank estimated over 360,000 Malian emigrants in 2015. Arouna Sougane’s chapter in Le Mali Contemporain (2014) entitled “Migrations et transferts : Un état des lieux” advances the figure of 328,000 migrants, or 2% of Mali’s total population, abroad; some two-thirds of them live in other African countries, while 17% (57,000 by Sougane’s reckoning) live in France.

Even if international migrants account for a tiny sliver of Mali’s overall population, they are vital to the country’s economy. The World Bank estimated that Mali received 200 billion CFA francs in remittances from these migrants in 2011, while the regional central bank put the figure at over 350 billion, worth more than US$750 million at the time. And these figures, which have climbed steeply over the past few years (see below), don’t even factor in funds sent through informal value transfer systems, widely used by the Malian diaspora. At least one out of five people in Mali resides in a household with one or more migrants abroad, and in those households remittances account for 11% of household spending. (The above statistics all come from the same chapter by Sougane.)

Mali remittances

Remittances to Mali (source:, based on World Bank data)

All told, it’s quite possible that Mali’s remittances exceed the level of official development assistance (“foreign aid”) Mali receives, once informal flows are factored in. And, unlike official aid, remittances tend not to get siphoned off by foreign consultants, administration overhead and elites in Bamako; they go straight to urgent household expenses and sometimes to community-level projects (schools, clinics, mosques etc.).

So you can see why Malians would be concerned about rising anti-immigrant sentiment in host countries. Civil society groups like the Association Malienne des Expulsées have been sounding the alarm for years, and the fact that Mali could wind up on a list of “excluded countries” under a Trump administration is surely not lost on them.

The study of African migration flows and the barriers they’ve faced offers lessons that we in the West might ponder as we consider how to respond to the perceived “threat” of migrant influxes in our own countries.

  1. Expelling foreigners doesn’t solve the problem. Migrants might make a convenient scapegoat for politicians during periods of economic distress, but they are almost never the cause of that distress. Foreign labor usually occupies particular niches of the host economy and cannot easily be replaced after the foreigners leave. Congo’s attempt to promote local entrepreneurs by driving out West African shopkeepers in 1978 flopped after only a few months, leaving prices high and shops bare until the West Africans started trickling back in. Labor migration is a response to structural forces (see Ruth Gomberg-Munoz’s ethnography Labor and Legality on the forces underlying Mexican labor migration to the US), and anti-immigrant crackdowns do nothing to address these forces.
  2. Mass deportation has terrible optics. As the French government discovered two decades ago, rounding up immigrants en masse tends to generate public opposition because it just looks heartless. As more and more people get caught up in the dragnet, spouses are separated and parents cut off from children. Citizens who think of themselves as humane cannot always reconcile their positive self-image with brutal measures carried out by their governments. I don’t know if Americans are ready to see ICE squads battering down their neighborhood church doors to expel the migrants sheltering inside. When we consider that the US is home to an estimated 12 million undocumented immigrants, it’s hard even to imagine the extr9780520282520eme measures necessary to remove such a population from the country.
  3. Walls don’t work. For years the European Union has spent millions to prevent migrants from crossing into its territory from Africa. Stepped-up maritime enforcement coordinated by Frontex has only forced migrants to take longer, riskier sea routes. Immigration enforcement tends to benefit security contractors and human traffickers by raising the price of passage, but does little to stem the actual flow of migrants, nor does it blunt their determination to migrate. (See Ruben Andersson’s Illegality Inc. on the absurdities inherent in “the business of bordering Europe.”)

From their own experiences or those of their kin abroad, Malians often recognize that discourse casting immigrants as the enemy is purely a political tool–what we might call a form of ethnocentric nationalism. As Yael Tamir writes, “Ethnocentric nationalist language hardens the heart and leads individuals to be impervious to others’ misery, destruction and expulsion, blind to injustice, hatred and death. Ultimately, when national struggles occur, only a few members of each nation participate or support hostile activities, but many more are guilty of crimes of omission.” These words are worth remembering as we think about how to respond to the foreigners in our midst.


Postscript,  24 September: On the US case, consider this op-ed from the Washington Post: “Mass deportation isn’t just impractical. It’s very, very dangerous.” This article concludes, “history has shown that crisis rhetoric, coupled with a racially tinged aspiration to mass deportations, has repeatedly led to episodes that harm some severely, perhaps even mortally, and is likely to bring shame on us all.”

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Is Mali heading back to the abyss?

July was a bad month for Mali. On the 12th, government security forces fired on unarmed demonstrators in Gao, killing three. The protestors were denouncing the establishment of interim local authorities–a provision of the peace accord signed in June 2015, but something deeply unpopular with many Malians, who see the entire peace process as phony and driven by powerful outsiders. When the state is deaf to citizens’ concerns and puts warlords and rebel leaders into positions of political responsibility, it’s worth wondering whether the only way to make one’s voice heard in Mali these days is by taking up arms.

