Perform Nation

Music and nation-building in Mali

The nation as a dialectical construct.

Anderson (1991) has conceptualised the nation as an ‘imagined community’ – a social construct – in that the members of a nation will never know most of their fellow citizens, ‘yet in the minds of each lives the image of their communion’ (Anderson, 1991, p. 6). This conception, however, postulates that the nation is a top-down ideological construct. Askew (2002, p. 9) criticises this approach for its focus on the political elite, particularly in the context of the post-colonial state, where ethnic identities retain their significance within arbitrarily imposed boundaries. Rather than presupposing the passivity of citizens, Askew argues that nationalism is a dialectical construction involving both the state and its citizens. Askew’s work forms the basis of this article’s argument, insofar as it accounts for the simultaneous construction of multiple, and often opposing, identities within the nation. The construction of national identity is thus characterised by the way in which citizens respond to visions of the ‘nation’ orchestrated by the state. In particular, this approach makes it possible to account for the vital role played by culture in the construction, articulation and mobilisation of these identities. Askew, for example, focuses on the role of musicians in ‘performing the nation’ , attaching great importance to the way in which musical performance is mobilised to articulate national representations. This theoretical framework thus allows for an in-depth exploration of the musical constructions of identity in Mali. It also offers essential insights into how these constructions have influenced the political process of national cohesion, through the population’s adherence to the state-orchestrated idea of the nation.

The First Republic and the tradition of the jeli.

Immediately after independence, the cultural policies of President Modibo Keïta’s “First Republic” (1960-1968) were primarily geared towards nation-building, and music in particular was a favoured means of propagating national unity. To understand why the creation of a national identity was achieved mainly through music, we can go back to the historical political role of the musician in Mali. The tradition of the jeli – a noble caste of oral historians and laudatory griots – played a crucial role in the articulation of the new nation. Since the founding of the Mali Empire (circa 1230), the jeli acted on behalf of their rulers and wealthy patrons to “maintain and support the values which underlay […] the political structure of society” , thereby legitimising authority (Cutter, 1968, p. 74). They did this by acting as oral repositories of the customs, traditions and principles of government. After independence, Modibo Keïta sought to create a national identity through the valorization of “traditional” culture, relying on the celebration of the distant (pre-colonial) past and the minimization of the immediate (colonial) past (Cutter, 1968, p. 76). The prestige of the jeli’s historical knowledge thus gave them official authorisation to tell the story of the new nation after independence, acting as “emblems of an unbroken continuity with the past” (Schulz, 2007, p. 194). The desire to affirm national cohesion by evoking historical continuity with the pre-colonial past led to colonisation being presented as “a short and disturbing interlude to the natural course of history” (Lecocq, 2010, p. 72). Musical repertoires were thus imbued with the symbolism of traditional legends, particularly that of Sundiata Keïta – founder of the Mali empire. The jeli, for example, celebrated President Keïta as a descendant and namesake of Sundiata Keïta, legitimising his authority through ideas of primordial ties and “imaginary timeless antiquity” (Rowlands, 2007, p. 132). Charry (2000a, p. 41) notes that “the role of the Sundiata epic in forming […] the national identities of Mali cannot be overestimated” .

A national narrative founded on exclusion.

The centrality of the jeli tradition and the musical narration of the Sundiata epic in the project of national construction, however, fundamentally privileged a narrative that excluded part of the population of northern Mali (Rowlands & de Jong, 2007, p. 26). The Sundiata story, of which the jeli tradition is a part, deals with the struggle of the Mandé people against oppression (Suso, 1999, p. vii). The Mandé, who comprise several linguistically and historically related groups – including the Bambara and Malinke – are the largest ethnic group in Mali. Most of the elements mobilised in the process of national construction have been drawn from Mandé culture and history (Lecocq, 2002, p. 72). The construction of a national identity was thus based on a historical myth favouring the dominant ethnic groups of the southern region, elaborating a national past based on the silence imposed on alternative political imaginaries (Schulz, 2007, p. 195). In short, the construction of a Malian national identity by the political elites was linked to the historical and cultural concepts of the country’s largest ethnic groups (Lecocq, 2002, p. 66). Nationalist sentiment was consequently embraced by a substantial part of the population, nurturing a strong sense of national cohesion within this majority, while fuelling the resentment of a minority.

