Reintegration on Shifting Ground: In Search of Stability in Kakuma and Kalobeyei

Image for representational purposes only | Photographed by René Habermacher

Kakuma and Kalobeyei, two long-standing refugee settlements in north-western Kenya, are undergoing a slow but significant shift. What were once humanitarian camps are now functioning as emerging urban centres under Turkana County, shaped by the Refugees Act (2021), the SHIRIKA Plan, and recent steps toward municipal governance. Markets operate daily, small businesses run along the main roads, and local institutions are gradually taking on roles that were once fully humanitarian.

 Yet the pressures remain stark: only 12% of refugees earn an income, and 66% of households—host and displaced—are in debt, often beyond what they can repay. As these settlements transition into formal town structures, expectations of services, inclusion, and economic opportunity are rising, but so are concerns about who will benefit, and at what pace.

It was here that we met Maria, whose journey offers a clear window into what urban reintegration looks like in an arid and semi arid context and how shifting policy transitions play out in daily life.

A Life of Continuous Displacement

Maria was born in 1988 in Tonj, a town in what is now South Sudan’s Warrap State, an area long affected by conflict and political instability. She grew up between Tonj, Wau, and Rumbek — moving through places marked by the long civil war between Sudan and South Sudan, and later by the internal fighting that continued after independence. She attended school in missionary and community institutions in Rumbek and Wau, supported by her mother after her father was killed in 1991. Her childhood, as she described it, held “good and bad experiences,” shaped by illness and the pressure to keep moving as conflict shifted around her.

It was Maria’s husband who had first fled South Sudan after surviving a violent attack in which, as she put it, “he was beaten nearly to death.” He escaped to Nairobi, where he lived as an asylum seeker for almost three years. Later, she said, “the government of South Sudan searched for him and eventually found him. He was kidnapped.” Maria still does not know where her husband is.

Community members urged her to leave immediately for her own safety. With no option left, they sold all their land and belongings and travelled to Kakuma on 9 August 2023. Upon arrival, the camp manager directed them to the Kalobeyei Reception Centre. But even before they settled in, fighting broke out that evening. Many people were injured, including two of her own children. 

Navigating Scarcity and Solidarity

Maria’s first months in Kakuma were marked by a difficult balance between moments of solidarity and the constant weight of unmet needs. “If you go to the laga to fetch water or firewood, you may not return alive.” Her fear was reinforced by broader trends: only 36% of refugees feel safe, women report harassment in markets and public spaces, and aid cuts have heightened tension across the settlement.

Food was equally uncertain. “We are suffering… the food distribution has stopped,” she said, capturing the abrupt shift many households have faced since the rollout of the differentiated assistance model, which has reduced or removed rations for families categorised as “self-reliant.” Across Kakuma and Kalobeyei, our research shows that only 12% of refugees earn an income, and 66% of households are in debt, leaving many unable to cope with sudden cuts.

In her neighbourhood, she found comfort mainly in those who had arrived before her: women who told new arrivals to “feel at home” and shared the challenges they were facing. These peer networks matter in Kakuma and Kalobeyei, where only 14% of refugees report having a reliable support system, and most social protection comes from neighbours rather than institutions. 

Yet her sense of belonging shifted constantly, shaped by the attitudes she encountered from parts of the host community: “You refugees have been fed by the UN for 35 years… why don’t you go back?” These interactions reflected a wider gap in social cohesion, where only 59% of refugees feel relations with hosts are positive, compared to 72% of hosts.

For Maria, the absence of basic services: food, health care, water, and reliable safety, defined her daily reality. “These are the three key needs in a person’s life,” she said. Without them, she felt her life lacked stability, describing herself as “grass floating on water without direction.” 

Maria has not been able to find work since arriving, and the shift to the new assistance model has deepened the strain. In Kakuma, only 12% of refugees earn any income, debt affects two-thirds of households, and even skilled people — teachers, nurses, and trained youth — struggle to find paid work. Despite this, she has found moments of purpose: through REHORI and DRC, she attended GBV training and workshops that helped her build confidence and support others. “They empowered me. Now I have the voice to encourage my community.”

‘I want to use my Voice’

Although Maria is outspoken about the challenges facing her community, she has had almost no direct opportunity to participate in decisions that shape services in Kakuma and Kalobeyei. As she put it, “No, as refugees, we are not prioritised… I don’t go to places where decisions are made.” She has never been invited to meetings, consultations, or forums, and she has never seen UN or government actors come to ask about the realities she and others face. Her frustration is tied to a larger gap in representation documented across the settlement: only about 20% of refugees participate in community activities, compared with 34% of hosts, and even when refugees are invited, they are there to be informed and not to influence and rarely included in the committees where budgets and priorities are decided. Many, like Maria, rely on community leaders or elders to pass on their concerns, rather than being able to speak for themselves.

Yet having a voice matters deeply to her. She asked why no one responsible for refugee protection “ever comes, even for one day,” adding that meaningful change requires listening.

When asked what she needs to rebuild her life, Maria returned to the basics: “Health, food, education, and security… these are essential for life.” She spoke about education for her children as the clearest path to stability — “If my children could get an education, their future would be better” — and described how access to food, healthcare, and safety would “bring real change” to her family. 

Urban Transition and What It Means for People Like Maria

The evolution of Kakuma and Kalobeyei into a municipal structure is reshaping how services, livelihoods, and participation are governed. The policies guiding this shift—the Refugees Act (2021), the SHIRIKA Plan, and county-level integration efforts promise wider economic inclusion and stronger refugee participation. But the people we met, including Maria, highlighted how uneven the transition still feels in practice.

In our co-creation workshops, community members described consultations that “collect views but rarely change anything,” ID systems and work permits that block access to formal jobs, and training programmes that offer skills without the capital needed to turn them into income. Young people spoke of wanting digital work but lacking ICT spaces or devices; others pointed to ration cuts, rising psychosocial stress, and safety concerns around water points and firewood sites. Local authorities are present but under-resourced, with key by-laws still pending and limited funding to regulate markets or expand services. Participation spaces exist, but often to inform rather than empower, leaving residents feeling aware, but not influential.

This is where LLEARN’s Participatory Forums come in. Designed as a bridge between evidence and action, they bring county officials, municipal authorities, hosts, and refugees into the same room to collectively identify what reintegration should look like in places like Kakuma and Kalobeyei. For women like Maria — who has never been invited to a consultation and says, “I don’t go to places where decisions are made” — these spaces offer the first structured opportunity to influence the systems she relies on.

Grounding discussions in lived experience and pairing them with local decision-making, the forums show the value of LLEARN’s approach: reintegration becomes not just something done for communities, but something shaped with them.

This story is based on a conversation with Maria and our findings from the study. It reflects her lived experience, edited for clarity, and highlights the integration themes central to LLEARN’s work.