The schools in internal displacement camps in Bookay area north of Baidoa were providing education to around 1,500 children. The jobless teachers can no longer afford food, water, rent, or education for their own children after losing their income.

Hassan Mohamed Ibrahim, a father of eight, said unemployment had devastated his family. Gobaadegsoy primary school, which was supported by SOS Children’s Villages Somalia, closed in February. He earned $100 a month as a mathematics teacher.

“The hardest thing facing us is unemployment. For four months I have been idle because the school is closed. Our living conditions are extremely difficult now. Before was much better than today. We survive only on debt and begging,” Hassan told Radio Ergo.

Local shops have refused to give him credit to buy food until he settles his debts. He owes $400 for food and water bills.

“We are facing serious problems with water. The pipes were cut off after we failed to pay for some time. We now ask neighbours for whatever they can spare. Sometimes they refuse and we stay thirsty,” he said.

The nearest private well sells 20 litres of water for 15 US cents that he often can’t afford. His electricity has been disconnected from the family home and the landlord is demanding $120 for three months of unpaid rent before the end of May.

Hassan said relatives helped settle earlier rent arrears after he escaped eviction in March, but now the threat has returned.

The impact has extended to his own children’s education. Three of them stopped attending primary school and Koranic schools in March when he couldn’t pay the $5 monthly fees per child.

“One of the worst things for us is the children’s education. Even the school where we taught is closed and the students remain at home without lessons. Teachers are suffering badly because they have nothing to support their families,” Hassan said.

Abdimajid Ali Salad, another teacher, said the closure of War-miraale primary and middle school left his family of seven without any reliable income. He earned $200 a month teaching science at the school under a project supported by Save the Children that ended in February.

“The biggest problem for me is feeding my children. Since becoming unemployed, my family has been living in severe hardship. Food, rent, education – everything stopped when the contract ended,” Abdimajid said.

His salary covered rent, food, and school expenses for his children. Without income now, a local fresh produce shop where he accumulated a debt of $150 for food purchases has closed his account and demanded payment before extending further credit.

Abdimajid and his family were forced to leave their single room home at the end of April after he failed to pay $60 in rent arrears for two months. The landlord had given him several warnings.

“We were evicted because the landlord knew I no longer had a salary. Right now we are staying with relatives after leaving the house. Our situation is extremely difficult,” he said.

Two of his children dropped out of school in March after he failed to pay their combined monthly fees of $20. Abdimajid worries they may not return to class anytime soon.

The education coordinator for displaced communities in Boonkay, Hassan Macalin Mohamed, said the eight schools had served some of the poorest families in Baidoa, who could not otherwise afford education for their children.

“At least 1,500 children were attending these schools and now they are all out of education sitting at home,” he said. “These are poor displaced families who can’t even afford half a dollar for school fees. We hope the schools can reopen because the children have no alternative.”

Hassan said the schools’ infrastructure had deteriorated during the months of closure. He appealed to Somalia’s education authorities and humanitarian agencies to urgently restore support for the schools.

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Adan opened his shop last November in an area outside Dagahaley camp with few other businesses and now attracts a steady base of customers, making 800 to 1,000 Kenya shillings a day ($6-8) that is enough for the family of seven.

“Since I started this business, I have managed all my family’s needs. We now afford food, healthcare, education, and even savings. I feel proud to have gained financial independence,” Adan told Radio Ergo.

They used to live off food aid distributed in the camp and Adan’s 15,000 Kenyan shillings monthly salary working in another man’s shop. He saved 6-7,000 shillings every month from his wages for four years – accumulating nearly 200,000 shillings to start up on his own last year.

The new income allowed him to build a corrugated iron-sheet room for 70,000 Kenyan shillings in February to replace the hut they were living in.

“It removed a major burden from us. Before, I constantly worried about where my family would stay during rain and strong winds,” he said.

Adan hopes to expand the business and become a wholesaler supplying goods to smaller traders in the camp: “I buy goods from larger traders, but one day I hope to become the supplier others depend on. I also want to improve my family’s future even more.”

Adan’ was born in Kismayo to a rural pastoralist family, who fled conflict in Lower Juba region in 1998 and came to Kenya as refugees. His parents never managed to establish another livelihood.