One week later, an army post was attacked in Nampala, near the Mauritanian border. The attackers overran the base at dawn and looted part of the town before melting away; reports indicated that 17 Malian soldiers were killed and dozens wounded. Two different Islamist groups, Ansar Dine and the Macina Liberation Front, claimed responsibility. Given that the latter’s existence is considered dubious by some specialists, such claims should be received warily. But aside from the question of who carried out the raid, Malians are left asking what their army is good for–besides shooting unarmed demonstrators–if it cannot defend its own bases.


President Ibrahim Boubacar Keita paying tribute to soldiers killed in Nampala (photo: Maliweb)

Days after the Nampala attack, the precarious calm in Kidal was shattered by resumed fighting among armed Tuareg factions, in a further sign of the unraveling of the internationally brokered peace process underway since 2013. An unknown number of combatants and civilians were killed. (Sidiki Guindo’s GISSE survey firm has issued a recent report, funded by international organizations including the World Bank, on poverty, well being and perceptions of change among residents of northern Mali. Most northerners reported not seeing any attempt by the Malian state to restore infrastructure or services in their communities, and of course Kidal has had no Malian administration, even symbolic, since May 2014.)

While Bamako has been generally calm for months, the city has its own problems. On 30 July a near riot reportedly occurred in the Dibida neighborhood following municipal authorities’ campaign of déguerpissement (demolition of supposedly illegal structures and businesses). This unrest came amid a deepening sense of disappointment–about the Gao shootings, about the interim authorities, about the government’s inability to create jobs. In response to the above affronts, all the government has managed to do is extend Mali’s official state of emergency to March 2017. To quote rapper Tal B, money’s not circulating, the people are angry, there are no jobs.

The state is reduced to its coercive powers: ordinary citizens get no carrots, only sticks. Consider Tal B’s video for his song “Chicottement,” in which a teacher has his students conjugate the French verb chicotter (to whip).

It’s hard to argue with the depressing conclusions of Joseph Brunet-Jailly, who wrote in a recent blog post: “There has been no reconstruction of the state because there is no political plan.” There was a moment, two or three years ago following the installation of an elected government, when a genuine re-boot of Mali’s state apparatus seemed possible. Whether due to lack of political will or lack of means, that never happened, leaving Malians stuck with essentially the same undemocratic, dysfunctional political system they lived under when their country’s crisis erupted in 2012. And, as Brunet-Jailly points out, Mali’s international partners have refused to acknowledge the true nature and depth of this crisis.

All this is reminiscent of what happened in the months leading up to Bamako’s March 2012 coup d’état. The massacre of Malian troops (Aguel Hoc in 2012, Nampala in 2016) lays bare the state’s fundamental vulnerability; public frustration boils over; the president is powerless to act. The dire mood and deep distrust of government authorities that prevailed in early 2012 look a lot like what we’re seeing now.

The main difference this time, of course, is that thousands of UN and French troops are on Malian soil and are unlikely to stand by while mutinous soldiers or unruly demonstrators attempt to take power into their own hands.

A number of seasoned political actors and observers in Mali, from Tiébilé Dramé to Issa Ndiaye, have called for concertations nationales–a complete rethinking of the country’s  system of government and political representation. This is what the junta and their hotheaded supporters claimed to want four years ago, when half the country was under rebel control. In light of the post-1991 system’s persistent failure to reform itself in the intervening period, however, perhaps it’s time for such a dramatic step. Would donor governments support it? Or are their interests being served somehow by Mali’s prevailing paralysis and disorder? This question is weighing on a great many Malian minds as their country edges closer to the brink.

Postscript, 3 August 2016: Ansar Dine has posted a video showing what it claims are five Malian soldiers captured during the raid on Nampala. This revelation, compounded by the fact that two soldiers previously reported dead turned up unharmed after the attack, leaves the true Nampala death toll unclear. The defense ministry in Bamako has stated that six of its soldiers are missing.

Postscript, 18 August 2016: In another sign of popular discontent, Bamako youths protested yesterday against the detention of activist and radio host Mohamed “Ras” Bathily (who was interviewed for this blog in 2012). According to Mali’s chief prosecutor, Bathily was detained on suspicion of violating public morality and demoralizing Malian troops; he had recently criticized the government’s handling of the country’s ongoing jihadi insurgency. At least one protestor was reportedly shot dead by police, and social media networks including FaceBook and Twitter went dead in Bamako–though the government denies cutting them.


