Kakuma Refugee Camp, located in north-western Kenya, is on the brink of a full-blown humanitarian crisis as food rations for its nearly 300,000 residents have dropped to the lowest levels ever recorded. The United Nations World Food Programme (WFP) has confirmed that refugees are “slowly starving,” a grim consequence of deep funding cuts from the United States, which had previously been the primary donor to the programme.
The situation is particularly stark at Kakuma’s Amusait Hospital, where severely malnourished children occupy nearly every bed. Emaciated and weak, many stare blankly into space as they receive emergency care. One infant, Hellen, lies almost motionless, her skin peeling from the effects of extreme malnutrition. Across the aisle, another baby, James, the eighth child of a Ugandan refugee mother, struggles with similar symptoms. “The food is not enough,” says his mother, Agnes Awila. “My children eat only once a day. If there’s no food, what do you feed them?”
The crisis stems from drastic cuts to US foreign aid announced earlier this year by President Donald Trump as part of his “America First” agenda. The US had historically contributed approximately 70% of WFP’s funding in Kenya. Without this crucial support, the agency has been forced to reduce food rations to just 30% of the daily nutritional intake required for basic health.
“If we continue like this, we are essentially looking at a population that is starving slowly,” says Felix Okech, head of WFP’s refugee operations in Kenya.
Outside the camp’s food distribution center, thousands wait in long, dusty queues under the searing sun. Aid workers carry out identity checks and biometric verifications before handing out modest rations of rice, lentils, and cooking oil. But the supplies barely last. Mukuniwa Bililo Mami, a 51-year-old mother who fled conflict in the Democratic Republic of Congo 13 years ago, expresses her gratitude for the food but says it is far from sufficient. Once used to three meals a day, her family now survives on drastically reduced portions that she must stretch for two months.
Adding to the strain is the suspension of a $4 million monthly cash transfer programme known locally as “bamba chakula,” which had allowed refugees to buy vegetables and other essentials. Mami, who is diabetic, relied on that money to purchase food compatible with her dietary needs and to maintain a small garden and poultry business. The loss of cash support has crippled local markets and left many traders, such as Sudanese shopkeeper Badaba Ibrahim, unable to extend credit to desperate customers.
“I have people sitting outside my shop all day telling me their children haven’t eaten,” Ibrahim says, helplessly.
Elsewhere in the camp, the struggle continues. Agnes Livio, a refugee from South Sudan, prepares the first meal of the day for her five children at 2pm. They live in a cramped, iron-sheet shelter and can no longer afford breakfast, once a daily routine.
Back at the hospital, a few children are being discharged, though their families return to communities where food is still dangerously scarce. With donor interest dwindling and no immediate financial relief in sight, aid workers fear the worst. Unless significant new funding materializes within the next two months, thousands of refugees may face full-blown starvation by August.
“The situation is really dire,” Okech reiterates. “We’ve heard from one or two potential donors, but if 70% of our funding remains missing, the outlook is grim.”
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