Demonstrators in London, UK, take part in a march to draw attention to the civil war in Sudan in May 2024. Photo/Courtesy/The Conversation
On Day 62 of Sudan’s war, Ehssan Mohammed’s world is torn apart. The quiet of her small home in Omdurman City is shattered by a loud knock, followed by the door being kicked open.
Armed strangers storm in, their voices cold and commanding. They demand her husband, ransacking the house when they do not find him. When they bark for money, she shakily hands over her hidden cash. But it is not enough. One of them grabs for her one-year-old son.
Desperate, Mohammed resists, and a blade flashes – cutting her thumb as she clings to her child. Helpless, she watches as her children and sister are tormented before the intruders order her to leave – their home now stolen from them.
When Mohammed recalls that day, tears flow uncontrollably. The scars on her son’s head serve as a painful reminder.
“They came with guns to my village … they burned my uncle, my brother, and my father. My home is destroyed… These people, they cut our head,” she says through sobs, her words halting in broken English. For Mohammed, one thing was clear: she had to leave immediately.
With her child in her arms, she made the perilous journey through South Sudan, traveling on foot and by local transport through Rabak and Juba, before finally reaching Uganda. “I came with my baby…sleeping on the road for three days, no food, no water. My baby was still young, just one year and two months,” she remembers.
After 20 exhausting days, the distraught woman finally arrived in Kampala, overwhelmed and drained. She owes her survival to the kindness of strangers along the way – people who paid for her bus ticket. Rather than finding the refuge she longed for, Mohammed has been confronted with a relentless wave of challenges in Kampala.
“I thought I would be safe, but Kampala is not safe either. The streets are dangerous, people attack you, and I cannot sleep at night. One morning I wanted to buy food, and a man pushed me onto the street. My legs and head still hurt from the fall,” she says.
Since that day, she never leaves her house without covering her face. In the past year alone, she has faced five attacks in Kasubi, the neighborhood she now calls home. The marks on her body stand as an unspoken record of the violence she has suffered. These attacks are just a glimpse of the relentless dangers she faces every day.
The unhealed pain from her wounds is a persistent reminder of her fragility, yet she has no way to access even the simplest medical care. With no resources for treatment, she is left to cope with the physical and emotional scars of repeated assaults. Often, there isn’t even enough money for food.
“After three days, there is no food in my home … My baby asks, ‘Why, mama?’ I say, ‘No money.’” Sometimes, she wonders if staying in Sudan might have been safer after all.
Sudan's army chief Abdel Fattah al-Burhan waves at a crowd in Port Sudan in January 2025. Photos/Courtesy/The Conversation
Influx of refugees
The civil war in Sudan, which began in April 2023, has triggered a significant surge of refugees into Uganda.
Last year, Sudanese nationals became the largest group among new arrivals, accounting for 36 percent of the total influx.
According to the United Nations Refugee Agency (UNHCR), as of mid-April 2025, over 76,992 Sudanese refugees have fled to Uganda since the onset of the conflict.
The majority seek shelter in Kiryandongo Refugee Settlement in Uganda’s Mid-Western region, just 250 kilometers from Kampala, designated to accommodate the growing number of asylum seekers.
However, the effects of the Covid-19 pandemic led to an unprecedented reduction in funding for the humanitarian response, affecting refugees’ livelihoods, safety nets, and the quality of services in refugee settlements. “By now, there is no space, no food, and no hope,” one aid worker explains.
This compelled many refugees to move from the designated refugee settlements to Uganda’s cities and urban areas. UNHCR estimates that one in ten refugees settle in Kampala, but the true number may be far higher, with thousands undocumented and living in precarious conditions.
Kampala Capital City Authority (KCCA) estimates that the broader metropolitan area is now home to over 340,000 undocumented Sudanese refugees.
Sudanese refugees who have fled from the war in Sudan get off a truck loaded with families arriving at a transit center for refugees in Renk, South Sudan, on February 13, 2025. Some of them continue with their journey to Uganda.
A small number of them managed to bring their wealth from Sudan and have established businesses in the city, contributing to local commerce and creating new opportunities in their communities.
But a significant portion reside in informal settlements such as Kisenyi, Kabalagala, and Kisaasi, where they often live in overcrowded dormitories, clustered within their communities as they struggle to survive.
Studies and investigations consistently confirm the dire conditions faced by refugees. Women make up the majority of those fleeing Sudan into Uganda – a fact that shapes the refugee crisis in deeply gendered ways.
Many arrive alone with young children, having lost or been separated from male family members. This imbalance leaves them especially vulnerable to exploitation, violence, and poverty in both camps and urban settings.
