Years of drought, recurring floods, armed conflict and shrinking humanitarian assistance have forced millions of Somalis into increasingly precarious conditions, with many displaced families now struggling to survive in overcrowded camps around the capital, Mogadishu.

Among them is 38-year-old Zeynab Ibrahim, a single mother who fled her hometown near Burhakaba in central Somalia after years of failed rains devastated local agriculture and pushed her family into extreme hardship.For three years, Ibrahim watched as drought tightened its grip on her community.

Reservoirs dried up, crops failed and food became increasingly scarce. Hunger and disease spread through the area, claiming numerous lives, including four of her 10 children.“We tried every means to survive – selling dried grass and digging up water from the barren earth.

Unfortunately, there was nothing left, so we had no choice but to escape to save our children,” Ibrahim said while sitting outside a makeshift shelter in an internally displaced persons camp in Mogadishu’s Kahda district.The journey to the capital came only after all other options had been exhausted.

Assisted by a truck driver transporting other displaced families from drought-stricken areas around Burhakaba, she joined the growing number of Somalis seeking refuge in the city.“So hunger is what brought us here,” she said.Ibrahim is one of more than one million displaced people now living in informal settlements across Mogadishu, where many families continue to face severe shortages of food, clean water and basic services despite escaping the immediate effects of drought in rural areas.

Before being displaced, her family relied entirely on farming for survival. Maize, beans, sesame and vegetables grown on their land provided both food and income. As rainfall disappeared, however, agricultural production collapsed.

“Our livelihoods depended on what we could grow on the ground, including maize, beans, sesame and vegetables. But the ground dried because there was no rain,” she said.Her experience reflects a broader pattern unfolding across Somalia, where communities increasingly face overlapping climate and security pressures.

Repeated droughts destroy crops and livestock, while floods that follow periods of extreme dryness often wash away fragile infrastructure and further undermine agricultural recovery.For many households, these environmental shocks occur against a backdrop of persistent conflict and insecurity, limiting opportunities to rebuild livelihoods or safely return home.

The result has been a growing displacement crisis that has reshaped communities across the country. Families forced from rural areas frequently arrive in urban centers with few possessions and limited means of earning an income, increasing their dependence on humanitarian support at a time when aid resources are under strain.

Adan Roble, another displaced Somali, said the combined effects of environmental disasters and insecurity have left many families struggling to meet even their most basic needs.“Imagine losing everything and trying to survive without food and clean water, while fighting continues and drones keep flying overhead,” Roble said.

Roble has experienced multiple climate-related disasters. Years of drought destroyed his crops and rendered his farmland unproductive, undermining the economic foundation on which his family depended.Stories such as those of Ibrahim and Roble illustrate the mounting challenges facing Somalia as climate-related shocks become more frequent and severe.

Rural communities that depend heavily on rain-fed agriculture are often among the most vulnerable, with prolonged dry periods quickly translating into crop failures, livestock losses and widespread food insecurity.For many displaced families, arriving in Mogadishu has provided safety from immediate environmental threats but not from poverty.

Conditions in many informal settlements remain difficult, with limited access to employment opportunities, healthcare, sanitation and reliable food supplies.As climate pressures, conflict and humanitarian constraints converge, displaced households continue to face uncertain futures.

Families that once relied on farming and livestock now find themselves dependent on irregular aid and struggling to rebuild their lives far from the land that once sustained them.

For Ibrahim, the move to Mogadishu was not a choice but a last resort after years of watching her community deteriorate. Although she escaped the drought that devastated her hometown, the daily struggle against hunger and deprivation continues in the camp she now calls home.

On a recent afternoon outside a library in Kashmir, a brief exchange between a student preparing for one of India’s most competitive examinations and three migrant balloon sellers from Rajasthan offered a quiet illustration of the economic realities that continue to drive internal migration across the country.

The scene unfolded near the library entrance, where three young men sat beside a cluster of balloons they were attempting to sell. Their presence was not unusual. Seasonal and temporary migration from economically vulnerable regions to other parts of India remains a common livelihood strategy for thousands of families seeking work opportunities unavailable in their home districts.

