Life on hold is taking a mental toll on Kakuma’s refugees
By Chukulisa Molu Adi
The process of getting a travel document is lengthy, with no guarantees. Refugees in Northern Kenya are left feeling trapped by a broken system.
I open my eyes as the sunlight peeks through a hole in the roof. The creak of the wheelbarrows outside tells me it’s time to get up. Others are making their way to the water station, and I have to be in line early to receive my share.
After the water run, I return to my small mud house with its iron sheet roof. I sweep the dust from the floor and clean the compound. I wash the utensils, then prepare some rice with the peas we received last month. After that, I wait. For what, I am unsure. Nothing ever changes without a movement document.
I came to Kakuma camp seeking refuge, just until it was safe enough to return home. I never expected to spend a decade here.
Kakuma Refugee Camp is located in Turkana West, in the northwestern part of Kenya, spanning 77,000 square kilometres. It was established in 1992 to host refugees fleeing the civil war in Sudan, with an intended capacity between 12,000-17,000 people. Today, Kakuma is home to nearly 300,000 people from 24 different countries.
It is a semi-arid land where the sun begins to scorch as early as 6:20 a.m., refusing to rest until nightfall. The wind here doesn’t bring fresh air; it carries dust that blinds your eyes and coats your skin. Homes are built from mud, plastic tarps, and iron sheets. When the rains come, the relief is fleeting; it is never long before the floods set in, sweeping away everything in their path.
Kakuma Refugee Camp, Turkana West, Kenya
In Kenya, there are two main travel documents available to refugees and asylum seekers. The first is a local movement pass, which allows travel within Kenya, but only for specific, approved purposes such as healthcare, education, or official appointments. The second is the Convention Travel Document (CTD), which is more like a refugee passport. It allows you to leave Kenya and travel to any country, except your home country, but only with a valid invitation. You must also prove that your travel, accommodation, and return are fully covered.
Getting either document is difficult. There is no clear system to check your application status, and no reliable process to follow up.
I miss my home, the freedom to move unrestricted. Without a movement document, I exist solely within the borders of the camp. Each day, I watch the people of Kakuma carry the silent burden of imprisonment.
“When I came to Kakuma in 1992, I was 24 years old,” says Mzee Abdi. He sits on a broken plastic chair under a tree, staring at his half-demolished house in a daze.
“When I first arrived, I was full of dreams. I thought Kakuma would be a place of refuge, a stepping stone to change my life for the better. But look at me now… I’m 56. No family. No wife. No kids. Just me, alone. I haven’t seen or spoken to my family in years. I don’t even know if they’re alive. I’m just here feeling useless.”
The pain in his voice was palpable.
Mzee Abdi once hoped to resettle in a third country or start a business to become financially stable, but he is unable to get his goods from Nairobi. He doesn’t know anyone there, and cannot leave the camp. To do so, he needs a travel document, and getting one is a long, gruelling process.
His mind is tired. He has never even seen the roadblock that marks the exit from Kakuma. All his friends have been resettled. He is the only one left behind.
Hearing his story made me reflect on my own. When I think about how many opportunities I’ve lost because I don’t have a movement document, I find myself gripped by an all-consuming depression. It beckons my mind into a spiral. Should I just stop trying? No matter how hard I try, nothing ever seems to change.
Every time I see a new opportunity that fits me, the first thing I check is the location. If it’s inside Kakuma Refugee Camp, I’ll go for it. If not, I let it go; I already know the result will break my heart.
When leaving is not an option, the only way to turn is inwards, which in itself is a harsh reality. Life inside the camp is a struggle. “We have one meal in the evening because we are a family of nine, and the food we receive is very little,” says Stella, a mother living in Kakuma.
“This is not balanced food,” she adds. “My little boy, who is three years old, is diagnosed with malnutrition. That gives me a lot of stress, knowing there’s nothing I can do about it.”
The lack of proper nutrition doesn’t just affect the body, but the mind too. Hunger becomes part of the background noise of daily life, feeding away on our strength and our drive.
Those most at risk of dwindling ambition are Kakuma’s youths, who make up the majority of the camp. Only a few ever manage to get the CTD. Many give up. Others turn to drugs to numb the disappointment. Some drop out of school.
“I was devastated. I thought to myself, Am I not going to get opportunities because I’m a refugee? I hated being a refugee.”
Nyariel Udier Bol
25-year-old Nyariel Udier Bol has lived in Kakuma Refugee Camp for the last 20 years, and is a student at Southern New Hampshire University. Feeling discouraged by life as a refugee, she applied for an opportunity as part of the “Get Engaged” conference in Germany, and was accepted. Finally, she’d gotten her springboard role, which would help her to grow both professionally and personally. She would have the chance to pitch her idea, with the possibility of getting funded and giving back to her community.
“I applied for the CTD before the conference, but it took months to process the documents. I even went to the Nairobi office to follow up on it. That trip wasted my time, drained my energy, and left me emotionally exhausted. I was stressed.”
“As the conference date got closer, I realised I wouldn’t make it. And just like that, I missed the opportunity.”
Six months later, she finally received the CTD. “I wasn’t excited, and I wasn’t sad. I was just angry, like, why now? But I tried to stay positive. I told myself, At least now I have it. Nothing will pass me next time. I will be able to apply for many more opportunities.”
Refugees and asylum seekers in Kakuma and beyond are constantly battling invisible walls – not built from bricks or iron sheets, but from the feeling of being caged in places we cannot leave. Many of us suffer from depression as a result.
Yet somehow, despite it all, evenings in Kakuma are soundtracked by the infectious giggles of small children. In the early morning, you hear the sounds of jerrycans and wheelbarrows, and you see women carrying their children on their backs as they head to fetch water. This is the rhythm of life in Kakuma, a cycle that has repeated for over 32 years.
This community is what gives us the strength to remain hopeful, applying for every opportunity that comes our way, envisioning the day we receive the CTD that will finally open a door to freedom.
This article was written as part of a collaboration between TAP Media and London College of Communication, where young journalists, advocates and content creators living in refugee camps worked alongside a student editorial team to deliver powerful and insightful stories.
The writer is Chukulisa Molu Adi, a storyteller, media worker, and poet from Ethiopia who lives in Kakuma Refugee Camp, Kenya. She co-founded Girl Power Action Initiative, leading peace building and mental-health projects that uplift female voices.
The editor is Maddie Dinnage, a journalist and illustrator from London. She specialises in human-driven storytelling, particularly the impacts of incarceration on marginalised communities.