The State as conductor: national ensembles and propaganda.

Under Keïta’s socialist regime, musicians became dependent on state patronage through the formation of national ensembles and orchestras whose role was, to use Askew’s expression, to “perform the nation” . In this way, music was one of the main means adopted to propagate this new national identity. One example is the Ensemble Instrumental du Mali (EIN), a state-sponsored national group whose function was to preserve and validate the past “through selection and adaptation, for the exigencies of the present” (Cutter, 1968, p. 75). The ensemble’s compositions were thus imbued with nationalist themes “borrowed” from the jeli, aiming to instil national pride and a shared identity. The EIN’s repertoire was essentially propagandistic. For example, Maliba (Greater Mali) compared the modern nation-state to pre-colonial Mali (Skinner, 2014, p. 250). For Keïta’s regime, however, ‘national’ folklore was equivalent to Mandé folklore, and the Tuareg artistic troupe from the Kidal region was thus forbidden to sing in their language, Tamasheq (Lecocq, 2002, p. 73). For example, the Afro-Cuban influenced band Pionnier Jazz was recruited by the authorities to compose songs in support of the nation-building project, such as Exile Is Bad, the lyrics of which read “Beloved! Come back to our Mali” […] “Il y a de l’unité dans la patrie” (“Dearest! Come back to our Mali” […] “There is unity in the homeland”) (Skinner, 2016, p. 47).

Behind the scenes: the birth of Tuareg nationalism.

The complexities underlying this official nationalism in Mali echo Askew’s observation that nationalism is a dialectical process. In parallel and in response to the ‘official’ national identity, however, at least one competing national idea was being developed among those who did not recognise themselves in the Malian nation. Although this marginalisation was not specific to the Tuareg, the most virulent dissent was that of Tuareg nationalism, a by-product of official nationalism, “which threatened the newly found and still unbalanced political order” (Lecocq, 2010, p. 29). The promotion of a Malian national identity, largely through the musical medium, simultaneously contributed to an antagonism against the state – the manifestation and dissemination of a distinct Tuareg political identity, in which music played an absolutely central role.

Music and the politics of belonging

The Third Republic and the end of mandaean hegemony.

With Mali’s transition from a one-party state to a multi-party democracy, President Konaré’s “Third Republic” (1992-2002) sought to distance itself from the highly centralised and socialist ideals of previous regimes, with consequences for the renewal of the national narrative. The democratic government was involved in deconstructing a nation characterised by mandaean ethno-political hegemony, and in constructing a new national narrative embracing “unity in diversity” . Mali’s political landscape was profoundly restructured by the implementation, from 1992, of decentralisation and liberalisation measures, which facilitated the rise of discourses of local and cultural belonging.

Radio spectrum liberalization and the emergence of local identities.

This is evidenced by the proliferation of independent radio stations across the country, broadcasting in a variety of local languages and musical traditions, and mitigating the uneven representation of cultural diversity on national radio. The resounding success of local radio stations in Mali contributed to the growing importance of local identities, as they served as ideal platforms for self-expression and for articulating listeners’ shifting perceptions of national belonging (Schulz, 2012, p. 62). Furthermore, as the media landscape became increasingly privatized, the state ceased to hold a monopoly on music production, and a wider variety of musical genres gained visibility on both state-run and private radio stations. Consequently, regional musical traditions, such as the Wassoulou genre, gained popularity and challenged the privileged position of the jeli as the cornerstones of “Malian” music (Maxwell, 2002). The democratization process thus disrupted the highly centralized and controlled policy of promoting a single, unified national culture and encouraged the expression of local identities as the regime came to embrace cultural diversity.

“Unity in diversity”: the Artistic and Cultural Biennial as a device for integration.