Among those leaving the library that day was Fawad, a student preparing for the National Eligibility cum Entrance Test (NEET), the entrance examination for medical education in India. According to witnesses present at the scene, Fawad paused after noticing the three balloon sellers and began speaking with them.

The conversation initially appeared routine. Fawad asked the young men where they had come from and how long they had been in Kashmir. The sellers responded that they had travelled from Rajasthan in search of income opportunities. They described economic hardship, limited resources and difficult living conditions as factors that had pushed them to leave home and seek work elsewhere.

The interaction drew attention because Fawad showed interest in their circumstances beyond a simple commercial transaction. Although he had no apparent need for balloons, he asked to purchase three of them. Witnesses said he paid more than the asking price and encouraged the young men to use the additional money to buy food.

From a purely financial perspective, the amount involved was modest. Yet the exchange highlighted a larger question about how individuals respond to visible signs of economic vulnerability in public spaces.

After the sellers left, an observer who had watched the interaction asked Fawad why he felt compelled to help strangers he did not know.His response was measured rather than sentimental.

“I am relatively well off,” he said. “I can skip one meal. They struggle for every meal. The matter is not always hunger.”

The remark shifted the discussion away from charity alone and toward a broader consideration of economic insecurity. For many informal workers, particularly migrants engaged in street vending and seasonal employment, the challenge extends beyond immediate food needs. Income uncertainty affects access to shelter, healthcare, education and social mobility. Small disruptions in earnings can have disproportionate consequences.

India’s internal migration patterns have long reflected these realities. Workers frequently move across states in search of seasonal employment in construction, agriculture, tourism, retail trade and informal services. Street vending, including the sale of balloons, toys and other low-cost items, often requires little capital investment but offers highly unpredictable earnings.

Daily income can depend on weather conditions, tourist activity, local demand and competition.The encounter in Kashmir illustrated these dynamics at an individual level. The three balloon sellers were not engaged in a formal employment arrangement. Their livelihood depended on persuading passers-by to purchase inexpensive products, making every interaction a potential source of income.

The image of brightly coloured balloons against the backdrop of economic hardship also carries a symbolic dimension that has long appeared in South Asian literature and poetry.

Balloons are often associated with celebration, childhood and temporary joy.

Yet their existence is inherently fragile, lasting only as long as the air within them remains contained.

That contrast finds resonance in a famous couplet by the eighteenth-century Urdu poet Mir Taqi Mir:

“Hasti apni hubab ki si hai,

Ye numaish saraab ki si hai.”

A commonly accepted English rendering is:

“Our existence is like a bubble;This spectacle of life is like a mirage.”

The couplet reflects Mir’s recurring meditation on impermanence. A bubble appears briefly before disappearing. A mirage seems real from a distance but vanishes upon closer examination. Together, the images suggest the transient nature of worldly status, possessions and human circumstances.

Viewed through that lens, the encounter between the student and the balloon sellers acquires a wider significance. The balloons themselves become a metaphor for lives shaped by uncertainty. Economic security, educational opportunity and social standing often appear stable, yet they can be fragile and unevenly distributed.

Fawad’s decision to buy three balloons did not alter the structural conditions that had brought the sellers from Rajasthan to Kashmir. Nor did it address the broader economic factors influencing migration and informal labour. What it did reveal was an awareness of the asymmetry between those who can absorb temporary hardship and those whose daily survival depends on continuous earnings.

The transaction lasted only a few minutes. The balloons changed hands, a small amount of money was exchanged, and the sellers continued on their route. Yet the conversation that accompanied the purchase left a stronger impression than the sale itself.

In public discussions about poverty, attention often focuses on statistics, government programmes and economic indicators. Those measures remain essential for understanding the scale of deprivation. At the same time, individual encounters continue to shape how people perceive inequality in everyday life.

Outside the library that day, three migrant balloon sellers were attempting to earn a living far from home. A student preparing for a future in medicine paused long enough to ask where they had come from and why.

