A refugee poet has captured the human coast of humanitarian aid cuts as well as the resilience of refugees living under the threat of hunger.

Peter Kidi is a South Sudanese poet and activist who grew up in Kenya’s massive Kakuma refugee camp.

His new body of work, titled ‘The Weight We Carry’ examines the injustices of the global humanitarian aid system, while reflecting the resilience of those that are forced to endure.

As many as 11.6 million refugees and displaced people face losing access to direct humanitarian assistance from UNHCR this year because of major cuts to humanitarian budgets, and especially funding from USAID, the UN Refugee Agency UNHCR has reported.

According to the recently released ‘On the Brink’ report, the figure represents about one-third of those reached by the organisation last year.

It comes after a separate report published in the medical journal The Lancet says the Trump Administration’s move to cut most of the US’ funding towards foreign humanitarian aid could cause more than 14 million additional deaths by 2030, a third of them children.

Kidi’s work has been featured internationally, including a recent publication with ‎the London School of Economics and upcoming work with King’s College London.

More than 300,000 refugees live in Kakuma camp in northern Kenya, an isolated and arid region, shut away from the rest of the country, depending on a faltering aid system for survival.

This unequal relationship is now under more strain than ever. Deep funding cuts means harsh choices are being imposed by the aid agencies on who is helped and those who have to go without.

A new system, initiated in August, divides refugees into four categories. Those deemed most vulnerable (category 1 and 2) receive food rations – but at well below recommended minimum nutritional needs. Category 3 get a cash transfer of $US4 a month, while category 4 receives nothing at all.

Kidi’s poems explore this situation and draw on the juxtaposition between hope and hunger.

They examine the intent of aid programs and the reality of daily survival for refugees.

He poems also look at the tension between policies designed to help, and the barriers they sometimes create.

“I was born in Kakuma refugee camp, but my life started in crisis before I even took my first breath. My parents fled South Sudan during the SPLA war. My mother was pregnant with me when they crossed into Kenya. They walked for days, terrified, exhausted, with no guarantee they’d survive. They arrived with nothing, just the hope that their child might be born somewhere safer. ‎That child was me,” Peter told aid agency Oxfam.

‎“I’ve never known another home outside Kakuma. I grew up in a place that was never meant to be permanent, where the ground is dry, the food is never enough, and the future is always uncertain. Every day was a reminder that we were living on the edge of systems, of nations, of attention.

‎“You grow up quickly in a place like this. I’ve seen hunger break people. I’ve watched my parents struggle to stay strong when everything around them was falling apart. I’ve watched my sister go through trauma no child should ever face. I’ve seen death, silence, and pain become part of everyday life.

“I write because I want the world to hear what we go through not in numbers or reports, but in human language. I want people to know we exist. That behind every food cut, every protest, every refugee statistic, there are real lives like mine.

‎“I write because I need to survive. And I hope my poetry helps others survive too. I hope it gives voice to those who’ve lost theirs. I hope it reaches someone who’s in a position to act, or someone who just needed to feel seen,” he said.

One of Kidi’s poems is titled ‘Category 3’.

‘In the heat of noon,

‎with a baby strapped tight on her back

‎and another tugging at her torn leso,

‎Mama Akongo stood

‎a single mother,

‎a quiet fighter in the desert of the forgotten.

‎

‎She hadn’t received a message,

‎no buzz, no beep,

‎just silence from a phone that barely worked

‎like the system that birthed her pain.

‎

‎So she walked,

‎through the dust-lined path to the fieldpost,

‎a place where hope and heartbreak stand in queues,

‎where aid is weighed by digits,

‎and survival wears a number.

‎

‎The line moved like time

‎slow, unsure,

‎every step heavy with hunger

‎and the unanswered prayers of mothers.

‎

‎When it was finally her turn,

‎she stepped forward

‎heart pounding like a drum

‎at the altar of some cruel arithmetic.

‎

‎The aid worker didn’t even look up,

‎just typed,

‎paused,

‎then frowned

‎“Category 3,” he said.

‎

‎Category 3.

‎No food ration. No cooking oil.

‎No explanation.

‎Just a screen that says: Not today. Not you.

‎

‎It means going home to nothing,

‎watching your children ask for lunch,

‎and answering with tears.

‎

‎As if those two words

‎were not a sentence

‎to starvation.

‎

‎Akongo blinked.

‎“Are you sure? Maybe check again?”

‎she whispered.

‎But the screen had spoken.

‎And the world, once again,

‎had turned its back.

‎

‎She fell to her knees,

‎not out of weakness

‎but because even warriors break

‎when the war is against their own dignity.

‎

‎Her cry cut the silence:

‎“Why?

‎Why am I not a mother in your system?

‎Do my children not hunger the same?

‎Did I not bleed at childbirth,

‎like the women in category one?”

‎

‎People stared.

‎Some turned away,

‎afraid to drown in the truth of her tears.

‎

‎But she kept wailing:

‎“This aid, is it for numbers

‎or for the living?

‎How can a message decide

‎who eats and who fades?”

‎

‎The sun heard her.

‎The wind, too.

‎And maybe, somewhere,

‎God wept with her.

‎

‎For a camp divided by digital fate,

‎where mercy wears filters,

‎and humanity

‎is a category

‎on a screen.’