International diplomacy seems increasingly unable to stem the tide of regional crises. As violence escalates globally, stretching across continents, a sobering truth is emerging: Neither the rhetoric of victory at all costs nor the resort to military solutions alone is paving sustainable roads toward peace.
Armed conflicts continue to fuel cycles of radicalisation and extremism, destabilising the international security landscape. From one crisis zone to another, brute force – sometimes clad in high-tech arrogance – has consistently failed to contain the spread of violence. The Sahel, today, is a striking embodiment of this dynamic.
For years, the region has borne the weight of overlapping insecurities: transnational insurgencies, military coups, climate shocks, and economic stagnation. Yet the international community has too often responded with the same limited toolkit – military aid, foreign troops, drone strikes – without addressing the social and political fractures that allow violence to take root.
The limits of military solutions
Late last year, Mali’s capital, Bamako, witnessed a brazen attack by the al-Qaeda-affiliated group Jama’at Nusrat al-Islam wal-Muslimin (JNIM). They occupied the Modibo Keïta International Airport and a gendarmerie school on the city’s outskirts in an assault in which as many as 80 people may have died.
It was the first time since 2015 that the group had managed to strike Bamako. It was not only a show of operational capability, but also a warning: It underlined just how extensive the control groups like JNIM and so-called Islamic State Sahel Province (ISSP) now exert over vast regions of Mali, Burkina Faso, and Niger.
For over a decade, both national and international efforts have leaned heavily on militarised and coercive strategies. The outcomes have been modest at best. Despite the presence of international forces led by France, the European Union, and the United States, jihadist insurgents have not only survived, they’ve expanded.
Discontent has grown within local armies, who often felt sidelined or forced to follow foreign-led strategies perceived as ineffective, detached, and sometimes patronising.
This friction has helped to reshape alliances.
Many in the region have turned their gaze towards Russia, viewing it as a more “respectful” partner. This shift opened the door to Russian military contractors like Wagner (later replaced by Africa Corps), who deployed alongside the forces of the military juntas that seized power in Mali, Burkina Faso, and Niger between 2020 and 2023.
Russian involvement is often portrayed, not as imperial ambition, but as a return to sovereign order – a narrative that resonates in contexts where insurgencies are cast as resistance to foreign occupation and corrupt elites.
Yet the embrace of new patrons has not brought relief. Where Russian forces have engaged, reports of civilian abuses and indiscriminate violence have only grown. As with Western-led efforts, military responses have deepened mistrust, hardened grievances, and widened the distance between people and the state.
When counterterrorism fuels conflict
The disillusionment is not merely geopolitical. In countries like Mali and Niger, counterterrorism operations have often struck indiscriminately, harming civilians and breeding a sense of betrayal.
In Burkina Faso, pro-government militias have targeted specific ethnic groups – especially the Peul – accused of collaborating with jihadists. These campaigns have exacerbated intercommunal tensions, pushing some members of these communities to join armed groups not out of ideology, but for protection or revenge.
In many rural areas, military operations destroyed basic infrastructure and worsened humanitarian conditions. Public services have collapsed and, with them, people’s sense of security. Jihadist recruiters exploit this vacuum – positioning themselves as providers, arbiters, and defenders. They capitalise on the absence of the state and the brutality of its return.
Rethinking dialogue with jihadists
The conflict dynamics in the Sahel echo far beyond the region. Consider Syria, where a recent offensive led by Hayat Tahrir al-Sham (HTS) – a group once linked to al-Qaeda – toppled the regime of Bashar al-Assad.
Despite HTS’s jihadist roots, many Syrians celebrated the end of regime rule. Their celebration was not about ideology – it was about survival and relief.
In many such contexts, counterterrorism campaigns end up creating more enemies than they eliminate. When insurgents are seen as more present, more just, or simply more capable than national armies, people begin to shift allegiances. Joining a jihadist group becomes a rational act – not only of revenge, but of economic survival, protection, and access to services.
Under these conditions, exploring dialogue with these armed groups is not just a humanitarian instinct – it may be the only pragmatic choice left. And despite the persistent mantra that “you don’t negotiate with terrorists”, dialogue with jihadist insurgents has, in fact, occurred – quietly, off-stage, in meetings far from the public eye for some time.
Over the past 10 years, a series of negotiations and informal contacts have unfolded in the Sahel, even as public discourse remained rigidly opposed. However fragile, these efforts underscore the urgency of looking beyond the battlefield.