In order to address the newly fragmented socio-political landscape, the government organized various cultural initiatives to promote the narrative of national unity. The country’s rich musical traditions mean that music is viewed as something that goes beyond mere entertainment, as it conveys complex social and moral meanings (Schulz, 2012, p. 160). Musical performance thus served as an ideal medium for intercultural understanding and, in doing so, helped foster national cohesion in support of the government’s narrative of “unity in diversity. ” One example is the organization of the Artistic and Cultural Biennial by the Ministry of Culture. It involved competitions between ethnic or regionally based musical groups, which performed their local traditions at a national festival, facilitating encounters and exchanges among young people from different regions.

Tuareg identity, music and competing nationalism

A nomadic society marginalised by colonial borders.

The Tuareg are a nomadic pastoral people inhabiting a vast area of the Saharan desert in North Africa. Once in control of the trans-Saharan caravan routes, the Tuareg prospered and acted independently. However, the impact of colonialism in the mid-19th century profoundly altered their social, political, and economic structures (Kohl & Fischer, 2010, p. 4). The imposition of colonial borders restricted the nomads’ freedom of movement, compromising their traditional economy and fuelling antagonism towards the central government. Since Mali’s independence in 1960, the relationship between the central state and the Tuareg people has been characterised by periodic uprisings against Malian authority, led by Tuareg nationalists. At the heart of these insurrections was the desire for cultural recognition and autonomy (Kohl & Fischer, 2010; Lecocq, 2002).

Tuareg music as a vehicle for a distinct identity.

The Tuareg people have a distinct musical culture, deeply rooted in historical traditions. Tuareg instruments, including a single-stringed fiddle (anzad) and a mortar-drum (tende), are each the focal point of particular social events (Card Wendt, 2000, p. 207). The verbal arts and oral history, of which epic poetry is a central component, are considered an extension of music. The themes of such poetry reveal “the past and the inner workings of [Tuareg] society , ” and explain values, customs, ideals, and sentiments (Gattinara, 2006, p. 32). Poetry is, therefore, a reflection and an expression of cultural identity, and its transmission through the medium of music is a crucial means of expressing a distinct Tuareg identity. Such musical styles, however, never became part of Mali’s “national” musical traditions. For example, the National Instrumental Ensemble consisted solely of “traditional” instruments monopolized by the jeli, such as the kora (a twenty-one-string harp). Furthermore, many Tuaregs saw it as an injustice that their musical traditions were rarely represented on national television, and in the absence of the Tamasheq language (Morgan, 2014). The central government’s refusal to recognize Tuareg culture during the nation-building period exacerbated resentment and a sense of detachment toward Mali’s central authorities. Indeed, the lack of Tuareg representation in the national media reflected their persistent exclusion from positions of political influence and economic advantage (Schulz, 2007, p. 191) . As a society proud of its culture, which strives to express this pride both among its members and externally (Seligman, 2006, p. 28), the inability to do so served to intensify notions of difference vis-àvis Malians, reinforcing a separate Tuareg identity.

Teshumara, exile and the birth of al-guitara

The period following Keïta’s “First Republic” and preceding the second Tuareg rebellion of the 1990s was marked by radical changes within Tuareg society, which in turn shaped a transformation in musical culture.The marginalisation of the Tuareg by the central government was exacerbated by severe droughts in the 1970s and 1980s, leading to the collapse of the pastoral economy and the migration of a large part of the population to southern regions or neighbouring countries (Lecocq, 2002, p. 173). The new way of life adopted by these migrants seeking work in Libya and Algeria became known as Teshumara, and its adherents were mostly young men known as ishumar (“the unemployed”). Many ishumar accepted Libyan leader Muammar Gaddafi’s offer of military training, which was misleadingly presented as a means of creating an autonomous Tuareg nation called Azawad (Morgan, 2011). It was within such “rebel camps” that a new Tuareg political identity was forged, and a formal nationalist movement was created directly through the music of the ishumar. The origins of this music date back to 1979, when a guitar was given to one of these exiles, Ibrahim ag Alhabib, who began adapting traditional Tuareg music for this new instrument. He was joined by other musicians in the Libyan training camps, thus forming the group Tinariwen (“people of the desert”) and inaugurating the revolutionary genre of al-guitara (“guitar music”).

