Often we're having to choose which lives to save
In the northeastern reaches of Somalia, three consecutive failed rainy seasons have stripped communities of crops, livestock, and the margins of survival — while the international systems designed to intervene are themselves collapsing under funding withdrawals and geopolitical neglect. The World Food Programme can now reach only one in ten people in need, and warns it may cease emergency operations entirely by July. What unfolds here is not merely a natural disaster but a convergence of human choices — about aid, about conflict, about whose suffering commands attention — that will determine whether famine returns to a land that has already buried hundreds of thousands to it.
- Three straight failed rainy seasons have left Puntland's fields barren and its livestock dead, pushing malnutrition rates toward the threshold of mass starvation.
- US aid cuts and Middle East conflict inflation — fuel up 150%, food up 20–30% — have forced the closure of over 200 health centres and 400 schools, gutting the humanitarian infrastructure.
- UN funding for Somalia has collapsed from $2.6 billion in 2023 to $852 million in 2026, with only 13% of even that reduced target secured, leaving agencies choosing who lives and who does not.
- The WFP can reach just one in ten people urgently needing food assistance and may halt emergency operations entirely by July if no new resources arrive.
- Even if rains return on schedule, experts warn recovery will take months — the damage to livelihoods, herds, and community resilience already runs too deep for a single season to repair.
In Puntland, Somalia's northeastern corner, three consecutive rainy seasons have failed to arrive. Ponds hold only dust. Fields lie barren. Livestock carcasses mark the land. Aid workers describe a race against time to prevent a famine of the scale that has already claimed hundreds of thousands of Somali lives — but the machinery meant to prevent catastrophe is itself breaking down.
The money has dried up alongside the rains. Significant US aid cuts last year sent shockwaves through every organization operating in Somalia, compounded by Middle East conflict driving fuel costs up 150 percent and food prices up 20 to 30 percent. Matthew Hollingworth of the World Food Programme was unsparing: "We simply don't have the resources to respond as we should do." For displaced community members like Mahad Farah Muse, the arithmetic is existential — livestock represent not just food but savings and identity, and they are gone. "Everything has been lost," she said.
The numbers behind the collapse are stark. UN humanitarian funding for Somalia fell from $2.6 billion in 2023 to $852 million in 2026, with only 13 percent of that reduced figure raised so far. The WFP can now reach just one in ten people who urgently need assistance and may halt emergency operations entirely by July. More than 200 health centres and 400 schools have already closed.
Tom Fletcher of the UN's humanitarian coordination office offered no diplomatic softening: "It's a toxic cocktail of factors. Often we're having to choose which lives to save and which lives not to save." Somalia is not confronting drought alone — it faces drought layered with conflict, displacement, inflation, and the withdrawal of the resources that once stood between its people and catastrophe. The question is no longer whether another famine is possible, but whether the world will choose to prevent it.
In Puntland, the northeastern corner of Somalia, the landscape has become a catalog of absence. Three consecutive rainy seasons have failed to arrive. What remains are the signatures of drought: ponds that hold nothing but dust, fields where crops once grew now barren, the bodies of livestock scattered across the land. The malnutrition rate is climbing. International aid workers speak of a race against time to prevent another famine—the kind that has already claimed hundreds of thousands of lives in this country.
But the machinery meant to prevent that catastrophe is breaking down. Several major humanitarian organizations have been forced to shut down operations at the Kismayo camp and in other locations across Somalia. The primary reason is straightforward: the money has dried up. Last year, the United States cut its aid contributions significantly, and those cuts have rippled through every organization trying to keep people alive. Matthew Hollingworth, who oversees program operations for the World Food Programme, was direct about the consequence: "We simply don't have the resources to respond as we should do." The crisis has been compounded by the Middle East conflict, which has sent prices spiraling across the country—fuel costs have jumped 150 percent, and food commodities have risen by at least 20 to 30 percent.
Mahad Farah Muse, a displaced community member in the region, described what this convergence of failures looks like on the ground. A small amount of rain fell recently, but it was not enough to break the drought's grip. "If rain does not come soon, people may start dying just like the livestock," she said. "People depend on livestock, and now the livestock are gone. Everything has been lost." Her words capture the arithmetic of survival in a place where herds represent not just food but insurance, savings, and identity.
The scale of the humanitarian response has collapsed. The United Nations' humanitarian operations in Somalia were funded at $2.6 billion in 2023. This year, that figure has dropped to $852 million—a reduction of roughly two-thirds. So far, only 13 percent of even this reduced target has been raised. The World Food Programme, facing these constraints, can now reach only one in every ten people who urgently need assistance. The organization has warned that it may have to halt emergency operations entirely by July.
The closures have been brutal and visible. More than 200 health centers have shut their doors since last year. Four hundred schools have closed. Mohamud Mohamed Hassan, who directs Save the Children's operations in Somalia, said the foreign aid cuts have had "a huge impact" on the organization's ability to function. Experts acknowledge that even if the next rainy season arrives on schedule and brings normal rainfall, it will take months—perhaps longer—for communities to recover from the damage already done.
Tom Fletcher, who heads the United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs, described the situation in language that stripped away bureaucratic cushioning. "It's a toxic cocktail of factors," he said. "Things are really, really desperate." He added something harder still: "Often we're having to choose which lives to save and which lives not to save." That sentence contains the full weight of what happens when a crisis outpaces the world's willingness to respond to it. Somalia is not facing a simple drought. It is facing drought layered with conflict, with displacement, with inflation, and with the withdrawal of the resources that stood between survival and catastrophe. The question now is not whether another famine will come, but whether the international community will find the will to prevent it.
Notable Quotes
We simply don't have the resources to respond as we should do.— Matthew Hollingworth, World Food Programme Assistant Executive Director
People depend on livestock, and now the livestock are gone. Everything has been lost.— Mahad Farah Muse, displaced community member in Puntland
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why does Somalia keep returning to this edge? Is it just the weather?
The weather is real—three failed rainy seasons is genuinely catastrophic in a place where people depend on livestock and rain-fed crops. But weather alone doesn't explain why a drought becomes a famine. It's the combination: the conflict that makes it hard to move aid, the inflation from the Middle East crisis that makes food unaffordable even when it exists, and now the aid cuts that remove the safety net.
The aid cuts seem like the most controllable variable. Why did the US reduce funding?
The source doesn't explain the reasoning behind the cuts, only that they happened last year. But the effect is clear: organizations that were already stretched thin had to close operations. The WFP can only reach one in ten people who need help.
One in ten. That's a staggering ratio. What happens to the other nine?
That's the question no one wants to answer. Fletcher's comment about choosing which lives to save is the honest version of it. Without aid, people rely on whatever they have—and in Puntland, livestock are gone, crops are gone. Mahad Farah Muse's statement captures it: everything has been lost.
Is there any scenario where this doesn't end in mass death?
Experts say if the next rainy season is normal, recovery is possible—but it would take months. The problem is that even a normal rainy season now arrives in a context of depleted resources, closed health centers, and no schools. The foundation has been stripped away.
What would it take to reverse course?
Funding would have to be restored, and quickly. The UN's Somalia program needs $852 million this year and has only raised 13 percent of it. But reversing aid cuts requires political will, and that's not something drought or famine can force.