DOUANKARA, Mauritania — The girl lay on a narrow cot in a clinic stitched together from tarpaulin and plywood, her breathing shallow, her eyes unfocused. A nurse swatted flies from her face as another hung an IV bag, the clear fluid dripping into a vein that barely rose beneath her skin. Fever had soaked her hairline. Her heart raced on the monitor.
“This was the last window,” said Bethsabee Djoman Elidje, the women’s health manager coordinating the emergency response. “Another day, maybe hours, and we would have lost her.”
The patient was 14. According to her family, she had been raped two weeks earlier during an attack on their encampment in central Mali. Untreated infection had pushed her into shock by the time they crossed into Mauritania. Shame, fear, and poverty had kept them from seeking help. By the time they did, it was almost too late.
The family alleges the attackers were Russian fighters—foreign soldiers Malians often describe simply as “the white men”—belonging to Africa Corps, a military unit under Russia’s Defense Ministry that replaced the Wagner Group earlier this year. Russia has not publicly addressed these specific claims. Survivors and aid workers say the unit’s arrival has coincided with renewed violence in parts of the country already fractured by a decade of war.
Sexual violence has long scarred Mali’s conflict, perpetrated by multiple armed actors including jihadist groups, pro‑government militias, and foreign fighters. United Nations officials and humanitarian organizations have documented patterns of rape, gang rape, forced marriage and sexual slavery. Yet the true scale of abuse remains hidden, buried under layers of stigma in conservative communities where disclosure can mean social exile—or worse.
The Hidden Toll: Why Malian Sexual Violence Is Underreported
In 2023, humanitarian service providers in Mali registered 158 cases of conflict‑related sexual violence, affecting 90 women and 68 girls; 65 percent of the survivors were displaced from their homes. The majority of these verified cases involved rape, forced marriage, and sexual slavery. Twenty‑three cases of pregnancy resulting from conflict‑related rape were also recorded.
These figures likely represent only the “tip of an iceberg,” say U.N. experts, because conflict‑related sexual violence is chronically underreported due to stigma, insecurity, and barriers to humanitarian access.
Conflict‑related sexual violence in Mali is compounded by a broader crisis. From April to June 2023, stakeholders documented 2,809 incidents of gender‑based violence—a 53 percent increase over the previous quarter—with sexual violence accounting for roughly 34 percent of those cases. In that period, rape made up about 21 percent of reports.
Despite the rising numbers, fewer than one in four health facilities in conflict‑affected regions provide comprehensive care for survivors, and many specialized services remain closed.
These statistics are stark not just locally but regionally: in sub‑Saharan Africa more broadly, an estimated 79 million girls and women have experienced rape or sexual assault before age 18—more than one in five across the region—according to UNICEF
A War Without Witnesses
Mali’s war has pushed hundreds of thousands from their homes. In recent weeks alone, thousands—mostly women and children—have crossed into southeastern Mauritania, erecting shelters from branches and fabric in the scrubland near the border. The nearest formal refugee camp is full. Clinics are new, overstretched, and often the only lifeline for survivors who arrive days or weeks after suffering violence.
In interviews conducted over several weeks, Time Africa spoke with dozens of refugees, aid workers, and medical staff along the border. Several women described sexual assaults they said were committed by foreign fighters they identified as Russians. Others recounted abuses by jihadist groups affiliated with al‑Qaida, particularly Jama’at Nusrat al‑Islam wal‑Muslimin (JNIM), a powerful armed group in central Mali.
One clinic director in the Mopti region said her team treated 28 women over six months who reported assaults by militants linked to JNIM. “But those are only the ones who came,” she said. “Most never do.”
The contrast with other conflict zones is stark. “In eastern Congo, survivors came in huge numbers,” said Mirjam Molenaar, a medical team leader with Doctors Without Borders (MSF) who worked there before being stationed along the Mali–Mauritania border. “Here, people endure it in silence. You see it later—in depression, in trauma, in bodies that arrive too late.”
“We Were Too Afraid to Scream”
The aunt of the 14‑year‑old girl said the attack began at night. Armed men stormed their tent, forcing everyone outside at gunpoint. The family did not understand what the soldiers wanted. Then, she said, they were made to watch as the men restrained the girl’s uncle and killed him.
