FOR more than two decades, I have called the Dzaleka Refugee Camp home, though “home” has always been a complicated word here. Dzaleka was never meant to be permanent, yet for many of us, it has become the only place we know.
Over the years, it has grown into a community of its own, made up of refugees from the Democratic Republic of the Congo, Rwanda, Burundi, Somalia, and Ethiopia. Children born here have become parents themselves. Schools and small markets have sprung up, and through it all, one name has been constant – the UN refugee agency, UNHCR.
By Ndizeye Innocent
Now funding cuts have triggered a dramatic downsizing of the agency, changing the nature of the camp, and sparking fears that it could even close entirely, leaving its 56,000 refugees stranded.
For years, UNHCR stood as a lifeline for refugees like me. It was more than just an agency; it was our shield against despair. UNHCR and the aid system provided us with food, healthcare, shelter, and education. It gave us structure and stability in a world defined by uncertainty. It also offered what it called durable solutions: repatriation, resettlement, and integration.
But in Malawi, integration was always out of reach. The government’s restrictions and encampment policy meant we could never truly settle and work here, no matter how many years passed. Resettlement, then, became the dream; the one hope that sustained many of us through long, difficult days.
That dream began to fade when US President Donald Trump took office this year. Almost immediately, we began to feel the effects. News spread quickly through Dzaleka: Refugee travel to the US was being suspended. People who had already completed interviews and medical checks, who had received their flight dates, were suddenly told to wait indefinitely.
It’s hard to explain what that waiting feels like. It’s not just about patience. It’s about being caught between two worlds: no longer belonging to the one you fled, but not yet accepted into the one you hope to reach.
The uncertainty bred fear. You could see it in people’s eyes as they gathered at the UNHCR gate, searching for information – any update. The once-bustling camp grew quieter, heavier. Conversations shifted from when to if.
“The maths is simple”
At first, the rumours about UNHCR’s future were just whispers. People spoke in low voices: “They say UNHCR is closing”, and “Where will we go?”. Others dismissed it all as just gossip.
But then, as a zone leader in the Burundian community, I was called to a meeting in May jointly held by UNHCR and the World Food Programme (WFP). During that meeting, they confirmed what we had begun to fear: UNHCR was radically cutting back, and WFP might be forced to do the same unless well-wishers stepped in to help.
My heart sank. As the days passed, the signs became clearer. UNHCR staff we had known for years stopped showing up. Offices that once served hundreds each week now stood empty. Vehicles and equipment were being sold off.
The big unknown was what would happen to the $8 to $9 per person ration payment we received monthly from WFP. Although it is never enough, it has helped many of us survive – covering everything from food to clothes to school materials.
So far, the payments have continued – a small relief, a sign that perhaps someone out there is still listening. Yet we also know they may stop at any time, and that uncertainty remains heavy in the air, pressing down on every plan, every hope.
This change hit particularly hard. I used to work as a youth-friendly health services provider, helping young people access contraceptives, HIV testing, and counselling. It wasn’t just a job; it was something I believed in.
I remember speaking with a Congolese woman who takes care of four younger siblings. When I asked her how she felt about the future, she looked at me with tired eyes and said, “I don’t know what to do. I have no relatives abroad, no one in the camp to help me. I’m all alone.”
For the aid agencies, the maths is simple. UNHCR, for example, has received only 23% of the $26.3 million it needs for its operations this year. Yet almost every service in Dzaleka relies on UNHCR support. As a result, programmes have been shutting down one by one.
Plan International withdrew and ceased providing child protection, SGBV, human rights, and other services. Church Action in Relief and Development, which supported community activities and small livelihoods, closed its doors. The health centre reduced its staff. What was already a fragile ecosystem began to collapse.
Many students who were studying at universities through UNHCR-supported scholarships now find their futures hanging by a thread. Will those programmes continue? No one knows. The silence from the agencies is deafening.
For me, this change hit particularly hard. I used to work as a youth-friendly health services provider, helping young people access contraceptives, HIV testing, and counselling. It wasn’t just a job; it was something I believed in. We had seen the difference it made when young people could speak openly about their health and future.
Now, with funding gone, those services have disappeared. Many young people here are sexually active. Without information or protection, they face rising risks of unintended pregnancies, sexually transmitted infections, and HIV.
The $50 monthly stipend we volunteers received has also been cancelled – a modest amount that helped us buy more nutritious food, or basics like soap.
The youth centre, once a safe space filled with laughter, discussion, and music, now sits empty, its doors locked.
From hope to desperation
Something inside the camp has shifted. Desperation has begun to take root. Theft has increased. Young men who once worked in community programmes are now turning to petty crime to survive. The security situation has worsened, and the few guards left cannot keep up.
For young women, the options are even more limited. Many have been drawn into sex work, not by choice but by necessity. It’s heartbreaking to see girls who once attended school now standing near the roadside at night, trying to earn enough to feed their siblings. The fear of exploitation, violence, and disease casts a shadow over them.
How do we survive when the very system meant to protect us begins to disappear?
Dzaleka has always been a place of contradictions, a space meant for safety but filled with risk.
Over the years, it has become a hub for human trafficking, with networks that exploit people’s desperation. Now, with fewer agencies and less oversight, these dangers are multiplying. Refugees who try to speak up about trafficking face threats and intimidation. Without UNHCR’s strong presence, there’s a growing sense that anyone could disappear, and no one would notice.
For so long, UNHCR has been our advocate, negotiating with authorities, providing legal aid, and ensuring that our voices were heard. Now, even that seems uncertain. Without their protection, refugees face growing hostility from local communities and tighter restrictions from the government. We don’t know if repatriation will be forced upon us.
At night, when the camp grows quiet, I often think about what will happen next. What does life look like without UNHCR? How do we survive when the very system meant to protect us begins to disappear? For years, the world told us that we were not forgotten, that someone was watching over us. Now, that assurance feels fragile, fading like a distant echo.
And yet, we remain. We wake up each morning, fetch water, cook whatever we can, and continue to wait. Waiting has become our way of life, waiting for help, for answers, for a future that feels further away each day.
Still, deep down, there’s a stubborn hope that refuses to die: the belief that someone, somewhere, will remember that we exist; the hope that UNHCR’s dismemberment is not the end of our story, but the beginning of another chapter – one we may have to write ourselves.
Edited by 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.