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Getting a read on Serval

From January 2013 through July 2014, the French military carried out on Malian territory a vast intervention codenamed Opération Serval. It has been reputed to be the largest unilateral overseas deployment of France’s armed forces since the Algerian war ended in 1962. The video below, an hour-long “documentary” by the French defense ministry, offers the official line on Serval, with its goal of “ending terrorist offensives, restoring Mali’s territorial integrity, and protecting 5000 French expatriates”; with gravel and gravitas, the narrator describes the operation as “simultaneously a formidable air-to-ground campaign, an immense logistical challenge, and an incredible ground maneuver.”

The video makes an effective tool for propaganda and recruiting purposes. But two years after Serval’s official end, how else might we remember the operation, what was it really about, and what can we learn from written accounts of it? Books germane to these questions have been published since 2014 by an American security analyst (Christopher Chivvis), a Serval commander (General Bernard Barrera), and a French military affairs author (Jean-Christophe Notin). None of the authors is a Mali specialist, but they can tell us a great deal about the international angles of Mali’s crisis.

Chivvis’s study (Cambridge University Press, 2016) offers the broadest and most positive assessment of Serval, detailing how Mali’s political and security crisis unfolded along with the international The French War on Al Qa'ida in Africapolitical dimensions of French intervention. Chivvis lauds France’s intervention in Mali as an effective, cheap, and “politically saleable” strategy to defeat terrorist groups on the ground. He notes that Serval cost France less than $1 billion through the end of 2013, compared to $745 billion spent on coalition operations in Afghanistan through 2014 and $823 billion in Iraq through 2012. Serval’s peak force-to-population ratio was just 0.7 troops per 1000 people in the host country population — far lower than for operations in Afghanistan (4.9 per thousand) and Iraq (6.4 per thousand). “Serval demonstrates that even a relatively small force can achieve military objectives decisively enough to have a positive impact on the broader strategic and political picture,” Chivvis concludes, hinting that France’s unilateral action in Mali might be the shape of things to come. In Africa, where “jihadist groups seem destined to remain a malignant growth for many years,” he suggests that Western militaries should perhaps be less risk-averse and more proactive in the future.

The account by General Barrera (Seuil, 2015) has a far narrower scope, being primarily the author’s journal for the period from his unit’s frantic mobilization in January 2013 until its return to France some four months later. Barrera offers glimpses of his own professional background (postings to Kosovo and Chad) prior to commanding what was then called the 3rd Mechanized Brigade, but most of his attention concerns Serval’s operational details. Despite contingency plans for just such a deployment, improvisation remains essential, the flip side of the low cost identified by Chivvis: after arriving in Bamako, the general sends his staff scavenging for spare parts, trucks, and satellite phones in local markets. Even weeks into Serval, many of his troops are still wearing heavy green uniforms for want of desert fatigues, and there aren’t enough brake pads to keep half his force’s AMX-10 armored cars roadworthy. This is “hegemony on a shoestring,” in some respects.

Equally striking is the weight of history in Barrera’s narrative. The author, the son of a veteran of the Algerian war, is steeped in his country’s colonial military exploits. “Spotting Niafounké on the map,” he writes, “I can picture my grandfather — an old colonial officer, during summers spent in his big Marseilles villa — telling stories of far-flung expeditions facing African spears, Chinese cannon, Moroccan sabers and muskets.” Launching an overland offensive to Timbuktu, Barrera notes that his troops follow the same route as the 1894 French expedition to take that fabled desert town. The general couldn’t escape this colonial legacy if he tried: his brigade inherited its nickname (“les Africains“) from a unit of Algerian infantry formed during the Second World War. After reaching Timbuktu he fulfills a boyhood dream by visiting the house once inhabited by explorer Réné Caillé. “History is never far away in Africa,” Barrera muses upon viewing the ruins of a French fort in Araoune. Any Malian intellectual or ancient combattant will tell you that France’s relations with Mali today cannot be understood without reference to their shared colonial past, and if this factor gets short shrift from Chivvis, it suffuses the pages of Barrera’s memoir.

Of the three books, however, I found Notin’s aptly named La Guerre de la France au Mali (Tallandier, 2014) the most informative. It’s an impressive work both in terms of quantity (600+ pp.) and quality, especially given that the author wrote it while Serval was still la-guerre-de-la-france-au-mali-534927-264-432underway and apparently without going to Mali. A seasoned observer of the French military, Notin interviewed dozens of French officers and officials in researching his account. He offers an intriguing interpretation of the March 2012 military coup in Bamako: “It appears that non-commissioned officers’ desire not to be sent to the northern front was the true motive,” he writes, adding that Paris had been expecting a coup for a few weeks, but believed that senior officers would carry it out on March 24. It may be that Captain Sanogo and his cohort of junior officers, instigating their mutiny on March 21, beat them to the putsch.

