By Nanfuka Fatuma
THE small clinic in northern Uganda’s Obongi District sits at the end of a dusty road, its tin roof catching the morning sun. Inside, two volunteer health workers sort through meagre medical supplies while a local elder quietly coordinates referrals for gender-based violence survivors.
There are no salaries, no steady supply of medicines, and no guarantee the doors will stay open tomorrow.
“When the NGO left, we didn’t stop, we just shared what little we had,” explained the midwife* who now runs this community clinic. Her voice carries the weight of responsibility that wasn’t supposed to be hers alone.
This scene has become increasingly common across Uganda’s 13 refugee-hosting districts, where international humanitarian organisations have dramatically scaled back following the United States’ foreign aid freeze that began in January 2025.
As formal protection systems collapse, ordinary people are stepping in to fill the void. Their efforts highlight human resilience, but dangerous gaps are emerging in the care of some of the world’s most vulnerable populations.
Uganda hosts the fifth–largest refugee population in the world. Across settlements that house these 1.8 million people, who have primarily fled conflicts in South Sudan and the Democratic Republic of Congo, the consequences of collapsing humanitarian budgets are stark.
Programmes for post-rape care, youth empowerment, and school-based protection have either scaled down dramatically or disappeared entirely.
“Most NGOs are now operating on a much smaller scale,” said a humanitarian worker in western Uganda’s Kyangwali Refugee Settlement, one of the largest in the country. “Many staff contracts have been terminated.”
The ripple effects extend far beyond programme closures. “It’s not just about aid cuts, it’s a total collapse in safety nets,” a refugee teacher in northern Uganda’s Palabek settlement told The New Humanitarian. “Children drop out of school when there’s no food. Girls are pushed into early marriage. Boys turn to gangs. Everything is connected.”
Innovation born from necessity
In the face of these challenges, community members are finding ways to adapt. Food rations have been severely reduced – in some cases by more than half – forcing refugees to develop alternative survival strategies.
Women, children, adolescents, and youth – especially unaccompanied minors – are turning to farming, petty trade, and vocational activities. On Wednesdays, Kyangwali’s market day, refugee women line the dusty paths selling milk, tomatoes, and other goods to meet their daily needs. Young people have begun joining skills programmes to help support their families.
“With nothing else coming in, we are becoming the solution,” said a 19-year-old refugee who recently completed a local tailoring course. “Now the laws are less harsh towards refugees, we are allowed to farm, start micro-businesses, or even do small trades within the settlement.”
For many refugees, who fled their homes with little more than the clothes on their backs, the ability to generate income and contribute to their families’ welfare provides a psychological lifeline as important as the material benefits.
Women’s groups become lifelines
In the absence of formal protection services, women’s groups – many of which evolved from former youth clubs and informal protection circles – have become crucial lifelines for survivors and at-risk girls. These networks operate with remarkable efficiency despite having no funding, training, or official recognition.
“We hold meetings, check in with each other, and help those in need,” said an elderly refugee woman who now volunteers at a reception centre. Her weathered hands gesture as she speaks, reflecting the organic nature of these support systems that have emerged from necessity.
But these community responders are witnessing alarming trends that formal systems would normally address.
“These days, many girls are so desperate for protection and a sense of belonging that they agree to marry at a very young age,” the volunteer told The New Humanitarian.
“Some boys deceive them, telling them not to disclose their marriages so they can continue receiving aid from NGOs,” she said. “They lie to multiple girls using this trick, leaving many of them pregnant, abandoned, and without support.”
Grassroots protection networks emerge
With formal systems scaled back, unpaid Village Health Teams (VHTs) have become the backbone of the community GBV response. These volunteers, many of whom received basic training years ago, now find themselves handling complex cases that would normally require professional intervention.
They refer survivors to the few clinics that remain open, offer mental health first aid, and conduct awareness talks on gender rights and protection. Their commitment is evident, but so is the weight of responsibility they carry.
“We are not doctors or therapists,” admitted one VHT member. “But we listen. We show up. That’s what we can offer.”
Some teachers who remained after donor-funded GBV school clubs shut down have begun leading peer support groups for girls, using storytelling and art therapy techniques they had learned.
These initiatives provide safe spaces for girls to express trauma and build resilience, though they operate without funding, materials, or professional oversight.
The informal protection network extends beyond traditional health and education workers. Boda-boda (motorcycle taxi) riders – many of them former refugees who have settled and acquired assets – serve as informal transporters, moving survivors from remote villages to clinics, legal aid offices, or safer zones.
“They are not just transporters,” explained a refugee women’s leader. “They are protectors.” In some settlements, these riders have created informal night patrols to discourage exploitation and monitor hotspots known for abuse.
A critical enabler of these grassroots efforts has been communication technology. MTN, Uganda’s mobile network carrier providing connectivity to refugee settlements, originally designed to facilitate cash transfers from the UN refugee agency (UNHCR) and other donors, has become a vital tool for coordination. The networks enable faster referrals, real-time follow-up, and coordinated protection efforts, even without formal systems in place.
Cracks in the community foundation
Despite these remarkable adaptations, the gaps are growing wider. “Survivors are slipping through the cracks,” admitted a case management worker in Kikuube district, western Uganda. “Not everyone has someone to turn to. The most vulnerable – young girls, persons with disabilities, the elderly, mostly new arrivals placed in deep isolated zones with small or no roads – are often left behind.”
The strain on community volunteers is becoming evident. Many protection volunteers say they are stretched beyond capacity, taking personal risks with no support or assurance. “If we fall sick or face threats, there is no backup,” said a female protection volunteer. “It’s just us.”
Uganda’s updated GBV referral protocols were designed to create a coordinated, survivor-centred response linking communities to professional services. But in settlements like Kyangwali, adapting these systems without institutional support remains a significant challenge.
“We know the guidelines,” said a protection volunteer. “But without transport, without clinics, without salaries, how do we follow them?”
The sustainability of these community-led initiatives remains questionable. As global attention shifts and donors re-prioritise funding, Uganda’s grassroots actors are holding the line against early marriage, sexual violence, and social breakdown. But without adequate support, even the most determined community responders risk burnout.
The situation underscores a broader question about humanitarian response: How long can communities sustain protection systems that were designed to be temporary while formal support remains elusive?
In Uganda, the answer may determine not just individual fates but the stability of entire communities.
Unless these grassroots networks receive urgent support – whether through restored international funding, government investment, or innovative partnership models – the protection system they’re trying to sustain could ultimately collapse, leaving survivors with nowhere to turn.
*Due to the sensitive nature of this story and security concerns for those providing assistance to GBV survivors, all names of community volunteers and refugees interviewed have been withheld to protect their safety and the continuity of their vital work.
This story was published in collaboration with Egab. Edited by Lina El Wardani and Obi Anyadike.
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The New Humanitarian puts quality, independent journalism at the service of the millions of people affected by humanitarian crises around the world. Find out more at www.thenewhumanitarian.org.
