The coordinated offensive between JNIM and Tuareg factions that sought to create the image of a collapsed Malian state was quickly dismantled despite the doomsayers and analysts of the “official” narrative of the Western machine.
Beto Cremonte
April 27, 2026
The coordinated offensive between JNIM and Tuareg factions, which sought to create the image of a collapsed Malian state, was quickly dismantled despite the doomsayers and analysts of the “official” narrative of the Western machine.
What did happen, and what many analysts chose not to see (and/or to hide), was a swift and coordinated response from Malian forces, who continue to demonstrate the path of breaking with the old scheme of French tutelage that both Mali, as well as the other AES countries, are willing to pursue beyond attacks like those of April 25, revealing something deeper: it is not only the control of the territory that is being disputed, but the very meaning of what is happening in the Sahel.
The truth is that in the final hours of April 25, jihadist and Tuareg separatist groups launched a coordinated offensive against Bamako, Kati, Gao, and Kidal with an objective that went beyond the strictly military: it wasn’t simply about striking state positions, but about establishing, in real time, the idea that Assimi Goïta’s government had lost control of the country, as has been happening almost systematically in this region. We cannot ignore the events of late 2015 when the Western press announced the fall of the Malian government to JNIM, due to the blockades of the access routes to Bamako. This attack also follows that same logic: “the symbolic dimension of the attack.” Something that today is as important as its execution on the ground. In the Sahel, the struggle for narrative and meaning is played out every day.
What is also true, and what few have mentioned, is that the Malian Armed Forces (FAMa), with the support of their allies and in coordination with local intelligence networks, managed to contain and reverse the attacks in a matter of hours in the main urban centers. However, while this response was beginning to unfold, much of the international media machine had already begun to construct a different narrative: that of an overwhelmed state, incapable of maintaining internal order after its break with traditional security models in the region.
The concrete facts were that in the early hours of April 25, Mali awoke under attack. Simultaneously, Jama’at Nasr al-Islam wal Muslimin (JNIM), Al-Qaeda’s affiliate in the region, and the Azawad Liberation Front (ALF), a coalition of Tuareg separatist groups, launched operations in Bamako, neighboring Kati—where the presidential residence is located—and strategic northern cities such as Gao, Kidal, Sévaré, and Mopti. The offensive combined attacks with high symbolic impact, acts of harassment, and the rapid spread of content on social media, which amplified the perception of a lack of control.
Within hours, the event ceased to be merely a military episode and transformed into a narrative phenomenon. Before a clear picture of the situation on the ground was even available, reports were circulating of cities “seized,” critical infrastructure under attack, and a government on the verge of collapse. This sequence—first interpretation, then verification—is not a minor detail: it is a constitutive part of how the meaning of conflicts is constructed today. Western media coverage and its local spokespeople, the same ones who systematically celebrate any setback suffered by sovereign governments in the Sahel, were quick to label the situation a “government overwhelmed” and a “failure of Russian support.” Social media was flooded with hasty analyses, armchair pundits announcing Goita’s imminent fall and the end of the anti-colonial experiment in Mali.
The swift Malian military response
Far from the collapse predicted in the early hours, the Malian state’s response began to take shape more clearly as the day progressed . The army itself confirmed that “armed terrorist groups” had attacked positions in Bamako and other key cities, stating that its forces were “committed to eliminating the attackers” and regaining control of the affected areas.
That fact is not insignificant. Because while the initial narrative spoke of fallen cities and an overwhelmed state, the official statements themselves indicated something else: active clashes, military deployment, and, hours later, the assertion that the situation was under control at the main strategic points.
The attacks were indeed of an unusual magnitude. It was a coordinated offensive that reached Bamako, Kati, Gao, Sévaré, and Kidal simultaneously, something that even international sources described as one of the most extensive episodes in recent years.
However, this scale did not automatically translate into sustained territorial control. The attacking groups’ own claims—such as the alleged capture of Kidal or positions in Gao—could not be independently verified in the short term, reinforcing the idea that, alongside the military offensive, a media campaign was deployed.
Another element that cannot be overlooked in this response capacity is Bamako’s current security strategy, which includes cooperation with Russian actors, has altered the operational dynamics compared to previous phases. The presence of these allies did not prevent the offensive, but it did form part of the mechanism that allowed for the containment of attacks in sensitive areas, such as the capital and its immediate surroundings, where the defense of key facilities against the advance of armed groups was even reported.
This point is key to organizing the analysis: the offensive existed, it was broad and coordinated, but it failed to consolidate a scenario of immediate state collapse, or even a sustainable narrative. The difference between initial impact and actual outcome is precisely the space where interpretations are constructed. For us, there are no such interpretations; as committed communicators, we cannot echo them and can only refer to the events as “information in progress” or “ongoing conflict,” thus disclaiming the responsibility of providing concrete information.
The battle for meaning involves us all
If the events of April 25th made anything clear, it wasn’t just the operational capacity of the armed groups or the response of the Malian state, but the speed with which a dominant interpretation is constructed before the events have even finished unfolding. Within hours, the offensive had already been interpreted as a symptom of state collapse, even as fighting continued and the situation on the ground was far from stable.