His business has enabled him to enroll his daughter in Koranic and formal education for the first time, for 1,500 Kenya shillings a month. He hopes to enroll two more children in the coming months. He says he delayed sending the children to school whilst he was focused on saving to establish his shop.

He believes his education in Dagahaley camp, where he got his Kenya certificate of secondary education in 2018, helped him manage the business successfully.

Other refugees are turning to self-employment after humanitarian jobs and aid opportunities declined. Abdulkadir Ahmed Omar, 38, opened a tailoring and clothing shop in Hagadera camp after years of working for someone else.

Using savings accumulated from a monthly salary of 15,000 Kenyan shillings, he raised around 600,000 shillings over five years (approx. $4,600) and established his own tailoring business. It now earns him about 1,000 Kenya shillings a day and fully supports his household of 10 people.

“This work changed many things in our lives. I now earn enough to provide for my family. My children, parents, and siblings all depend on me and this business is our only source of income,” Abdulkadir said.

His family arrived in Dadaab in 2004 after drought and conflict forced them off their farm in Jamame district in Lower Juba region, where he was born.

In Dadaab, the family had been struggling to cook one or two meals a day. Initially, Abdulkadir started the tailoring shop in a room in his family home instead of renting commercial premises, and avoided electricity costs by purchasing solar panels to power his equipment.

The business has created jobs for four other young men, each earning 300 to 500 shillings daily. He intentionally hired youth facing unemployment and difficult living conditions.

He also trains young people in tailoring skills free of charge, having trained eight young men and women in the past three months, who are now earning income independently.

“I learned tailoring for free myself, so I wanted to pass that opportunity to others. I used to work for someone else, but I dreamed of owning my own business and it finally succeeded,” he said.

Abdulkadir dropped out of school in eighth grade. However, he says learning a practical vocational skill enabled him to prosper. He is now saving 4-5,000 Kenya shillings monthly to further expand the business.

The chairman of youth organisations in Hagadera camp, Mohamed Abdullahi Jumale, said more young refugees had turned to entrepreneurship in the past six months as humanitarian aid and casual jobs linked to aid agencies declined.

He said more than 500 new small businesses had emerged in the Dadaab camps during that period, employing nearly 600 people.

“The biggest impact on youth came when the jobs provided by aid agencies disappeared. Young people realised they had to create their own opportunities to survive and support their families,” Mohamed said.

He added that youth organisations were encouraging self-reliance through awareness campaigns and business mentoring.

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Ali and four other displaced farmers were each allocated a two-hectare farm along with seeds and irrigation equipment. They have harvested food crops and vegetables several times since then, making $900 in profit, which they shared between them.

“This work now fully supports my family,” he said. “I am happy. It has changed our lives greatly and for the better. We now eat two or three times a day. Before, even one meal was difficult. I used to rely on relatives, but that burden is now gone.”

He had been relying on random help from relatives and odd farm jobs for $2 a week and borrowed food. With a solar powered well shared among local farmers, he uses a donkey cart owned by a relative to transport water home, meeting one of their most urgent needs.

Ali’s family was displaced in 2023 from their own three-hectare farm in Jiliyaale, Middle Shabelle, by drought and conflict. He feels he is back on his feet again since that time.

He stored some maize and sorghum from the farm in barrels for later use. He and the four other farmers in his group formed a rotating savings arrangement, where each member takes turns receiving pooled contributions. The scheme is currently on its third cycle.

“Each time we harvest, everyone takes $70, and one of us takes the full share,” Ali said. “That money is our savings. We hope to build houses and start businesses. We want to make use of this opportunity.”

He accessed his share of the savings pool in March, using part of it to repay a long-standing $193 debt. He moved his family out of Jowhar-Bile camp into a rented two-room corrugated iron house with a kitchen and toilet for $30 a month. In March, he enrolled three of his children in Koranic and primary schools for $20 in total. fees.

“There is a big difference,” he said. “Before, we were displaced and surviving on begging. Now I can take care of my children. I no longer worry about food and daily needs.”

Maryan Mukhtar Nor has also built a modest income after receiving a livelihoods package of 10 goats, four of them lactating, a refrigerator and a solar system, provided last October.

She began selling frozen drinks and ice making about $50, which she combined with a $100 loan to open a small kiosk in February.

