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.
Source: https://libya360.wordpress.com/2026/04/27/mali-the-apocalypse-that-wasnt-and-the-defeat-narrative-that-the-west-needs/
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