The lyrical revolution: from memory to the call to revolt.

The emergence in the 1980s of al-guitara shaped a Tuareg national identity and propagated visions of an autonomous nation, culminating in the rebellion of the 1990s. What made this music so revolutionary was the shift from lyrics about tradition and history to lyrics about contemporary political issues. A prominent theme was egha (hatred and revenge), referring back to the First Tuareg Rebellion of 1962-1964, brutally suppressed by the Malian Armed Forces – a theme developed in particular in “Soixante Trois” (ag Alhabib, 2007a; Lecocq, 2010, p. 269; Rasmussen, 2006). What made this music so revolutionary for Tuareg society was the shift from lyrics about traditions and history to lyrics addressing contemporary political issues and the challenges facing their culture in decline. A prominent theme in al-guitara was egha, a concept that roughly translates to hatred and vengeance. This referred in particular to the First Tuareg Rebellion of 1962–1964, which was brutally suppressed by the Malian Armed Forces (FAM) during a campaign that involved the massacre of civilians and livestock. Ibrahim ag Alhabib witnessed the execution of his father, who had taken part in the rebellion; this event is reflected in “Sixty-Three”: “1963 came, and continues… It killed the old and the newborns… All that remains are cemeteries and solitude” (ag Alhabib, 2007a). A key feature of these lyrics is the invocation of memories, which links the events of 1963 to the time of composition by asserting that 1963 “continues” (Lecocq, 2010, p. 269). In doing so, the song serves as a powerful reminder of the FAM’s barbaric acts against the Tuaregs, stirring up feelings of egha toward the Malian state and spurring people to action. By transmitting such memories and the courage of resistance, the al-guitara initially served to foster mutual encouragement and cohesion among the first rebel performers (Rasmussen, 2006, p. 645). The impact and reach of the genre, however, grew rapidly and exponentially as expressions of egha became a justification for lyrical calls to arms: “Together, let us rise and unite. I beg you, my brothers; let us unite so that we may rise up” (cited in Belalimat, 2010, p. 163). This capacity for mobilization constituted the greatest revolutionary impact of the al-guitara, as rebel leaders became aware of the benefits of music in promoting their cause and began to provide funds for guitars and equipment.

The cassette as a political bulletin.

Thanks to tape recorders and cassettes, al-guitara quickly spread beyond the inner circle of rebel fighters, becoming a “musical cult” among young people in exile and reaching as far as the migrants’ homeland of Mali (Belalimat, 2010, p. 163). In the absence of newspapers, radio, or television stations in Tamasheq, the songs of the ishumar carried messages of hope, struggle, and exile throughout Tuareg society (Morgan, 2011). Music essentially became “a political news bulletin for propaganda and mobilization” among the Tuaregs (Borel, 2006, p. 132). In fact, the cassettes were so influential in pushing Tuareg youth toward rebellion that possessing one was considered an act of sedition (Gill, 2007). Consequently, due to its political criticism, al-guitara was officially banned by the Malian government in the early 1990s, giving rise to an underground distribution network. Al-guitara music, as a highly effective means of disseminating Tuareg nationalist discourse, was a pivotal tool in the construction and propagation of a Tuareg national identity. These musical constructions of identity thus undermined Malian national unity and intensified societal divisions.

From rebellion to peace agreements.