This mechanism is not new, but it takes on a particular intensity in the Sahel. The combination of poorly verified initial sources, rapid replication on social media, and a pre-existing interpretive framework—which tends to read the region’s political processes through the lens of failure—produces a concrete effect: it establishes perceptions that are then difficult to reverse, even when the unfolding events do not confirm those diagnoses.
What happened in Mali fits precisely into this logic. Initial claims about the “capture” of cities like Kidal or Gao circulated widely, but could not be independently verified in the short term. However, this fact—the lack of confirmation—received far less attention than the original version. In other words, the first narrative didn’t need to be verified to take hold; it was enough for it to be plausible within an already established framework.
This is where the media dimension of the conflict ceases to be an incidental element and becomes a central battleground. It’s not just about reporting what is happening, but about defining what is happening. And in this arena, each episode is quickly absorbed by pre-existing interpretations: the advance of an armed group becomes proof of state weakness, while the government’s response is interpreted as a defensive reaction, never as effective control.
This asymmetry does not necessarily imply conscious coordination among media actors, but it does reveal a pattern. For years, the Sahel has been a space where external diagnoses are projected that often fail to engage with internal dynamics. Within this framework, any episode of violence tends to reinforce an already established narrative: that of states incapable of maintaining sovereignty without external oversight.
However, the events of April 25th introduce nuances that this interpretation fails to fully capture. While the offensive demonstrated the persistence and coordination capabilities of armed actors, it also revealed that the Malian state—despite its limitations—retains the capacity for reaction, deployment, and recovery within relatively short timeframes.
The tension between these two elements —the persistence of the threat and the capacity to respond— is often overshadowed by the need to quickly frame the facts in closed categories.
And it is at that point that the question ceases to be what happened in Mali, and becomes how to interpret what happened.
JNIM and the Tuareg, the local offensive
“Terrorism in Africa does not arise from a vacuum: it is the most effective tool of contemporary neocolonialism.”
A particularly relevant element of the April 25 attacks was the coordination between Jama’at Nasr al-Islam wal Muslimin (JNIM) and Tuareg separatist groups affiliated with the Azawad Liberation Front (ALF). This convergence, which manifested itself in simultaneous operations and shared objectives, is not entirely new, but it does expose more clearly a tension that is difficult to conceal: the coexistence of agendas that, in political and ideological terms, operate according to different logics.
On the one hand, JNIM is part of a regional jihadist structure with historical ties to networks associated with Al-Qaeda. Its objective is not the territorial autonomy of a specific region, but rather the construction of an order based on a strict interpretation of armed political Islam. Its expansion in the Sahel over the last decade has relied both on state weakness and on its ability to insert itself into local conflicts, adapting its rhetoric to the specific demands of each territory.
On the other hand, the Tuareg movements—with a long history of rebellions in northern Mali—have articulated, with different variations over time, demands related to autonomy, political recognition, and the distribution of resources in regions historically marginalized by the central government. From the insurrections of the 1990s to the proclamation of the short-lived State of Azawad in 2012, these demands have undergone processes of negotiation, fragmentation, and co-optation.
The alliance between the two actors, therefore, does not stem from a shared political identity, but rather from a tactical logic. Faced with a scenario in which neither side can individually impose its will on the Malian state, this convergence allows them to amplify their operational capacity, coordinate attacks, and generate simultaneous impacts across different parts of the territory.
However, this same alliance contains its own weakness. The overlapping agendas—religious in one case, territorial in the other—limits the possibility of building a homogeneous and sustainable political base. In fact, in previous experiences, coexistence between jihadist groups and Tuareg movements led to tensions, ruptures, and even internal conflicts when strategic objectives began to diverge.
This point is crucial to avoid oversimplification. The April 25th offensive cannot be understood as the expression of a cohesive insurgent bloc, but rather as the manifestation of a circumstantial convergence between actors who share a common enemy, but not necessarily a compatible political project.
Added to this is another key element: the relationship with local populations. While the historical claims of Tuareg groups find some degree of legitimacy in certain northern regions, the presence of jihadist structures has, in many cases, been resisted by communities that have suffered their actions, particularly with regard to the imposition of social norms and violence against civilians.
This tension between local legitimacy and armed capacity introduces an additional layer of complexity. While the alliance may bolster military action in the short term, it also hinders the development of broad social support, a necessary condition for sustaining any kind of territorial control beyond the initial impact of an offensive.
In this context, presenting this convergence as a “unified revolution” or as the linear expression of a popular insurrection not only simplifies the scenario, but also obscures the internal fractures that run through these actors.
And it is precisely in these fractures where many of the future dynamics of the conflict are played out.
France, Ukraine and the reconfiguration of the war in the Sahel
This latest terrorist offensive in Mali cannot be understood outside the context of the geopolitical dispute that has gripped the Sahel since the rupture between Bamako and Paris. Mali faces not only an internal armed threat; it also faces the consequences of having broken down an architecture of dependency built over decades around French military tutelage, regional subordination, and external security management.
