On a cold wet morning in the Rubondo zone of Nakivale refugee camp, Musafiri Solange is burying some bean seeds, because the rain has finally arrived. It is finally time to sow, without wasting any time, while hoping that the drought that dried up Lake Nakivale last June and July will not return after several months… Unfortunately, this is only a hope. Her garden is right at the back of her modest mud-brick house, a house that is the envy of her neighbours who have even less than she does.

At the entrance of the door, a sewing machine clatters softly as she mends a torn school uniform. The fabric is second-hand, faded at the edges, but it is all she and her teenage son can afford. While minding her new modest business, she glances nervously around her house because her insecurity is never far away.

At fifty-two, Solange is thin, her hands calloused, her eyes heavy with memories. She fled the war in eastern Democratic Republic of Congo in March 2024, crossing the border at Bunagana with her son, convinced that Uganda would finally bring her safety. “I thought the war was over when I got here,” she says. “No crackling of bullets, no soldiers in sight. I was happy. I thought we would be safe. But safety never came.“

Rubondo Market, Nakivale.

Surviving the Silence

In Rubondo, one of the newest zones under construction for accommodating new refugees in Nakivale settlement, 75,000 people live in a space intended for 40,000. She was given a small plot of land and told she could rebuild her life. Instead, she faced hostility from her neighbours and, one morning, she suffered one of those violent attacks that leave you changed forever and shatter your fragile hopes.

A local man, a nurse by profession, who often visited her home on the pretext of bringing her medicine and massage her hand, which had been broken when she fled the war in her native Rutshuru, in eastern DRC, sneaked into her bedroom without her knowing and raped her. A few months later, she tested positive for HIV. Her attacker still walks freely around the camp, where he works at the local hospital. Solange now lives on antiretroviral drugs, which she must take every day.

Solange has faced all these challenges while relying solely on the very little financial assistance she receives from the United Nations Refugee Agency (UNHCR), which provides her with only 16,000 UGX (4.56 USD) per month. She tries to supplement her income by sewing clothes and reselling second-hand items, but unfortunately her business cannot thrive because she has to stay locked in her house for fear of being attacked by her neighbours, with the complicity of the camp leader. As a result, most of the time, she and her son only eat once a day.

“Sixteen thousand,” she repeats softly. “That buys a kilo of beans and a kilo of cornmeal. That’s two days’ worth of food. And then what?”

And the question hanging over Nakivale, and indeed over all 13 refugee camps in Uganda, is one of responsibility: who is responsible for allowing refugees to ‘live with less and be left behind’? The United Nations Refugee Agency (UNHCR), the Ugandan government, or international donors who promised support but never delivered?

Uganda’s promise to refugees

Uganda has long been hailed as the most generous host country for refugees in Africa. Unlike many countries, it grants refugees land to cultivate, the right to move freely and the opportunity to work. Humanitarian aid agencies have described this refugee protection system as ‘model’.

According to the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), Uganda will host more than 1.68 million refugees by mid-2025, making it the largest refugee-hosting country in Africa and the third largest in the world after Turkey and Iran (UNHCR, Uganda Refugee Response Plan 2025). Most refugees come from South Sudan and the Democratic Republic of Congo, fleeing war, political unrest and economic collapse. Others arrive from Burundi, Rwanda, Somalia and Eritrea.

The Office of the Prime Minister (OPM) and UNHCR jointly manage the response. The World Food Programme (WFP) provides food aid or cash-for-food assistance. Other agencies, from UNICEF to Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF), run schools, clinics and water supply systems.

For years, this model has been praised internationally. A 2017 World Bank report called Uganda’s approach to refugees ‘visionary,’ highlighting its policies of integration rather than confinement in camps. Refugees were not locked up in camps, but settled in villages, where they could farm the land, trade and mingle with the local population.

But behind the praise, cracks began to appear. The promise of dignity is increasingly difficult to keep as funds run out and camps like Nakivale, designed to accommodate far fewer people, are now collapsing under the weight of tens of thousands of additional people. Overcrowding has overwhelmed water supplies, schools and health clinics. What was once celebrated as a progressive model is now in danger of turning into a humanitarian disaster.