Notin highlights the little-known contribution of a French task force in turning back the initial jihadi onslaught even before General Barrera or his men had reached Malian soil. Opération Sabre deployed to some of Mali’s neighbors including Burkina Faso in September 2012 on a “train and support” mission (as described in a contemporary press account). It was Sabre’s helicopters that struck jihadi fighters near Konna on January 10, 2013, and it was Sabre’s special forces soldiers who worked with Malian troops to hold the line until reinforcements arrived from Chad and France over the following days. Once Serval was underway, Notin writes, it was subject to unprecedented control (some might say interference) from the Elysée, which directed French forces to capture Timbuktu before the more strategically important city of Gao. “We needed a conquest with strong media resonance,” an unnamed adviser of President Hollande tells Notin. “And Gao means nothing to anyone. Unlike the mythical Timbuktu.”

With respect to France’s ties to Tuareg separatists, Notin has a great deal to say. He portrays MNLA rebels as determined but politically naive, unrepresentative and prone to misreading their support abroad. He airs a critique by Christian Rouyer, the French ambassador to Mali from 2011-2013, of what became France’s policy of isolating rebel-held Kidal from the zone of Malian government control. Wittingly or not, France helped bring about northern Mali’s de facto partition, but those inclined to view the MNLA as French stooges might be surprised by the much more ambiguous, contentious relationship depicted by Notin (not to mention Barrera).

Which brings me to a key question underlying my interest in all three books: What did France gain from its Malian military adventures? Chivvis and Notin dismiss the supposed allure of Mali’s natural resources as a fable; the total value of gold extracted annually from Mali, Notin points out, is worth less than half of what the French government spent on Serval in 2013 alone. And while Chivvis mentions “France’s yearning to serve as a global force for the revolutionary values of liberté, égalité, and fraternité,” I think the strongest motivations lie elsewhere.

One part of the story is domestic, with looming budget cuts to the overstretched French military in 2013 creating what Chivvis considers “an obvious incentive for the army to demonstrate that it remained essential to protecting French interests at home and overseas.” Serval permitted such a demonstration and offered an overdue morale boost for French ground forces. Notin concludes, for example: “The mechanized infantry regained its heart for the mission that it had not carried out on this scale since the Second World War.” The other part of the story is international: France wants to remain une nation cadre–a nation that holds a central place on the world stage. And as Chivvis puts it, “Africa was, after all, still one of the few, if not the only, corner of the world where France was unquestionably a great power.” Political and diplomatic clout derive in no small measure from a nation-state’s ability to project force far beyond its borders–and Serval provided an opportunity for France to do exactly that. The operation generated an operational model that “would arouse admiration and incredulity among the Americans and British,” claims Notin, and enabled the French air force to demonstrate “its capacity to wage an air campaign which, while certainly not of the scale of the Iraq war, was stretched between France, West Africa, and Chad, covering a much larger zone.”


French equipment loading onto a Russian Antonov plane in Chad, January 2013 (photo: French Defense Ministry)

Yes, on the pages of these books one can truly see French military muscles flexing. In some instances the muscles haven’t been exercised in decades: Notin mentions that before Serval, the armée française had not parachuted supplies during an operation since 1989, while Barrera describes the airdrop of heavy equipment into Timbuktu as “a capacity not used since Indochina” (Dien Bien Phu, to be precise). In other instances the muscles strain: in the first month of Serval, according to Notin, French aircraft sustained an “operations tempo” four times higher than NATO standards. And sometimes the flexing only happens with hired help: lacking sufficient cargo planes of its own, the French military contracted Russian Antonov jets to fly thousands of tons of personnel and equipment from French bases to Mali, at a cost of tens of  millions of euros. But the muscles were flexed, and the message was sent. “To strike the jihadis in northern Mali was also to remind those who may have forgotten in the world that France could inflict great damage, very far from its borders, with unmatched responsiveness,” writes Notin. In other words, Serval’s showcase of military might proved that France is an important player in the 21st century.

Of its three stated objectives — “to secure  Bamako, stop the jihadist insurgency, and allow Mali to regain its territorial integrity,” according to Chivvis — Serval fully achieved only the first. Two years after that mission officially ended, the insurgency continues, Mali remains divided, and French troops have not left Mali. But at the end of the day, I suspect it was Serval’s unstated objectives, having little to do with Mali, that mattered most. These objectives were shoring up support at home for the French military and proving to a skeptical world that France still matters. If the favorable accounts reviewed here are any guide, both objectives have been met.

Postscript, 3 October 2016: France2 television’s “Cellule de crise” show offers a 90-minute reconstruction of the onset of Operation Serval.


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