“This business now supports my family. I pay for food, water and my children’s education. I manage everything from what I earn. Some days we eat twice, some days once. On good days I save a dollar,” she told Radio Ergo.

Maryan, who is the sole provider for her eight-member household, previously did laundry jobs for about $2 a week, and relied on relatives for support.

She has also moved her family out of Alle-Suge IDP camp into a rented room in Jowhar’s Hanti-Wadaag neighborhood for $15 a month, and enrolled two of her children in primary school after nine months out of education.

“Now I can pay for school, food, rent and electricity. I hope to build a house and expand my business,” she said, having repaid $80 of her $200 debt s.

The project is supported by SOS Children’s Village, whose representative Suleiman Mohamed Hussein said they will provide follow-up support over a year to the 270 people they helped either farmland, livestock and small business equipment.

“These are extremely poor households with no means of survival,” he said. “We provided them with livelihoods so they can generate their own income. We continue to treat livestock, support farming inputs and repair equipment. If productivity improves, communities will eventually take full ownership.”

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For years, the business had been the family’s only source of income. She earned around 200,000 Somali shillings a day [about $7] that was enough to buy food, water, charcoal, and support her children.

But her savings suddenly became useless as bigger businessmen started to refuse to accept the notes.

“If someone owes me money and even the cash I have is rejected, I have no choice but to sit down helplessly. I took the money everywhere trying to exchange it, but nobody would accept it.”

More than four million Somali shillings stored in her cash box came from sales she made over the past two months. None of her suppliers will accept this cash.

The closure of her shop has forced two of her daughters out of school as she failed to pay their fees. The girls were studying health sciences at a private school inside Hilaac displacement camp, where she paid $40 a month for their education from her shop profits.

“The children have stopped attending private school now. I told them I have no money left to pay for their education. My business was my only source of income. The Somali shilling was what people in the camp used every day. Now the money is rejected and we are left stranded,” Habibo told Radio Ergo.

Habibo has been engaged in small business for nearly 10 years, since she fled insecurity in Qoryoley in Lower Shabelle region in 2021 and rebuilt her life in Mogadishu camps. She hoped her shop would eventually help her family escape displacement and poverty – but the currency collapse has shattered everything she worked for.

A similar situation faces Sokorey Osman Daud, another displaced mother living in Hilaac camp, whose grocery business also closed in May after customers stopped using Somali shillings.

Sokorey supports a family of 10, including her blind husband who depends entirely on her income for care and daily needs.

Her stock ran out and she couldn’t restock because traders rejected the Somali shillings she had saved as payment. She lived off $100 stored on her mobile phone account, but that money has now finished.

“The Somali shillings are still here in my house, but they are useless. I tried to exchange them in several places but nobody would take them,” she said.

“I built this business slowly with great hardship. I started in 2020 with just $50 earned from selling handmade brooms and baskets. By 2025, I had managed to improve my family’s life, but now we are back in an even worse situation.”

Sokorey said many displaced families in the camp did not understand or regularly use mobile money services such as EVC Plus, relying instead on paper Somali shilling notes for daily purchases.

More than seven million Somali shillings are lying unused in her home while her children struggle to find food. Sokorey and her family were displaced from Buulo Mareer in Lower Shabelle in 2019 after drought destroyed their two-hectare farm.

The impact of the Somali shilling crisis is not limited to shopkeepers. Money exchangers and labourers who depended on handling the currency are also losing livelihoods.

Suleyman Mohamed Mumin earned a living counting and exchanging Somali shillings for local money changers, but has been unable to provide food for his family of five since 11 April. He spends his days moving between relatives and friends asking for help.

“This crisis has hit us very hard. There is extreme hardship in my home. My children’s food is uncertain and I am surviving only on hope,” he said.

“I keep hoping the government will find a solution and bring the Somali shilling back into circulation because poor people depended on it. Without it, many families will collapse.”

Suleyman fears eviction from his family’s two-room house because he can no longer pay the $50 monthly rent. He used to earn 150,000 to 200,000 Somali shillings daily, enough to cover rent and food.

Banadir regional administration say efforts are ongoing to restore public confidence in the Somali shilling and reintroduce it into markets, although it is not clear when or how a solution will be reached.

The rejected 1,000 shilling note was the last widely circulating denomination of the Somali currency, whose use has steadily weakened over the past decade as mobile money transactions have taken over.