Two of the fighters dragged the girl back into the tent. She resisted, her aunt said, but there was nothing the family could do. “We were so afraid we couldn’t even scream,” she recalled, speaking on condition of anonymity. Her mother sat beside her, quietly weeping.
By morning, another armed group arrived and ordered the family to leave. They fled on a donkey cart, hiding in bushes whenever they heard engines or voices. The journey to Mauritania took three days. The girl’s condition worsened with each mile. When they reached the border, she fell to the ground.
They had no money for a doctor. “If you have nothing, how do you bring someone to a clinic?” her grandmother asked, her voice breaking.
It was only when aid workers intervened that the family reached the free clinic where Elidje works. Medical staff said the girl showed signs consistent with sexual assault. The clinic had been open barely a month and had already treated three survivors of sexual violence.
“We know there are many more,” Elidje said. “Women come only when complications are severe. The taboo is powerful.”
Even gathering basic information can be difficult. As Elidje tried to stabilize the girl, she asked how many men were involved. The local nurse translating hesitated, unable to voice the question aloud.
Stories Told in Whispers
Not far from the clinic, two women who arrived from Mali a week earlier pulled reporters aside, adjusting their scarves to shield their faces. Armed white men had come to their village, they said.
“They took everything,” one woman said. “They burned our houses. They killed our husbands.” She paused. “They also tried to rape us.”
She said the men undressed her while she was alone in her home. She fought back and escaped. As she spoke, the second woman began to tremble, tears streaming down her face. Scratches ringed her neck. She could not speak.
Another woman said what happened to her last month “stays between God and me.” A fourth said she watched fighters drag her 18‑year‑old daughter into a house. She fled. She has not seen her daughter since.
None agreed to speak with local aid workers. They were not ready, they said. Some feared that translators or counselors might know their families. Others worried about retaliation if their stories spread.
From Wagner to Africa Corps
Allegations of sexual violence by Russian fighters in Mali did not begin with Africa Corps. Before the Wagner Group was restructured and folded under Russia’s Defense Ministry, similar accusations surfaced.
One refugee said she witnessed a mass rape in her village in March 2024. “They burned seven men alive,” she said, describing fighters she identified as Wagner. “Then they gathered the women.” Her 70‑year‑old mother was among those assaulted. She died a month later. “After that, she could not bear to live,” the woman said.
The most widely documented case occurred in Moura in 2022. A U.N. investigation reported that at least 58 women and girls were raped or sexually assaulted during a military operation involving Malian forces and armed men witnesses described as foreign and white. Mali’s government rejected the findings and later expelled the U.N. peacekeeping mission, sharply limiting independent monitoring.
Since then, collecting reliable data has become nearly impossible. Time Africa interviewed five women from Moura now living in displacement camps. They said they were blindfolded and assaulted for hours. Three had never told their families. Two eventually told their husbands months later.
“I was afraid of being rejected,” one said. “It is shameful.”
Russia’s Defense Ministry did not respond to detailed questions for this report. A Russian‑linked media outlet dismissed allegations against Africa Corps as fabricated.
The Cost of Silence
The 14‑year‑old girl in Douankara survived. After days of treatment, her fever broke. She speaks little. Her family and doctors say she does not remember the attack. She is seeing a psychiatrist—one of only a handful practicing in Mauritania.
Aid workers worry about those who never arrive.
Sexual violence is not just a crime of the moment. It ripples outward, shaping health outcomes, family dynamics, and the future of entire communities. Untreated infections can be fatal. Trauma can last a lifetime. Silence protects perpetrators.
Around the world, conflict‑related sexual violence has surged. In 2023, the U.N. verified 3,688 cases of rape and other sexual violence committed in war zones globally, with women and girls making up 95 percent of victims and children accounting for nearly one‑third of survivors.
“Each year the conflict becomes more brutal,” said Molenaar. “There is less regard for human life—men, women, children. It’s a battle.” She paused, then broke down. “And the women are fighting it alone.”
As the sun sets over the border settlements, smoke curls from cooking fires. Children chase each other between shelters. Life, somehow, continues. But beneath the routines is a weight carried quietly by women who have learned that survival often depends on saying nothing at all.
For now, clinics like Elidje’s remain rare sanctuaries—places where, if a survivor arrives in time, silence can be broken long enough to save a life.
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