Kakuma, Kenya — “I am going to pick a rope and hang myself to death.”

Up until August, everyone in Kenya’s Kakuma refugee camp received the same amount of food aid, but that changed dramatically when tens of thousands of residents were cut off from assistance.

A new targeted system, known as differentiated assistance, replaced blanket distribution as a cost-cutting measure in response to falling aid budgets. Instead of receiving equal support, refugees were split by the World Food Programme (WFP) into four categories receiving different levels of assistance based on their perceived vulnerability.

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Category 1, considered the most vulnerable – single mothers, new arrivals, child-headed households, and people with disabilities – received just 40% of a full ration, worth $8 per person each month. Category 2, deemed less vulnerable but still without a reliable income, received 20% of a ration, only $4 per month.

Households in Categories 3 and 4, assessed as having other income sources, were cut off entirely – a dramatic step that affected a third of the 300,000 refugees in Kakuma.

In theory, the logic is straightforward: Scarce resources should go to those considered most in need. Similar models have been piloted in Uganda and Lebanon.

But in practice, our research team found that none of the refugees we spoke with, in any category, supported this new system. On the ground, differentiated assistance is fuelling tension, collapsing livelihoods, worsening hunger and mental health, and deteriorating coping strategies. It also led to protests in which the police killed at least two people.

“Let everyone get the same, even if it’s just a spoonful,” Amina, a 41-year-old single mother of two, told us.

The costs of misclassification

The main argument behind differentiated assistance is that distributing food rations equally is inefficient: Some individuals who could potentially manage without aid still receive it. Yet in Kakuma, the welfare cost of this “inclusion error” is minimal. Our data show that virtually everyone lives in poverty, and local redistribution mechanisms are strong. Families with slightly more resources are expected – and often socially obliged – to share with neighbours and relatives who have less.

By contrast, the cost of misclassification under differentiated assistance is enormous. Errors no longer mean that a household receives a little bit too much compared to others, but that vulnerable families are cut off entirely. Misclassification here is not a matter of efficiency; it is a matter of life and death.

Moreover, accurate targeting is expensive and difficult to sustain, particularly in a context where livelihoods are unstable, jobs are casual, and remittances are unpredictable. Implementing and maintaining such a system requires continuous data collection, verification, and appeals processes – diverting scarce resources away from the assistance itself. It also raises ethical concerns about whether shrinking budgets should be allocated to measuring vulnerabilities or actually providing assistance.

Our interviews suggest that misclassifications are widespread. A lack of transparency in the process also left many unsure.

“Without a doubt, I believe I have been placed [in the wrong category],” said Louise, a single mother assigned to Category 3. “I have young children, I am a single mother who has no support from anyone, I am jobless and none of my children are working.”

The economy is collapsing

The aid cuts have also affected businesses in Kakuma. Over the last month, many shops have struggled to get customers or maintain stock, and some have even had to close their doors.

“My business solely relied on Bamba Chakula [cash transfers from WFP],” said David, who recently had to close his small shop. “About 90% of the products I sold were bought using Bamba Chakula… Now, no one has any money. People are not working. We have no customers.”

For other shopkeepers, the hardest part is not only the loss of income, but also the moral responsibility to support their neighbours by offering food on credit or for free.

A shopkeeper explained: “People with problems come to the shop for assistance and you end up sympathising and helping them. Here in the community, everyone knows me and expects me to help them. My shop is slowly dying, I am planning to close.”

These patterns highlight that the impacts of differentiated assistance and aid cuts extend beyond personal income and have system-wide repercussions. Economic life in Kakuma has always revolved around aid: UN agencies and NGOs are among the few employers, and most local businesses rely on the money circulating through food and cash transfers. When that flow contracts, the entire economy follows. Demand collapses, customers disappear, and shopkeepers watch their goods spoil on the shelves.

Deteriorating coping strategies

In Kakuma, two coping strategies have long served as lifelines in times of scarcity. The first is debt: Refugees use the ATM or SIM cards on which food assistance is delivered as collateral to obtain food on credit from local retailers.

The second is mutual support: Neighbours, relatives, and friends share resources to help each other in times of need. Both coping strategies are now collapsing. Shopkeepers are reluctant to extend credit, fearing they will never be repaid. At the same time, community solidarity is eroding. Households have little left to share, and offering support risks exposing their own category, with all the insecurity and stigma that entails.

This is contributing to rising malnutrition in Kakuma, with many families surviving on just one meal a day. Parents are skipping meals so children can eat. In one household, a young mother described the anguish: “We take tea in the morning and wait until evening to cook. Sometimes, the children cry. I try to send them to sleep early so they don’t feel the hunger.”

Families are therefore being pushed towards more irreversible strategies: selling off household assets or dismantling parts of their shelters to raise cash.

When asked about difficulties repaying debt, a South Sudanese woman reported having to turn to survival sex: “For us women, when things are hard, we give our bodies in exchange, even without knowing whether the man is sick or not. And that is still better than being taken to prison. I prefer to sleep with him to repay the debt.”

The toll on mental health

The crisis is taking a devastating toll on refugees’ mental health. Stories of death and despair surfaced in every single conversation we had, something we only sporadically encountered in our nine years of research in Kakuma.

Suicidal thoughts were widespread, with some parents even considering ending their lives in the hope that their children might be reclassified and receive aid. Almost everyone said suicides are on the rise.

A 32-year-old South Sudanese mother told us: “Category 3 has brought hunger to my family already. How am I going to take care of my children? I am going to pick a rope and hang myself to death… It is better if I die, even if my children will be on their own, because I cannot watch them suffer.”

With increased hardship, thousands of refugees are leaving the camp, deciding to move elsewhere in Kenya, to neighbouring refugee-hosting countries, or back to their country of origin. Yet, each option comes with its own risks.

Moving elsewhere in Kenya usually implies living as an undocumented migrant, with no right to work or rent, and at constant risk of being arrested. With budget cuts happening across the board, moving to other refugee-hosting regions comes with no guarantee of support. Finally, those who return to their home country find an equally bleak situation. South Sudan, for example, remains marred by violence and severe floods.

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