Around 1990, Tuareg rebels in exile, disillusioned by Gaddafi and his broken promises, returned to Mali to pursue their goals of independence. The political nationalist movement, propagated by the music of the ishumar, then found expression in an uprising against the Malian state. It can therefore be said that the al-guitara directly shaped Tuareg political identity and planted the seeds of the “Second Tuareg Rebellion, ” disrupting Mali’s fragile national cohesion. In the context of the rebellion itself, the al-guitara constituted a “space of resistance” (Castelo-Branco, 2010, p. 245), a space for the Tuaregs to critique political hegemony. Ultimately, internal divisions hampered the Tuareg nationalist insurrection. The agreements between the Malian government and Tuareg leaders—the Tamanrasset Accords of January 1991 and the National Pact of April 1992—laid the groundwork for a cessation of hostilities and decentralization efforts in the North. The Tuaregs’ political position was significantly improved as a result, and decentralization helped to deflect calls for independence (Seely, 2001, p. 516). With these developments, al-guitara performers lost their clandestine and subversive character, new groups formed, and guitar music became a popular musical genre among Tuareg youth (Belalimat, 2010, p. 165). Rasmussen (2006, p. 647) examines these changes, demonstrating that many performances came to focus on peace and reconciliation efforts. This is evident in the emergence of the Festival au Désert (FID), an annual event held in the remote outskirts of Timbuktu, organized by the Tuareg Manny Ansar, members of Tinariwen, and various other French and Malian patrons and supporters (Morgan, 2013a, p. 42). The Festival, as we shall see, emphasized notions of belonging and collective identity through musical performance, thereby contributing to a sense of national unity in the post-conflict environment.

The Festival in the Desert: peace and reconciliation

The FID was originally organized to advance the objectives of the post-rebellion peace agreements: reconciliation, revitalization, and “development” of the northern region, as well as raising international awareness of the Tuareg situation (Rasmussen, 2006, p. 646). Ahmed ag Hamama (2009), co-founder of the Festival, stated that at the end of the war, there was a need for a forum for peace and a venue for exchange between communities in order to restore trust. The Festival served as an important symbol and means of reconciliation and unity: an explicit goal was to “celebrate ‘The Flame of Peace’ , ” a ceremony held in 1996 during which more than three thousand firearms were burned, symbolically marking the end of the rebellion. Modeled on traditional nomadic gatherings, it was precisely Tuareg culture that was mobilized to bring them out of years of rebellion and underdevelopment (Morgan, 2006). The Festival was attended by local residents, Malians from the south, as well as foreign visitors. It showcased Tuareg music and culture to an increasingly international audience as it gained international renown in the decade following its creation. As such, Tuareg participants viewed the Festival as “a way to reach out to the global community, create intercultural dialogue, and build bridges between cultures” (Montague, 2016, p. 19).

From the Kalashnikov to the guitar.

The FID can therefore be seen as an alternative means of pursuing the broader goals sought in the rebellion itself: gaining recognition for Tuareg culture and better integrating the Tuaregs into Malian society. Tinariwen’s integral role in organizing the FID is crucial, as it demonstrates how former combatants turned to music to pursue their objectives. As their spokesperson stated: “In the past, they fought with Kalashnikovs for the recognition of their cultural identity, but today they use guitars to try to promote the cause of their people and promote peace” (Dicko, 2009). At the heart of this transformation lies the shift of al-guitara away from themes of activism and political criticism toward broader themes, including social issues, love, and friendship. With this, many performances have sought to promote a transition from protest to dialogue (Rasmussen, 2006, p. 634), thereby furthering the FID’s goal of reconciliation. Gray (2015, p. 64) asserts that music can function as a “bridge between the past and reconciliation, ” as it allows society to be understood in terms of its own interpretations of reality. In fact, the presentation of Tuareg musical culture provided a platform to dissociate al-guitara from its militant and subversive nature, shifting its interpretation toward an affirmation of Tuareg identity in a changing environment. On a broader level, the Festival certainly helped to portray the northern desert region not as a haven for “bandits, ” but as a peaceful and tolerant asset (Morgan, 2006). For the local performers themselves, taking the stage helped legitimize their cultural and musical practices; for festivalgoers, listening to the music essentially created a space for connection (Amico, 2014). One of Mali’s most famous musicians, originally from the Timbuktu region, said of the Festival: “ All the bands from West Africa are here […] With this spirit, people will no longer be divided, but united” (Farka Touré, 2003). The Festival thus created a space in which cultural differences were overcome. By fostering new forms of social cohesion and cultural exchange through music, the FID enabled participants to develop a sense of collective Malian identity, envisioning a community free from divisive identities. We can therefore conclude that the FID generated symbolic power, serving as an indicator of tolerance in the northern region and, on a national scale, contributing to the goal of national unity in the aftermath of the rebellion. With the imposition of Sharia law in northern Mali in 2012, however, the annual festival was forced into “exile. ” Amid persistent insecurity, the Festival has not been held in its original form since then.