The cracks in the model

The generosity of Uganda’s refugee reception policy has always rested on a fragile pillar: international funding. Without it, the model cannot stand. And today, that funding is collapsing.

Recognizing the growing challenges, UNHCR spokesperson Frank Walusimbi emphasized that the organization “continues to prioritize the most critical sectors to support the survival, dignity, and resilience of refugees.”

Walusimbi added that UNHCR “supports livelihood initiatives that help families become more self-reliant. However, the current funding situation remains extremely challenging, and operations are shaped by the limited resources available.”

According to the UNHCR’s Uganda Refugee Response Plan 2025, the country needs approximately $858 million this year to support refugees and host communities. As of July, only 46% of this request had been funded. This shortfall has forced agencies to significantly reduce basic services, particularly food and water supplies.

For refugees like Solange, the most visible gap is the reduction in food aid. In 2021, the WFP provided cash transfers of about 31,000 Ugandan shillings (≈ US $8.50 per month per refugee), an amount calibrated to meet the recommended daily 2,100 calories. By 2023, however, this support had dropped to about 19,000 shillings (≈ US $5.00 per month).

In 2025, with donor contributions in steep decline, WFP announced that it would prioritise only the most vulnerable groups, such as children, pregnant women, and the elderly, leaving many families without any assistance at all. The agency warned that unless new funding is secured, even these reduced levels of support cannot be maintained.

Lauren Landis, WFP Uganda Country Director, said that “WFP’s top priority is the people we serve. Severe funding shortfalls have forced WFP to reduce ration sizes and the number of people receiving rations in Uganda. Cutting people from assistance means making impossible decisions, but our goal is to ensure assistance reaches those who need it the most.”

The consequences are dramatic. A May 2025 UNHCR nutrition report revealed that in Nakivale camp alone, 94 children were enrolled in a supplementary feeding programme for moderate malnutrition, while 19 were admitted for severe acute malnutrition. Nationwide, more than 51,000 children under the age of two and 42,000 pregnant and breastfeeding women were identified as being at risk of malnutrition.

The cracks in Uganda’s refugee reception model are not limited to food. Overcrowding has put a strain on schools, where classes have more than 100 pupils, forcing many children to drop out. Clinics are undersupplied, depriving the population of basic medicines.

Refugees are technically allowed to farm the land, but in practice, land is too scarce and government restrictions, such as the ban on farming near Lake Nakivale, have further reduced their livelihoods.

‘Uganda gave us land,’ explains Mamadou, a resident of New Congo zone, a Congolese refugee who arrived in 2012. “But what good is land without water, without seeds, without peace to farm?” Mamadou is the founder of grassroots organization that defends the rights of victims of sexual violence: “Imagine that I was raped for trying to report the harassment I was subjected to by UNHCR officials and the corruption they were guilty of. My dignity was taken away from me forever.”

The model that once drew admiration from around the world is now on the brink of collapse. Refugees are left to fend for themselves and must survive as best they can, sewing clothes, selling firewood or borrowing at exorbitant interest rates. For many, Uganda’s promise has turned into a daily struggle against hunger.

Threatened, Starved, Ignored

Given her age and situation, Solange clearly falls into the category that UNHCR and its partners claim to prioritise. Yet in reality, she is excluded from any protection. The camp leader, whom she accuses of associating with those who harass her, continues to support her neighbours and protect David, the nurse who she claims raped her. Together, they allegedly persuaded organisations such as Alight, a humanitarian organization that helps refugees, particularly women and girls, to reject her complaints. Their argument was that Solange suffers from mental health issues and should not be taken seriously.

David’s intimidation goes even further. He threatened to kill Solange if her accusations cost him his job. She claims he made the same threats against other women, two of whom refused to testify on records for fear of their lives.

“I know he can hurt me, but what else is there to fear?” Solange says softly. “I’m still breathing, but he’s already killed me from the inside. He can’t do anything worse to me.”