Dialogue attempts in the Sahel
The roots of this approach go back to 2012, soon after the Tuareg rebellion in northern Mali, when the government began exploratory talks with the jihadist Ansar al-Din, then led by Iyad ag Ghali – who now heads JNIM. Among the earliest mediators was Salafist imam Mahmoud Dicko, who journeyed to northern Mali to test the waters for dialogue. Though he never met ag Ghali, others pursued more direct efforts.
Blaise Compaoré, then president of Burkina Faso, welcomed moderate jihadist leaders and sent Foreign Minister Djibril Bassolé to meet ag Ghali personally. Bassolé reported ag Ghali’s openness to negotiation, albeit with some conditions. At the time, the group had not yet distanced itself from al-Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb (AQIM), a key precondition set by the government for talks.
In 2015, Algeria convened a peace process that led to the Algiers Accords – ending the Tuareg rebellion in northern Mali but excluding jihadist insurgents. While a comprehensive ceasefire was not achieved, these talks fragmented the movement and allowed for the reintegration of some fighters.
France, however, consistently opposed dialogue. Under strong diplomatic pressure, these efforts slowed. In 2020, then president François Hollande famously stated: “The idea of negotiating with the very people we are targeting strikes me as a betrayal of our military mission.”
Yet even then, quiet channels remained open. In Mali’s central Ségou region, negotiations between Katiba Macina and local militias led to a temporary truce. Talks with the Malian army enabled hostage exchanges. The appetite for negotiation persisted locally, if not diplomatically.
In Burkina Faso, prior to the 2022 coups, there was a brief window of opportunity. Officials established direct communication with insurgents, securing a temporary ceasefire to allow presidential elections to proceed. Niger’s president at the time, Mohamed Bazoum, followed a similar path – releasing detainees, dispatching envoys, signalling a willingness to listen.
But the rise of military juntas in Mali (2020-2021), Burkina Faso (2022), and Niger (2023) marked a sharp turn. The new regimes dismantled these early negotiation frameworks, sidelined local mediators, and poured resources into recruitment and militarisation. Former gestures of dialogue were dismissed as weakness, as if diplomacy were a liability rather than a tool.
Mauritania’s quiet success and other precedents
Yet one need not look far for an alternative. Between 2009 and 2011, Mauritania quietly developed a pioneering programme of religious dialogue with jihadist prisoners. Its goal was not just to deradicalise, but to understand. By creating space for reflection and reintegration, Mauritania succeeded in reducing the jihadist threat within its borders.
This “Mauritanian model” has quietly influenced others. In Somalia, the government last year signalled a potential openness to talks with al-Shabab – albeit only from a position of military advantage – marking a shift from its earlier focus on military defeat. That openness, however, has since receded, following al-Shabab’s recent territorial gains.
Further back, in 1997, Algeria’s civil war wound down partly thanks to negotiations that, while excluding groups like the Armed Islamic Group, still allowed many ex-combatants to return to society.
These examples are not without controversy – but they remind us that peace processes are often forged in discomfort, in compromise, and in the refusal to accept perpetual war as the only option.
Pros, cons, and the road ahead
One cannot help but wonder: What might have become of the Sahelian insurgencies if more space had been made for dialogue earlier? And what lies ahead for HTS, Hezbollah, Hamas – and the broader Middle East – if military logic remains the only game in town?
To be clear: Negotiating with jihadists is fraught. Tactical agreements – ceasefires, humanitarian corridors, prisoner releases – are one thing. But durable peace requires complex, long-term processes: political inclusion, ideological reconciliation, and deep reintegration.
These steps demand time, resources, and a stable political environment – conditions currently missing in the Sahel. Sudden leadership changes erode trust, fragment processes, and make continuity almost impossible.
Another critical factor is the role of global jihadist networks. Can local groups negotiate independently? And what room do they have to manoeuvre without the blessing of their transnational patrons?
Ultimately, dialogue also depends on public perception. Without broad civil support, political space narrows. Jihadists are still widely seen as inhuman, irredeemable. Without a sustained communication effort, attempts at negotiation risk being discredited, feeding further polarisation.
Yet despite all the challenges, one conclusion is hard to escape: Military interventions have not produced lasting peace in the Sahel. Instead, they have deepened wounds, hardened divides, and fuelled new insurgencies.
Dialogue is no cure-all, but recognising jihadists as political actors – not just enemies – reframes the choice: between fighting and talking, between managing defeat and imagining change.