The imposition of Sharia law in northern Mali and the Islamist ban on music

Focusing on Mali as a subject of study provides an interesting case for broader debates on the relationship between religion and democracy. The acceptance of music is, in fact, one of the key issues in debates on religiosity in the Islamic world; its prohibition under Sharia law in Mali can therefore be analyzed as part of this broader debate.

On 22 August 2012, a MUJAO spokesman announced: “We, the mujahideen of Gao, Timbuktu and Kidal, are henceforth banning the broadcasting of all Western music on all radio stations in this Islamic territory […] We do not want the music of Satan. In its place will be the verses of the Koran. The sharia requires it. ” (quoted in Morgan, 2013a, p. 21).

Malian Islam, syncretism and the Salafist offensive.

The ban on music can, at first glance, be situated within the broader debate on Islam, secularism, and politics in Mali (Soares, 2007, p. 212). This debate came to the forefront in the 1990s, when political liberalization led to an explosion in the number of Muslim volunteer associations. Many of these were supported by Middle Eastern interest groups particularly committed to spreading a specific interpretation of Islam—Salafism—to counter the syncretic innovations of the Sufis, whom they abhorred. Despite a secular constitution, Islam is integral to Mali’s national identity and has been one of the few unifying factors among the population. In very simple terms, Le Vine (2007, p. 77) argues that it was only in the 20th century, under French colonial rule, that Islam became the religion of the majority of Malians. At that time, the cross-pollination of religious practice with local cultures and traditions resulted in a wide range of interpretations of Islam; and although most Malians generally identify as Sunni (Bell, 2012), such practices have been substantially shaped by animism, as well as by affiliations with major Sufi brotherhoods (Peterson, 2012). In fact, certain practices closely linked to Sufism remain essential to what it means to be Muslim for many Malians (Soares, 2007, p. 79). The centrality of music in Sufi religious practice is significant in this regard, particularly in the context of the dhikr (remembrance) ritual—the rhythmic chanting of God’s names, which may include singing, dancing, and musical instruments (Charry, 2000b, p. 556). Here, religious music is highlighted as a means of drawing closer to God (Denny, 2016, p. 252).

Musicians on the front line

Islamists threatened to cut out the tongue of the famous Timbuktu musician Khaira Arby if they captured her (Coghlan, 2013). The Tuareg musician Ahmed ag Kaedi was away when militiamen ransacked his home, declaring that they would “cut off all the fingers he uses to play that guitar. ” The militiamen then proceeded as follows: “ …They dragged all of [Ahmed’s] musical equipment […] into the courtyard. Amps, speakers, microphones, a drum set […] a mixing console, and several guitars were piled into a heap, which was then doused with gasoline and set on fire” (cited in Morgan, 2013a, p. 54). Musicians in Mali essentially found themselves on the “front lines” of a war between two different religious philosophies (Morgan, 2013a, p. 55). The imposition of Salafist doctrine was incompatible with the “Malian” Islam of syncretism and tolerance that characterized the country’s culture and identity. Given, in particular, the religious significance of music in Mali, justifying its ban in the name of Islam ultimately amounted to calling into question the very identity of many Malians. The musician Toumani Diabaté expressed this confusion: “I grew up with the Quran and the kora […] that I might get into trouble for playing a traditional Malian instrument, which is part of our culture—I never would have imagined that in Mali” (quoted in Hoije, 2016). This account is typical of what happened to the homes of many musicians, as well as to concert halls and radio stations across northern Mali. Such accounts highlight the particularly dangerous position of musicians in the conflict, leading to a region that has been almost entirely emptied of music, musicians, and, to a large extent, its population (Morgan, 2013a, p. 51) . In total, more than 350,000 Malians were displaced, either within the country or to neighboring countries, following the 2012 conflict (OCHA, 2013).