For Solange, reduced rations mean she has to make impossible choices. She and her son receive only 16,000 UGX (4.56 USD) per month between them. This allows them to buy little more than a few kilos of maize flour and beans. ‘We eat once a day,’ says his son Joshua. ‘Sometimes I drink water and tell my son to eat, so that at least one of us has strength.’ Solange added.

Water is another major problem. In Rubondo, MSF reports that residents survive on only five litres per person per day, a quarter of the Sphere humanitarian standard of 20 litres. The only UNHCR water tank in the area is filled only twice a week. On other days, people travel long distances to fetch water from ponds or buy it from private vendors at a price of 1,000 UGX per jerrycan. For Solange, whose sewing earns her only a few thousand shillings a week, even affording that little money is often impossible.

In addition to the difficulties in paying school fees, Solange’s son, Joshua, was also the victim of violence at school. She explains that some of his classmates, encouraged by certain teachers, attacked him, not because of anything he had done, but apparently to hurt his mother. ‘My son was beaten up several times by other pupils on his way home from school,’ she recalls. The case was reported to the police, who, after investigating, discovered that her neighbours were involved. They were taken to the police station, but Solange pleaded for their release. ‘Since then, my son has been studying in peace,’ she says, even though the incident left him feeling fearful and anxious.

Solange’s experience is not isolated. Mamadou, a father of four from the Democratic Republic of Congo, describes how his family copes: “We eat once a day, sometimes only porridge. My children ask for more, but what can I give them? I tell them: tomorrow, we’ll try again.”

A UNHCR field report from May 2025 documented similar accounts across Nakivale: families skipping meals, children dropping out of school to look for work, and young girls marrying early in exchange for food or money. Aid workers warn these “negative coping strategies” are spreading fast.

Others, like Serafina, a widow from Burundi, resort to buying water: “A 20 litters jerrycan costs 1,000 shillings (0.29 USD). I sell bananas to pay for it, but often I don’t have any money. So, we drink from the ponds. My children get sick.” MSF has warned repeatedly that unsafe water increases risks of diarrhoea, cholera, and skin disease, yet improving supply systems in Rubondo remains out of reach, as it is for the rest of the camp.

Fragile Economies and Deferred Dreams

Despite everything, refugees try to survive as best they can. Solange earns a few thousand shillings a week when her neighbours pay her for sewing. Mamadou cuts firewood in nearby forests and sells bundles in Mbarara, the nearest City, risking arrest by forest rangers. In 2019, he joined a group of refugees who met with UNHCR staff in Kampala to denounce corruption. Since then, he has been excluded from UNHCR services, including access to healthcare. Over time, these restrictions have also been extended to his wife and children, leaving the entire family even more vulnerable. Some women form savings groups, pooling their coins each week to set up micro-businesses: selling vegetables, brewing local alcohol, running kiosks. “We survive thanks to each other,” explains Yrene, a South Sudanese mother who runs a roadside stall. “If I sell tomatoes, I share with Solange. When she sews, she buys tomatoes from me.”

But these coping strategies are fragile. A broken water pump, a sudden illness or a further reduction in funding can undermine the entire chain of survival.

When asked what her dream is, Solange answers without hesitation: “I want my son to go back to school. ” But the reality in Nakivale is grim. As of mid-2025, the camp is home to some 175,000 refugees, including nearly 120,000 primary school-aged children, and only 18,000 are enrolled in school. This significant gap between need and access to education is exacerbating the crisis.

At Kashojwa Primary School, which once was the only school offering free education supported in part by USAID and other partners, recent budget cuts have forced the school to prioritise children whose parents can pay tuition fees, excluding those like Solange’s son. With classrooms already overcrowded, up to more than 100 pupils in a classroom suitable for 40 to 50 pupils, and uniforms and exam fees now out of reach for families living on only a few dollars a month, enrolment is declining, and with it, any hope for their children’s future.

The testimonies echo the same truth: Uganda’s refugee model is collapsing, not because the vision was flawed, but because the support needed to sustain it has vanished. In Nakivale, survival is no longer guaranteed. It is negotiated day by day, between hunger, water, and the hope that tomorrow might be different.