The answers were simple: poverty, migration and the search for opportunity. The response was equally simple: the purchase of three balloons and a recognition that need is not measured solely by hunger, but also by the human desire to be seen.

For decades, women in fishing communities along Lake Victoria were expected to stay on shore, selling fish rather than catching them. In Kagwel village in Kenya’s Kisumu County, stepping into a fishing boat was seen not only as unusual but as a violation of deeply rooted social beliefs.

That changed in 2002 when Rhoda Ongoche Akech, then a 39-year-old mother of seven, decided to enter the lake herself.At the time, Akech had spent years working as a fishmonger, buying fish from male fishermen and reselling them in local markets.

But rising costs for fish purchases, cooking oil, firewood and transport were reducing her earnings and making it harder to support her family.“People were alleging that when women go into the waters accompanied by men, they would engage in sexual intercourse,” Akech, now 61. She said community members initially treated her decision with suspicion, but after realising she was determined to learn fishing rather than challenge morality, opposition gradually faded.

Her decision followed an encounter in 2001 when women from neighbouring Homabay County came to Kagwel and began fishing. Watching them convinced her that the work was possible despite local resistance.“I sought the help of two young men by then to assist me with fishing as I learned,” she said.The cultural restrictions around women fishing in Lake Victoria communities are rooted in longstanding beliefs tied to gender and ritual purity.

According to Kagwel village elder William Okedo, one of the strongest taboos concerned menstruation.“It was believed that if women went into the lake while on period, they would scare away the fish and that would cause losses to people who are fishing,” Okedo said.The restrictions extended to men as well. Fishermen were traditionally discouraged from having sexual relations with their wives the night before fishing trips, based on beliefs that it would reduce their catch.

For 16 years, Akech remained the only woman fishing regularly in Kagwel, working alone among male crews.It was not until 2018 that another woman joined her. Faith Awuor Ang’awo, a 37-year-old mother of four, had also been working as a fishmonger and was facing similar financial strain.“My husband refused the idea at first,” Ang’awo said, citing fears of social backlash from the fishing community.

“But later on allowed me to join Rhoda.”In 2020, Dorcas Awiyo, then a 22-year-old mother of three, followed. Her husband, himself a fisherman, initially opposed the decision but later agreed after the family’s need for additional income became more urgent.“At first, my husband was not receptive to the idea, but later on allowed me,” she said.By 2022, when Janet Ndweyi joined the group, resistance had largely disappeared.

“I didn’t face any challenge or receive any warning when joining them because the community around was used to seeing Rhoda and Faith fishing,” Ndweyi said.Without a husband to support her and with fish trading becoming less profitable, fishing offered her a more stable income. She now uses her earnings to pay college fees for both of her children.

“Through fishing, I am able to cater for my household’s basic needs and also pay for children’s school fees that are in college,” she said.Economic necessity has been the strongest force behind the social shift.According to Wilson Onjolo, fisheries officer for Seme subcounty, boat owners at Kagwel Beach can earn between 6,000 and 8,000 Kenyan shillings ($46 to $62) on productive days. Crew members earn between 500 and 800 shillings ($3.88 to $6.20), while traders such as fishmongers may earn up to 1,000 shillings ($7.75).

That compares favourably with the roughly 500 shillings women like Akech earned daily when they relied solely on fish trading.Village elder Okedo said the economic pressure facing households has made communities more willing to reconsider long-held norms.“This is all because of economic hardships that the community is facing; it is pushing women to break the taboo,” he said.

Fisherman Dalmas Onyango said most male fishermen now support women entering the trade.“The majority of my fellow fishermen now support their decision to fish,” he said, adding that changing economic realities have made old restrictions less practical.At the same time, the lake itself is becoming less reliable.

Lake Victoria, which supports more than 42 million people for food, employment and drinking water, is under increasing pressure from overfishing, pollution, invasive species and climate change. Annual harvests remain around one million tonnes, but per capita catch rates have declined significantly.Akech said she has seen the change directly over the past two decades.