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These newly displaced families arrived in several waves beginning in February, after drought wiped out their livestock in rural parts of Nugal and Mudug regions.

Waris Mohamed Osman, a mother of five, arrived in Ramaas camp after losing the last of her 120 goats to drought in the rural area of Maygaagle near Burtinle.

Her livestock had sustained her family for years through milk sales, meat, and occasional livestock trading. But after months without sufficient rain, the animals gradually died from hunger and thirst.

Now living in a shack made of sacks and torn cloth, Waris says her family lives on one small meal a day obtained on credit.

“Sometimes we sleep hungry and sometimes we cook a little food. There are days and nights when we don’t get to light a fire for cooking,” she said.

Waris is the sole provider for her children since separating from her husband. Before the drought, the family survived comfortably off the income from their livestock.

Ramaas camp has no water point, forcing women to walk long distances in search of water. Waris said the nearest well is around three kilometres away and a 20-litre jerrycan costs about 25 US cents that she can’t afford regularly. She relies on relatives or pleads with well owners for a single jerrycan of water for essential use.

The drought left her with debts of around $770 owed to traders back home in Maygaagle and shops in Harfo, where she has taken food on credit since arriving.

Adding to her hardship is the condition of one of her daughters, who requires constant supervision.

“My daughter is sick and has epilepsy. I cannot leave her alone to search for work. When she has seizures, she falls and hurts herself. I stay beside her all the time but I can’t afford medicine anymore,” said Waris, who has never lived in a displacement camp before.

Another displaced mother, Hawo Ali Hassan, arrived in Ramaas camp with her family of 11 after drought killed the 45 goats they depended on in Habar-jiil village near Burtinle. They have five feeble animals left that don’t provide any milk and have no market value.

Hawo’s children often sleep hungry because the family depends entirely on random assistance from relatives.

“If we get one meal out of three in a day, we consider ourselves lucky. Sometimes we get food and sometimes we do not. Back in our village we knew people who could lend us food or we could sell livestock. Here we know nobody,” she said.

The nearest water source is about an hour’s walk away and women carry water containers on their backs because they have no transport. They fear the insecurity of walking in the bush – some girls were recently chased by a group of men. At times the well breaks down, leaving families without water.

Ramaas camp has no amenities at all.

“The place has no school, no Koranic school, and no water services. We have become poor people living in shelters that can’t protect us from heat or cold,” said Hawo, who has five children of school age.

Her husband, who worked in construction jobs, has repeatedly searched for casual labour in Harfo town without success.

“He tried breaking stones to sell but nobody bought them because people prefer those they already know. Now he stays idle most days,” Hawo said.

The family faces pressure to repay $500 in debts accumulated in their home village. Hawo had expected to repay the loans after her livestock recovered, but the animals died before that happened.

Ramaas camp chairperson, Fadumo Jama Issa, said the new arrivals joined about 350 families already living in the settlement. The camp’s limited resources were already overstretched before the recent influx.

“These people are at risk of dying from hunger and thirst. They do not even have proper shelter from the heat and cold. They are living a hardship they never knew before,” Fadumo said.

She appealed for urgent support including food, water, shelter, healthcare, and livelihood assistance to help the displaced rebuild their lives: “Eventually they need livestock or work opportunities because that is the life they know. But before all that, they first need immediate help to survive.”

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The farmers say their recovery has been driven by climate adaptation training including the use of AI-based tools to monitor weather patterns, manage pests, and anticipate risks such as flooding, combined with water pipes provided for regular irrigation.

Fadumo Mayow Ali, a mother of 10 and the sole provider for her family, has been harvesting tomatoes, lemons, okra, beans, and maize from her farm and selling them in Baidoa markets making $8-10 a day.

“Life has improved for us now. We cook three meals a day using what we harvest. With the money I earned, I paid the house rent and supported my children’s education. I managed all the family’s needs. Before, we weren’t growing anything, we were farmers by name only,” she said.

Previously water shortages destroyed crops on her four-hectare farm, leaving her in debt. The training helped her, as she explained:

“The most important things we learned were about floods and the risks posed by strong winds to both crops and our homes. We were also trained on how to protect ourselves in advance. Many things we didn’t know before were explained to us. For example, if we know rains are coming, we now understand how to prepare and prevent damage.”