Violence, like that experienced by Ehssan Mohammed, is a daily reality in some areas, particularly for vulnerable groups.
Yet, this is just one layer of the complex and deeply rooted challenges they endure. A recent livelihoods assessment, The Realities of Self-reliance within the Ugandan Refugee Context, published by the Uganda Learning, Evidence, Accountability, and Research Network (U-Learn) and REACH last year, highlights the challenges faced by urban refugees in Uganda.
Survival for the fittest Across all nationalities, refugees often face significant social barriers, such as discrimination and limited social networks, that hinder their access to markets and economic opportunities.
Most rely on unstable and unreliable sources of income to make ends meet. In Kampala, 54 percent of urban refugees reported remittances or support from friends and family as a primary source of income, highlighting their dependence on external assistance to survive.
One of them is Ayat Zakaria, a 22-year-old woman who arrived in the capital six months ago. She shares a single room with four other people and is entirely dependent on her husband. She often hears stories from friends and family about others who have been trafficked into forced labour in the construction or sex industries. When asked about financial aid from the government or support from non-governmental organizations (NGOs), she shrugs her shoulders.
After a moment of thought, she recalls being promised a blanket back in Kiryandongo.
“But it is not worth it. The three-hour trip there and back costs more than the blanket itself,” she says. Responsibility for the welfare of refugees officially lies with UNHCR and the Office of the Prime Minister (OPM). In reality, however, most arrivals are left to fend for themselves.
Both institutions were contacted multiple times for an interview and invited to comment on the current situation of Sudanese refugees in Kampala. By the time we went to press, neither had responded. Mohammed’s last support – Shs112,000 (USD 30) and a mattress – came over a year ago. She reflects on her dire situation.
“I go to their offices now and then to ask for help. But they tell me to be patient. How can I be patient when my baby is hungry?” To provide for her children, she often offers her help on the streets for just a few thousand shillings.
“Sometimes I sit in front of a shop and hope that someone will ask if I need help. But no one comes. I am just invisible,” she relays, her voice heavy with resignation. According to the Refugees Act 2006, refugees like Mohammed and Zakaria are entitled to move freely, seek medical care, access education, find employment and open financial accounts. They should be treated fairly, without discrimination.
But for many women in Kampala, these rights remain theoretical. Instead of protection, they encounter daily insecurity. Instead of opportunity, isolation.
Despite being entitled to a refugee identification document and basic services, many never receive them or are unaware of how to access them. In return, refugees are required to obey Ugandan law, avoid political activity – even against their home countries – and report changes in their family composition.
On paper, the framework appears balanced. But on the ground, the scales are far from even. Political participation – often the only path to justice for those who have lost everything – is denied.
For a mother sleeping hungry with her child, the right to open a mobile money account offers little comfort when her voice must remain silent. What unites Mohammed, Zakaria, and the hundreds of thousands of Sudanese refugees in Kampala is not only financial hardship but also the stark cultural differences they face.
They find themselves vulnerable in a city that feels completely foreign compared to the Sudan they once knew: the sight of revealing clothing, and a new language they cannot speak or understand all serve as constant reminders of their displacement.
The bodabodas, in particular, heighten their sense of fear; several friends have experienced their phones being snatched by riders, making them even more cautious and anxious about navigating the chaotic streets. For Mohammed, the constant fear for her children amplifies her struggles.
“People just come up to my children, touch them, or say they want to play with them. I am so afraid someone will take them from me – the only thing I have left,” she says.
What she dreams of for her children is education – a chance to escape this life. Yet, the harsh reality is that she lacks the money to provide them with schooling. This financial strain has pushed her to consider getting married to a man, not out of love, but as a desperate means to secure basic stability for her family. What is needed, Mohammed reflects, is solidarity and unity among refugees.
However, this is precisely what is missing. In Kampala, 43 percent of refugee respondents reported not belonging to any community groups. Sudanese refugees have smaller communities, but they are not well-connected or organised, leaving many individuals like Mohammed to face their struggles in isolation.
The challenges are only growing as Uganda braces for another influx of new arrivals this year. Settlements like Kiryandongo are already stretched to capacity, with resources and support systems buckling under the pressure.
For Mohammed, however, the location no longer matters – whether it is Kiryandongo or Kampala. What she longs for is something far simpler, yet heartbreakingly elusive: an end to the suffering.
“I do not know where I can go, but there must be somewhere in this world where we can live in safety,” she says.
Returning to Sudan is unthinkable.
The memories of war, the loss of her family, and the constant threat of violence have made that clear.
“No, I cannot go back. There is war, and I would not be safe. My family is either dead or missing,” she says, her voice trembling as she pauses to fight back tears. “All I want is a life without fear.”