The amount of fish she catches today is noticeably lower than when she first entered the lake in 2002.Chris Mutai, senior meteorologist in charge of the Kisumu meteorological station, said rising water temperatures are contributing to the decline by encouraging algae growth and reducing oxygen levels in the lake.

“To reverse this, people should keep off riparian land to allow undergrowth that will serve as the breeding ground of fish, and avoid pollution of the lake that traps more heat than plain, clear water,” Mutai said.He warned that temperatures could rise by another 0.5 degrees Celsius over the next 10 to 20 years, reaching between 29.5C and 31C.

Without stronger environmental controls, including protection of riparian zones and regulated fishing, fish stocks are expected to continue falling.Weather forecasting has become increasingly important for fishing communities. Mutai’s office distributes five-day forecasts through WhatsApp groups and local government channels, helping fishermen and fisherwomen prepare for dangerous lake conditions.

Despite their success, Akech and her team still operate in a legal grey area.Susan Claire, acting director of fisheries and blue economy for Kisumu County, said women officially participate as boat owners and fish traders, but not as night fishermen or crew members.“We have women who own boats and women traders, but they are not involved in night fishing or as boat crew members,” Claire told Al Jazeera.

That leaves women like Akech without formal recognition or equal access to support available to male fishermen.However, Christopher Aura of the Kenya Marine and Fisheries Research Institute said in 2023 that Lake Victoria had more than 47,000 fishermen, including 1,000 women, suggesting official county records may not fully reflect women’s participation.

Claire acknowledged that declining fish stocks remain a major concern and said the county is working with meteorological services and Beach Management Units to improve awareness, climate adaptation and enforcement against illegal fishing.For Akech, the debate is less about recognition than survival.She continues to leave before dawn with the same determination that first took her to the water more than two decades ago.

Some days the catch is poor, and the income barely covers the effort. On better days, it is enough to keep going.The lake has changed, but so has the community around it.

Fisherman Ibrahima Mar, 55, said dwindling catches have upended a way of life sustained for generations in Rufisque, near Dakar. He described a steady depletion of fish stocks that has left traditional fishers struggling to survive. “The fish have been taken from our path,” he said, pointing to worsening conditions in recent years.

Analysts attribute the decline to a combination of illegal practices and large-scale industrial operations. Bassirou Diarra, Senegal country manager for the Environmental Justice Foundation, said vessels engaged in bottom trawling and other activities often operate under Senegalese flags but are linked to foreign ownership, including European and Asian interests.

“These practices not only reduce fish availability for local consumption but also limit economic returns to the country,” Diarra said, citing issues such as unauthorized fishing in protected areas, non-compliant equipment and lax licensing.

A 2025 report by the Environmental Justice Foundation estimated that 57% of exploited fish populations in Senegal are in a state of collapse, underscoring the scale of the crisis.

The decline has had ripple effects across coastal economies. According to census data, more than 82,000 people in Senegal depend on fishing, accounting for about 2% of the workforce. Ancillary sectors such as fish processing, transport and retail have also been affected.

Local fishing leaders say productivity has sharply declined. Mamadou Diouf Sene, head of the Rufisque Fishing Wharf Revenue Commission, said it now takes up to seven months to catch what previously required two months, reflecting the strain on marine resources.

The economic pressure has contributed to increased migration attempts, with some fishermen undertaking dangerous journeys to Europe in traditional wooden boats known as pirogues. Community members say these journeys often end in tragedy.

Environmental factors have compounded the problem. Researchers note that climate change is shifting small pelagic species, such as sardinella and horse mackerel, northward, further reducing local availability.

Authorities acknowledge enforcement challenges. Cheikh Salla Ndiaye of Senegal’s Directorate of Fisheries Protection and Surveillance said monitoring vast maritime areas remains difficult despite support from security forces.

Efforts to improve oversight are underway, with environmental groups such as Greenpeace introducing technologies including satellite tracking and mobile reporting tools to help identify illegal activity at sea.

The crisis has raised concerns about long-term food security and economic stability in Senegal, where fish remains a central component of both diet and cultural identity.