This shift did not occur in a vacuum. France announced in February 2022 the withdrawal of its forces from Mali, including Operation Barkhane and the European force Takuba, after years of political, military, and social deterioration of its presence in the country. The key point is that this withdrawal did not signify the disappearance of French interests in the region, but rather their realignment. Paris lost bases, lost privileged interlocution, and lost direct command capacity, but it did not lose the will to exert influence over a region it had considered for decades part of its strategic African reach.
This sheds light on the importance of the narrative. If Mali is portrayed as a failed state, if the break with France is presented as the direct cause of the chaos, then the old colonial system is vindicated by contrast: “with us there was order, without us there is terrorism.” That is the underlying political strategy. It doesn’t need to be stated explicitly; it suffices to repeat time and again that the deterioration began when Bamako decided to change its allies.
But historical data casts doubt on that version. The jihadist insurgency didn’t begin with Assimi Goïta, nor with the withdrawal of France, nor with the arrival of Russian advisors. Mali has been embroiled in open conflict since 2012, and for much of that period the country was under a heavy Western military presence. Operation Barkhane itself began in 2014 as a continuation of Operation Serval, with the stated objective of combating groups linked to Al-Qaeda and the Islamic State in the Sahel. However, almost a decade later, these groups had not only failed to disappear, but had extended their reach into central Mali, Burkina Faso, and Niger.
Therefore, the question cannot be phrased in a deceptive way. It is not a question of whether Mali is currently experiencing a serious security situation, but rather who created the conditions for that situation and why the same actors who failed for years to contain the jihadist expansion now seek to present themselves as judges of Mali’s new direction.
Ukraine also appears on this chessboard, not as a central actor in the Sahel, but as a piece in a globalized war that is no longer being fought solely in Eastern Europe. The events of 2024 are key. Following the fighting in Tinzaouaten, near the border with Algeria, Mali broke off diplomatic relations with Kyiv after a spokesperson for Ukrainian military intelligence made statements that Bamako interpreted as an admission of intelligence support for the groups that had inflicted heavy casualties on the Malian army and its Russian allies. Niger then took a similar step, citing the same accusations.
That episode must be treated with precision: Ukraine denied direct involvement, and the Tuareg rebels also denied receiving outside support. But the very existence of these statements, the diplomatic reactions of Mali and Niger, and the use of the Sahel as an indirect battleground in the confrontation between Russia and Ukraine show that the Malian conflict can no longer be confined to a purely local interpretation.
In this context, Russian collaboration functions as more than just military support. For Bamako, Moscow represents the possibility of breaking the Western monopoly on African security. This relationship is not without costs, contradictions, or limitations—as Tinzaouaten starkly demonstrated—but it is part of a sovereign decision: to seek other partners after years of French failure. Reducing this decision to “Russian dependence” is a convenient way of denying Malian political agency.
What is at stake, then, is not merely the effectiveness of a military apparatus. It is the right of an African state to define its alliances without seeking authorization from the former colonial power. This is why every attack against Mali is met by certain sectors with an almost celebratory anxiety: if Bamako fails, the hypothesis that the Sahel can operate independently of French tutelage also fails. And if that hypothesis fails, the old neocolonial order can present itself not as domination, but as a necessity.
That is the true backdrop to the offensive: JNIM and the FLA are firing on military positions, but the Western narrative is firing on a much deeper political idea. The idea that Mali, with all its difficulties, has the right to rebuild its security, its alliances, and its national destiny outside the molds imposed from Paris, Brussels, or Washington.
Far from the hasty pronouncements that declared imminent collapse, what has transpired in Mali in recent hours reveals something more unsettling for those who need to confirm the notion of a Sahel doomed to failure: Mali not only withstood a coordinated offensive on multiple fronts, but did so within a context of profound reconfiguration of its alliance system and under constant pressure, both military and narrative. This does not negate the structural weaknesses of the Malian state nor the persistence of the armed threat, but it compels a re-evaluation of a diagnosis that is often based more on prejudice than on evidence.
In this sense, the real battleground is not only the military, but the political. Because if each offensive is used to confirm that African sovereignty processes are unviable without external tutelage, then the conflict ceases to be a security issue and becomes a tool of control. Mali, with all its contradictions, is attempting a break with this system. And this decision—more than any specific battle—explains the intensity with which narratives of defeat are being promoted.
Perhaps that’s why, rather than asking who won a specific confrontation, it’s more worthwhile to observe what manages to endure over time. And that’s where, despite the usual doomsayers, a fact emerges that’s hard to ignore: the Malian state remains standing, maintains its capacity to respond, and continues to redefine its place in a transforming regional landscape. This is no small feat in a region where, for years, it was accepted that the only possible stability had to come from outside.
Beto Cremonte, Editor-in-Chief at PIA Global, specializing in the African continent. International geopolitical analyst. Professor of Social Communication and Journalism, graduate of the National University of La Plata (UNLP), with a degree in Social Communication from UNLP. Advanced student in the Higher Technical University Program in Public and Political Communication, Faculty of Political and Social Sciences, UNLP.
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