IN the arid plains of Ethiopia, where the sun beats down relentlessly on cracked earth, Amina cradles her two-year-old son, whose ribs protrude sharply beneath his skin. His eyes, once bright with childish wonder, now stare listlessly as she walks miles to the feeding centre – only to find its gates locked, a simple sign declaring: “Closed due to lack of supplies.”
“We are at the breaking point,” warns Zlatan Milisic, the World Food Programme’s Country Director in Ethiopia, his voice tense with urgency. These aren’t just words on paper – they represent the imminent collapse of a lifeline for millions.
By month’s end, 650,000 malnourished women and children will lose their only source of therapeutic nutrition. Behind this statistic are real faces: mothers like Amina, walking ever-increasing distances for help that isn’t coming; children whose bodies are consuming themselves from the inside out as starvation takes hold.
In a country where more than 10 million people already face acute food insecurity, the crisis spirals deeper. Three million people displaced by conflict and extreme weather wander a landscape of diminishing hope. In regions like Somali, Oromia, Afar, and Tigray, child wasting – the most dangerous form of malnutrition – has exceeded emergency thresholds of 15 per cent.
The mathematics of survival is brutal. WFP planned to reach two million mothers and children with lifesaving nutrition in 2025. Instead, they’re shutting down programs after receiving only half of last year’s funding. Their warehouses, once stocked with nutrient-rich foods specially formulated to bring starving children back from the brink, now echo with emptiness.
“What is particularly important now is that our nutritious foods are running out,” Milisic explains, the weight of impossible decisions evident in his voice. “We are stopping that programme unless something comes really fast.”
Meanwhile, the spectres of conflict and climate change compound the crisis. In Amhara, humanitarian vehicles are hijacked at gunpoint. In Oromia, fighting continues to displace families. In Tigray, where half a million people perished during the civil war, tensions simmer anew. Each security incident further constricts the narrow channels through which aid flows.
For those the WFP still manages to reach, rations have been slashed. Refugees receive just 60 per cent of normal food portions. Displaced Ethiopians make do with 80 per cent – mathematical adjustments that translate into real hunger, real suffering.
In rural schools across northern Ethiopia, 470,000 children still receive daily meals – often their only reliable food source. Teachers report that on days when these meals aren’t available, classroom attendance plummets as children join their parents in the desperate search for food.
“We have the teams, the logistics, the capacities in place, partners, our staff,” Milisic says. “What we lack are the resources to act at the scale that this situation demands.”
The agency needs $222 million by September to maintain operations and reach its target of helping 7.2 million people this year. Without it, millions more will join Amina and her son in their quiet desperation.
As night falls over Ethiopia, countless mothers like Amina whisper comfort to hungry children, promising that tomorrow will bring food. But as supplies dwindle and the world’s attention focuses elsewhere, those promises grow harder to keep. At this breaking point, the difference between life and death may simply be whether the world chooses to notice in time.