With her increased income, Fadumo has moved her family out of a hut in Madhaayte displacement camp, where they had lived for four years after drought forced them to flee El-dhun village in Bakool region. She now rents two iron-sheet rooms for $22 per month with access to piped water.

She has enrolled eight of her children in Koranic school for the first time, paying $30 in fees that she couldn’t afford when she was relying on odd labour jobs paying $4 at a time.

Nishey Ibrahim Salad, who supports a household of eight, says she has earned around $600 since the beginning of April selling fresh produce. She no longer has to rely on loans and help from relatives.

“Our life is much better now. Before, we could barely eat once or twice a day, but now we cook three times. The food we had before was not even nutritious. Now the difficult conditions we faced are behind us,” she said.

Nishey says the improvement came when her family was facing severe hardship. She works on her farm with the help of her young son, as her husband is elderly and unable to contribute. With her recent earnings, she has repaid her debts:

“I owed $350, and now I have cleared all of it. I am now relieved of the constant calls I used to receive from people asking for repayment when I had nothing to give. Now I have managed through my own effort.”

Her family was displaced three years ago from Oflow village near Baidoa after drought wiped out their three-hectare farm. She feels more confident in farming now, and has reinforced her water catchment.

The chairman of a cooperative group formed by 101 farmers, Hasan Mohamed Adan, said they were assisted by a programme implemented by NGOs, Shaqodoon and World Vision.

“We were taught how to monitor the weather, when to plant, and how to avoid floods while also making use of rainwater. We also learned about water quality and how to assess it. Many things that we didn’t understand before are now clear to us,” said Hasan. They are spreading their knowledge to nearby communities.

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Speaking to Radio Ergo from prison, Malyun described the emotional strain of knowing her children are living in hardship without her.

“My family has fallen apart. The children I left behind are not safe and could be harmed at any time. They were evicted from the house and are now staying with relatives. Is that not family destruction?” she said.

“When visitors come to see me, I ask them to take the prison food given to me and deliver it to my children. Sometimes I tell them I would rather the children eat it instead of me.”

Malyun is among scores of low income people whose livelihoods have failed, leading them to be sent to jail due to unpaid debts. Families often face ruin as a result.

In March, Malyun’s children, a girl and three boys, were evicted from the two rented rooms where they had been living and were sent home from school after unpaid fees accumulated.

As Malyun’s husband had died, she was the sole provider for her children.

Malyun is among 63 people imprisoned in Galkayo over unpaid debts, according to local community figures. Most were sole breadwinners for families now facing worsening poverty.

Her eldest daughter, aged 11, had been attending fifth grade. Her eight-year-old son who had just started first grade also dropped out when Malyun failed to pay the $10 a month fees for her children.

“At the beginning of every month, I paid the school fees. But after I was jailed and the money stopped coming, the school told them either bring the fees or leave,” she said.

Her children have been left in the hands of relatives, who are also caring for Malyun’s elderly and dependent mother suffering from mental illness.

Malyun earned a living selling goat meat from a small table in Galkayo market that used to generate $5 to $10 a day. Her earnings covered rent, food, school expenses, and medicine for her mother and children.

Over time, however, her debts accumulated as she bought more and more goats on credit from traders, whilst at the same time her customers were struggling and unable to pay her for the meat they were buying on credit.

“Every three days I had to slaughter another goat because that was how we survived. Nobody was helping me. I had to buy milk and diapers for my mother, milk for the children, food, and school expenses. Everything depended on me. That is how I fell into debt,” Malyun explained.

The traders who supplied her livestock eventually took the case to court, where she was sentenced to prison until she can repay.

Under the system used in Galkayo, people jailed over debt can receive visits from relatives or community members willing to help settle what they owe. But Malyun says she has not found anyone able to free her or rescue her children from their worsening conditions.

Similar hardship is facing the family of Issa Abdilkadir Abdulle, another prisoner being held over unpaid compensation linked to an accidental injury case.

Issa, a displaced labourer and father of eight, was ordered to pay compensation equivalent to $2,100 after a man was injured last year by a handcart he was operating.

Unable to raise the money or provide the three camels required as compensation, he has remained in prison while his family struggles in a Galkayo internal displacement camp.

