Nestled in the arid terrain of northeastern Kenya, the Dadaab refugee complex stands as one of the clearest examples of a humanitarian system that has lost its way. Established in 1991 as an emergency response to the outbreak of civil war in Somalia, Dadaab was designed to be a temporary solution. But over three decades later, more than 200,000 people still live within the camp’s confines. Generations have been born and raised there, many having never set foot outside its dusty boundaries. For them, Dadaab is not a stopgap, it is a home.
The continued existence of Dadaab is not just a reflection of the continued conflict in Somalia. It is a reflection of deeper, structural failures within the international humanitarian system. Despite the involvement of major actors like the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), and billions of dollars in international aid, the conditions inside the camp have deteriorated over time. Residents face a daily reality of inadequate healthcare, inconsistent education, severe food shortages, and legal invisibility. They are confined to now-permanent spaces which were never built to last this long.
Kenya’s government, while initially welcoming Somali refugees in the early 1990s, has long since grown frustrated with the burden of hosting such a large displaced population. Officials have repeatedly attempted to close Dadaab, citing national security concerns and the alleged presence of terrorist groups like Al-Shabaab. These attempts have sparked international outcry and legal challenges, and Kenyan courts have intervened to block closures, arguing that forcibly returning refugees to unsafe conditions would violate both Kenyan and international law. Despite these interventions, the government’s position remains firm: Dadaab is unsustainable. Yet without viable alternatives, the camp remains in place, a symbol of global paralysis.
While host country fatigue is understandable, it is exacerbated by an international aid system that is increasingly strained. The UNHCR has faced chronic funding shortfalls, receiving only 56 percent of its required funding in Kenya in 2023. These deficits have forced the agency to scale back essential services, leaving residents with less food, limited access to clean water, and declining healthcare. Education programs struggle to retain teachers and supply materials. Mental health resources are nearly nonexistent. Refugees in Dadaab survive, but they do not thrive. In 2024, one young man told a Washington Post reporter, “We are alive, but we are not living.”
The international community has consistently prioritized short-term containment over long-term solutions. Refugees are offered basic assistance but denied the tools needed to rebuild their lives. In Kenya, refugees cannot work legally, own property, or move freely outside the camps. Local integration is not on the table, and opportunities for third-country resettlement are vanishingly rare. Most are left in limbo, without citizenship, without prospects, and without a future they can shape.
This is not unique to Dadaab. Across the world, camps in Lebanon, Bangladesh, Jordan, and elsewhere operate under the same logic. Refugees are housed indefinitely in legal and social limbo while donor governments applaud themselves for providing tents and food parcels. The system is not built to resolve displacement; it is built to manage it indefinitely. And in managing it, it perpetuates it.
If Dadaab reveals anything, it is the need to fundamentally rethink how we respond to mass displacement. Rather than building more camps and hoping for repatriation, international actors must invest in policies that offer refugees a chance to rebuild their lives where they are. This includes expanding legal rights, supporting host communities with long-term development aid, and dramatically increasing resettlement quotas in wealthier nations. Refugees are not passive victims in need of indefinite charity. They are people with skills, aspirations, and the capacity to contribute, if they are given the opportunity.
One concrete solution for Dadaab could lie in a pilot program for integrated local settlement that grants refugees conditional legal status, allowing them to live and work beyond the camp. This model, already underway in parts of Uganda, would require the Kenyan government, supported by international donors, to gradually transition Dadaab from a closed camp to a more open, economically viable community. By legalizing movement and access to labor markets, refugees could become self-reliant, contribute to local economies, and reduce dependence on aid. This approach must be coupled with infrastructure investment in education, healthcare, and housing, shared between refugees and host populations to prevent resentment and promote social cohesion. Such a model would not only offer hope to Dadaab’s residents but also create a blueprint for managing protracted displacement more humanely and sustainably.
Dadaab should have never become permanent. The fact that it has is an indictment of the humanitarian system and the political choices that sustain it. As global displacement reaches record highs—114 million people were forcibly displaced worldwide in 2024—what is happening in Dadaab must not be dismissed as an anomaly. It is a warning. If we continue to treat displacement as a temporary emergency, we will continue to build more Dadaabs: places where people wait in vain for solutions that never come.
The future of humanitarianism depends on learning from these failures. That means acknowledging when temporary solutions become permanent problems, and having the courage to build something better. Until then, Dadaab will remain where it is. Still standing, still waiting. As Ben Rawlence writes in “City of Thorns”, “Everyone in Dadaab has an original story. A story that has been retold so many times, the narrative worn smooth like a wooden handle.” These stories deserve more than dilution. They deserve resolution.
Featured Image Source: Reuters
