Surviving the Storm: El Niño’s Grip on Dzaleka Refugee Camp

As the unforgiving sun beats down on Dzaleka Refugee Camp, 58-year-old Debora Rwasa carefully balances a jerrycan on her head, each step measured as she navigates the cracked, dry earth beneath her feet. The once-reliable borehole near her shelter has long since run dry, forcing her to walk long distances daily in search of water. But even after hours in a crowded queue, there is no guarantee she will return home with a drop.

“Some days, we come back empty-handed,” she says, wiping sweat from her brow. “The queues are too long, and there isn’t enough for all of us. If you are not strong enough, you go without water.”

For over a year, Malawi has been experiencing one of the worst El Niño-induced droughts in decades, leaving thousands of refugees like Debora and her family on the brink of survival. The normally fertile land surrounding Dzaleka has turned to dust, and food shortages have become a daily struggle.

A Family on the Edge

Debora, who fled ethnic violence in Rwanda in 2000, lives with her five children and ten grandchildren under one roof in a two-bedroom house inside the camp. Her husband, who suffers from severe respiratory issues, has been granted permission by the camp administration to live outside the camp, in Lilongwe due to ineffective medical conditions within Dzaleka.

Her household is one of many struggling to make ends meet. With the worsening drought, their small home garden has withered away. Rising food prices and reduced rations have left them eating less and less. “We used to grow a few vegetables near our shelter, but the sun has killed everything,” she explains while stirring a thin porridge made from the last of their maize rations. “Every day, we eat less. I don’t know how much longer we can survive like this.”

Hunger and Desperation

The World Food Programme (WFP) has already cut monthly cash assistance to just 15,000 Malawi Kwacha per person—an amount that barely lasts a few days. Meanwhile, the price of maize has nearly doubled, now costing over 100,000 Kwacha per bag.

“People are skipping meals, children are going to bed hungry,” explains a refugee volunteer relief worker at the camp. “Malnutrition cases are rising, especially among young children and pregnant women.”

Debora’s 37-year-old son, who was diagnosed with HIV/AIDS in 2018, has grown dangerously weak from months of eating just one meal a day. Her husband, a diabetic patient, requires a special diet, but they cannot afford it. On the day of the home visit, Debora’s son had been admitted at Kamuzu Central Hospital with her other son taking care of him.

“My family, including my grandchildren have sometimes gone days without food just to make sure my son eats, priority is given to him because of his condition” Debora admits, tears welling in her eyes. “One time, we had nothing for three days. I sat quietly when my neighbors asked what was wrong—I had no words. It was only when one of them brought me porridge that I ate again.”

Water Shortages and Hygiene Crisis

Even basic access to water has become a battle. Although a water point is just meters away from her home, Debora often finds herself fighting through crowds just to fill a single jerrycan. Some refugees hoard water to sell, charging 200 Kwacha per gallon, a price she cannot even afford with her many competing essential needs.

“Many times, we have gone for days without water. The boreholes only work for a few hours, and those with strength take more than their share,” she explains. With no water for washing, hygiene conditions have deteriorated. Families are unable to bathe regularly or wash clothes, and many cannot even afford a simple bar of laundry soap, which now costs around 1,000 Kwacha. 

“Diseases are spreading fast. People drink dirty water, and children play in the mud. We are seeing more waterborne diseases, skin infections, and stomach illnesses,” she says.

From Drought to Floods: A Never-Ending Crisis

Despite the crippling drought, sudden flash floods have wreaked havoc on parts of the camp, destroying makeshift shelters and worsening the already dire living conditions.

Debora’s home has not been spared. “One night, the rain came so fast, and our roof collapsed,” she recalls. “We all had to move to one side of the house. Our blankets were soaked, and we had nowhere to sleep.” Poor drainage has also led to stagnant water pooling across the camp, creating a breeding ground for mosquitoes. 

The only clinic in Dzaleka, catering for over 57000 refugees and asylum seekers and thousands in the host communities, is overwhelmed, with doctors struggling to treat the rising cases of malaria. Henry Lali, the Officer in charge at Dzaleka health center, describes the desperate situation: “Children are coming in with high fevers, and we are running out of medicine. The number of malaria cases has tripled. Without enough treatment, people are dying from preventable diseases.”

Debora’s husband, who suffers from severe allergies and respiratory issues, was forced to leave the camp due to lack of medical support. But her family cannot afford proper care for their other health conditions, leaving them to choose between food and medicine.

Safety Concerns and Gender-Based Violence

Beyond hunger and disease, rising crime rates in the camp have left women and girls especially vulnerable. “At night, there are places we cannot walk. There is no security, and women are often targeted,” Debora explains. Single mothers and young girls face increasing risks of exploitation and gender-based violence, with many resorting to harmful practices just to survive.

As a Tutsi refugee, Debora has also experienced discrimination and threats from some members of the camp. “Some people target me because of my ethnic background. They say things that hurt, and I feel unsafe even among my own people,” she confesses.

Searching for Hope in a Harsh Reality

Despite these overwhelming challenges, resilience remains strong among Dzaleka’s refugees and asylum seekers. Communities have come together to dig deeper wells, share resources, and support one another in whatever ways they can.

Yet, for Debora, hope is growing thin. “What we need most is a solution. A safe place for my family, food for my children, and peace for my mind,” she pleads. As she sets out once more with her empty jerrycan, her wish is simple: “I just want it to rain—but not too much. Just enough so that we can have food, water, and hope again.”