“I was the only one working. My wife calls me crying and says there is no milk for the baby. She asks if I have managed to find help anywhere. But I tell her I have nothing because I am the one imprisoned,” Issa told Radio Ergo.

For the first two months after his arrest, Issa’s family survived on food bought on credit from a small shop in the camp. But shopkeepers eventually stopped extending further debt after the unpaid amount reached $250.

“We became unwanted because of the debt,” he said. “If you take goods today, they expect payment tomorrow. When they don’t receive it, they refuse to give you more.”

The family now survives on occasional cooked meals or small food donations from neighbours.

The chairperson of the Galkayo Women’s Association, Maymun Alinoor Gayfane, said local women’s groups had mobilised community contributions to help free some women imprisoned over debt.

Three women were released in February and March after the association paid debts of $25,000, $6,000, and $3,000 respectively.

“We selected women who were extremely poor and had no assets or support. We focused on vulnerable people who truly needed help,” Maymun told Radio Ergo.

She added that many of the imprisoned debtors were victims of worsening economic hardship, inflation, and the collapse of small businesses that poor families rely on for survival.

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Seasonal Gu rains in March swept through the area in Afdher zone that is known for natural salt production in shallow underground pits. Floods destroyed production sites and thousands of sacks of salt that producers had spent months preparing.

Ibrahim Mohamed Omar said the destruction has left families uncertain about how they will survive. Salt production was the only reliable source of income for his family of six. Since the losses, he has been surviving on occasional casual labour jobs.

“The loss affected us deeply. We felt as though our whole future had been destroyed. For four and a half months we invested fuel, money, and labour into this work, and all of it disappeared. The pain we feel cannot really be measured,” he told Radio Ergo.

He lost 4,000 sacks of salt that could have earned him around $5,000. Some of the salt was washed away completely, while the rest dissolved in stagnant water. He has debts of about $1,000 accumulated from fuel costs, food purchases, and wages for labourers helping prepare the salt.

Ibrahim, 38, said he had been unable to pay school fees for two of his children since February.

Salt producers had expected the risk of flooding and had planned in advance to transport the salt to storage warehouses. However, he blamed delays by a government-appointed committee responsible for coordinating transportation, pricing, and quality control.

“I trusted that my salt would be transported. I could not move it myself because the cooperative and contracted companies were supposed to handle it. We could not sell to anyone else because those companies had agreements with the government. We are not blaming the government itself, but the agreement and delays caused the problem,” he said.

He owns 20 salt pits, all of which are now filled with floodwater. Production cannot resume until the water dries up. He feels lost, he said, and has no savings to fall back on:

“I feel like someone whose house burned down and nothing was saved. That is the kind of pain I am carrying. It happened during a period of high inflation, when the only thing we depended on was destroyed. Recovering from this will not be easy.”

Producers in God-cusbo dig pits between three and five metres deep and pump water into them until salt forms naturally over a four-month period. As rainfall patterns become increasingly unreliable, workers invested in wells to maintain production throughout the year.

Siyaad Omar Roble, who has lived off salt production for the past decade, said he was surviving on borrowed money after losing his harvest. His debts have reached $740 and creditors are refusing to lend him more until he repays what he owes.

“My family has been badly affected because salt production was our only livelihood. Now the rain has taken everything. We are trying to survive, but the pressure is very heavy. Some of the people I support are pastoralists already affected by drought, and they have nothing else to rely on,” he said.

Floodwater destroyed 2,000 sacks of salt from his 20 pits. Still, he hopes to resume production if conditions improve.

“In business, sometimes you profit and sometimes you lose. One loss does not mean the end, so I want to try again. The problem was that the salt stayed too long in the fields. If it had been transported earlier, this damage would not have happened,” he said.

According to Ahmed Barre Jama, a member of the local salt producers’ cooperative, the area contains around 184,000 salt pits. He estimated that nearly 800,000 tons of salt were destroyed by the floods, affecting almost half the population of God-cusbo.

Ahmed said community leaders repeatedly appealed for assistance before the rains intensified, but received no response.

“People were crying out for help to save the salt, but nobody responded to them or even answered their calls. The people themselves have very limited capacity. This is a huge area covering several kilometres, and the salt pits are spread across a very wide stretch of land,” he said.

He warned that recovery may not be possible until next year, leaving many families without their main source of income for months to come.

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