Starvation Warning: Children Fill Kenya’s Refugee Ward After US Aid Cuts

In the heart of Kenya’s Kakuma refugee camp, a tragic narrative unfolds. It’s a story marked by uncertainty, desperation, and, above all, a haunting sense of hunger. Hundreds of thousands of individuals find themselves gradually succumbing to starvation, a reality starkly highlighted by recent funding cuts from the United States. A United Nations official has candidly described the situation to the BBC, revealing that food rations have plummeted to distressingly low levels.

At the Kakuma camp—which houses approximately 300,000 refugees fleeing violence and unrest from various African and Middle Eastern countries—the scene is both heart-wrenching and thought-provoking. At the Amusait Hospital, a stark reality is laid bare: emaciated children occupy every available space in its 30-bed ward, their hollow gazes fixed on visitors. These tiny souls, marked by their suffering, are not merely statistics; they are individuals, with dreams perhaps washed away by the tides of conflict—just like many around them.

Among them lies Hellen, a baby whose frail body barely twitches. Her skin, wrinkled and peeling, reveals angry patches, a painful testament to severe malnutrition. Nearby, another infant, nine-month-old James, is cradled in his mother Agnes Awila’s arms. A refugee from northern Uganda, she bears the weight of her family’s struggles as she tries to nourish her children. “The food is not enough; my children eat only once a day. If there’s no food, what do you feed them?” she laments, her eyes brimming with worry.

The harsh reality is that James, Hellen, and countless other refugees in Kakuma are wholly dependent on the World Food Programme (WFP) for their next meal. However, following President Trump’s sweeping cuts to US foreign aid earlier this year—a signature of his “America First” policy—the WFP has faced dire constraints. Previously, the US was the backbone of the WFP’s operations in Kenya, providing around 70% of its funding. With this safety net fraying, food aid has been cut to a mere 30% of what is minimally required for health and survival.

“If we have a protracted situation where this is what we can manage, we are essentially creating a slowly starving population,” warns Felix Okech, the WFP’s head of refugee operations in Kenya. Such grave assertions serve as an urgent call to action. It’s a question that lingers: How did it come to this?

Amid overwhelming heat, at Kakuma’s food distribution center, refugees queue under the watch of security officers. Here, individuals will go through a meticulous process of verification—identity checks are made, fingerprints scanned—before they can collect their meager rations. Among those waiting is Mukuniwa Bililo Mami, a mother of two and a refugee from the conflict-ridden South Kivu in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Clutching a jerrycan for cooking oil and sacks for lentils and rice, she shares her gratitude but also her pain: “I’m grateful to receive this little [food], but it is not enough.”

Ms. Mami remembers a time when rations were sufficient, when families could enjoy three meals a day. This stark shift from abundance to scarcity begs one to ponder: What happens to hope when hunger becomes a constant companion? With current rations falling short of even a month’s supply, it genuinely seems implausible to stretch this paltry sustenance over eight weeks.

Adding to the precarious nature of food security are recent cuts to cash transfers—once a lifeline for many families. Prior to this year, the UN disbursed around $4 million each month directly to refugees, enabling them to purchase essential goods. For Ms. Mami, this cash was crucial—it allowed her to buy vegetables more suitable for her diabetic condition and even start a vegetable garden, fostering a semblance of independence and self-sustainability.

However, the cancellation of these transfers, locally known as “bamba chakula,” has set off a ripple effect, endangering local markets and traders alike. Badaba Ibrahim, a shop owner from Sudan’s Nuba Mountains, reflects on the despair around him, “They tell me, ‘My children haven’t eaten for a full day,’ and I can’t help them.” The palpable sense of defeat is a common refrain, echoing throughout the camp.

As the sun dips lower in the sky, 28-year-old Agnes Livio serves a meager meal to her five young sons in their cramped corrugated iron shelter. Their first meal of the day appears at 2 PM, a stark departure from the mornings filled with porridge they once knew. “Now, the children have to wait until the afternoon to eat,” she states somberly, her voice tinged with resignation. Fleeing violence in South Sudan, she embodies countless mothers navigating this grim reality.

Back at Amusait Hospital, the situation grows increasingly concerning. Medical staff struggle against time and dwindling resources, feeding malnourished infants through tubes—an all-too-common sight. As mothers leave the hospital, the sobering question looms: What awaits them in a community where scarcity is becoming the norm? Sadly, if funding does not improve soon, the threat of starvation could cast an even darker shadow over Kakuma in the coming months.

“It is a really dire situation,” admits Okech, his tone somber yet urgent. While there may be flickers of hope—some donors hinting at the possibility of assistance—the overarching reality remains daunting. With more than 70% of their usual support still missing, the prospects for these refugees seem dismally bleak. As we reflect on their plight, one cannot help but ask: What kind of world allows this to happen?

Until solutions are found, the struggle for survival continues, each day more challenging than the last, echoing the urgent cry for empathy and action.

Edited By Ali Musa
Axadle Times international–Monitoring.