In the heart of Somalia’s Lower Juba region, the reverberations of healthcare funding cuts are creating a silent crisis. Many residents in remote areas—like the villages of Badhadhe, Kulbiyow, and Kudhaa—are finding it increasingly difficult to access essential medical services. These cuts have not just diminished resources; they have effectively stripped away lifelines that countless families relied on for urgent medical treatment.
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Consider the struggles of Dahabo Cumar Ali, a mother who recently faced the devastating consequences of this healthcare shortfall. After her son sustained a nail puncture wound while playing at school, she rushed him to the local health clinic in Kulbiyow, hoping for immediate attention. What she found instead was an empty facility. “I needed a tetanus shot for him,” she recalled during her interview with Radio Ergo, “but the clinic had run out of supplies. I have been here every morning, praying for medicine to arrive.”
Dahabo’s son, who once bounded across the grass with his peers, now lay bedridden. Despite her repeated attempts to alleviate his suffering through home remedies, the situation worsened. “I haven’t slept for four nights,” she lamented. “I’ve been massaging his leg and occasionally purchasing painkillers from town, but nothing seems to help.”
Her situation illustrates a broader pattern. Even as illness spreads in these communities, it is met with the stark reality of dwindling medical supplies. Dahabo, aged 47, also sought medication for her own bronchitis but was met with an equally disheartening response: “There’s nothing in stock, and I simply don’t have the means to buy it elsewhere.”
Traveling beyond the borders of their village is not a viable option for many, compounded by the geographical barriers and recent flooding that have rendered roads impassable. “The closest healthcare facility is over 180 kilometers away in Dhobley,” she explained, her voice tinged with anxiety. “But even if I could find the money to go there, the roads are blocked.”
Dahabo’s husband struggles to provide for their family, earning a meager $2 a day breaking stones. With only ten goats remaining from what was once a larger herd, the family has not planted anything on their two-hectare farm this season due to an absence of seeds. The relentless cycle of hardship is enough to make one question: how can a community persevere in the face of such overwhelming odds?
Abdullahi Mohamed Isman, head of the Kudhaa health center, echoed Dahabo’s concerns. “We are open, but we can’t offer many services at all,” he said, reflecting the sentiments of many local health workers. “The hope of the community has been deeply affected. People are still coming, though, seeking treatments for severe illnesses like flu and dangerous conditions like acute watery diarrhea.” He sighed, recognizing the grim reality. “It’s troubling to see our neighbors suffer from skin diseases at a time when we have no medicines to provide.”
In another harrowing account, Bashir Said Diriye, a father of eight from Kulbiyow, was forced to seek treatment across the border in Kenya after several of his children contracted malaria. “It cost me $112 to get them there—money I had to borrow,” he recalled, his voice a mix of relief and residual anxiety. “I couldn’t stand to see my children in pain.” Once treated, his children began to recover, but the fear lingered that new illnesses might arise from contaminated water or increased mosquito activity after the rains. What price does one pay for access to basic healthcare?
Bashir’s family, displaced from Kulbiyow last October, now grapples with the loss of nearly their entire herd of goats and camels. Only 15 goats remain—a shadow of their former livelihood. His income, which fluctuates from $5 to $6 a day at the local slaughterhouse, often leaves him with little more than bones to sell. “Some days I earn a little, and other days, it seems the universe conspires against me,” he sighed, illustrating a painful paradox of hope and despair.
The Kulbiyow health centre, which opened its doors in 2019, offers a glimpse of the potential for accessible healthcare in these communities. However, the cries for help grow louder as residents long for government intervention. They await a day when the Federal Government of Somalia and the Jubbaland administration will step up to support the dwindling healthcare services, a commitment that could rejuvenate spirits and bring crucial support back to life.
In conclusion, the stories emerging from these villages serve as a poignant reminder of the pressing need for sustainable healthcare solutions. The battle for health in Somalia’s Lower Juba region is not just about medicine; it’s about the dignity and future of families caught in an endless cycle of struggle. Will the authorities rise to the occasion?
Edited By Ali Musa
Axadle Times International – Monitoring.