Erasing memory, unravelling the social fabric.

These profound sociocultural upheavals have affected the country’s social fabric and weakened social cohesion. After discussing the integral role that music has played in the construction of identities in Mali, and in particular its influence on national unity, it becomes clear that the absence of music led to the loss of a major force for cultural cohesion and reconciliation.

The role of the jeli and Tuareg poetry has been previously demonstrated through their oral repertoires, through which Malians and Tuaregs came to know their history and identity. It was through music that these oral histories were preserved, and thus, without music, Malians lost an essential link to their past.

In fact, the Bamako-based rapper Amkoullel (cited in Morgan, 2013a, p. 94) sees this as a tactic employed by Islamists to “destroy all references, all memory, and all history” in order to replace them with their Salafist doctrine. Furthermore, the use of music as a tool to foster intercultural dialogue in Mali was examined earlier, with reference to both government initiatives (such as the Biennales) and more local initiatives (such as the FID). Essentially, music provided a pretext for people to come together in these contexts and fostered a collective Malian identity.

Musician Vieux Farka Touré emphasizes this: “[Music] is our meeting place, where we are happy, where there is friendship and camaraderie… ” (quoted in Morgan, 2013a, p. 95). It is therefore clear that in a country as ethnically divided as this, music was one of the most effective tools for socialization and community cohesion.

By obstructing music’s powerful role as a means of dialogue and unity, the ban dismantled vital opportunities for national reconciliation and cohesion. In fact, sociologist Sujatha Fernandes (2013) uses the ban on music in Mali to reflect on the power of music itself, in a more general sense, stating that the loss of music as a means of social connection, as a voice of conscience, and as a mode of storytelling has taught us [that] music matters.

throughout the postcolonial era, music has been a key mechanism through which identities have been constructed in Mali. These musical constructions of identity have fostered national unity and constitute a crucial means by which regimes have created a “Malian” identity and promoted national cohesion. The marginalized representations of Tuareg culture within this national narrative have led to expressions of Tuareg separatism, widely disseminated through the medium of al-guitara music, which have reinforced divisions within a minority segment of the population. The implementation of Sharia law in 2012 and the ban on music restricted a vital means of national cohesion and contributed to the collapse of Mali’s social fabric.

MALI BA, Habib Koïté

Abira deya fo Maliba biko touramissi
Missi min chi biko sanou woulén
Missi min fin gné dji sanouma
Missi min dounfin gné sagno horon gné
Hono kangnè iko sanou woulén
Hono nonérou missi balibali
Missi tchaman yékè saraka yé
Nin toura te sarakala sanko lahiya
Kègnèkè missi nato don
koun kélé ni guéré kélén
Maramafin yan kissil djouguou ma
nin toura gné marafinyé
Niyé toura ni yé iyé Maliba yé
Hono kangné iko sanou woulén
Hono nonérou missi balibali
Bèdeki djanto
Fassoden gnouma
Bèdeki djanto toura nina
Bèdeki djanto
Maliden gnouman
Bedeki djanto touranina
I djanto Malila

Translation
Abira said that
great Mali is like a bull
A bull with a golden coat
A bull that drinks only pure water
A bull that eats only noble sorghum
Like gold, red gold
Like a domestic bull
This bull will never be sacrificed for
the Tabaski festival
The bull that charges you has
only one head, one horn
A firearm protects us from the enemy
This bull can be a formidable weapon
Look at this bull, it is like Mali
Like gold, red gold
Like a domestic animal
Take heed
Son of this land
Take care of this bull
Take heed
Good son of Mali
Take care of this bull
Take care of your great Mali