“We relied on the moon to fish,” says Patricia Awuor, a 48-year-old fishmonger at Koguna Beach in western Kenya. “They used Optimus lamps, and there were off-seasons – it was a kinder time. The lake gave us much more in return.”
Patricia comes from a long line of women who have worked the shores of Lake Victoria. Her grandmother dried fish, her mother sold it at market, and now she does the same. But times have changed. The fish are smaller, harder to find, and the women’s trade is under pressure like never before.
Along the Kenyan side of the lake, in Homa Bay County, women have long been central to the fishing economy. Once the boats come in, it is the women who take over. They buy, sort, dry, store, and sell the fish. They control prices, decide on distribution, and ensure fish gets from the lake to local markets or traders further inland. However, as fish stocks decline, their role becomes increasingly precarious.
“There is just no fish,” says Everlyne Akoth, 32, who has worked as a fishmonger since she was 22. “I was born here. My grandmother did this, my mother does it too, and now I do as well. But I won’t let my daughter follow me. I regret dropping out of school, even though I had no choice. Sometimes I wish we could leave the lake alone, but I have children and bills to take care of.”
Like many in her trade, Everlyne left school early. Her family could not afford the fees. Initially, the work provided her with some independence. But with catches falling and fuel prices rising, her income no longer keeps pace with the cost of living.
She remembers when business felt different. “Ten years ago, a basin full of Omena would go for 1,000 shillings (about 10 USD),” she says. “Now the price has doubled, but with higher fuel costs and fewer fish, we don’t really earn more. Life has only become harder.”
In Kenya, Omena now accounts for more than 40 percent of total fish landings – significantly more than Nile perch or tilapia. In 2011 alone, Omena contributed over 54 percent by weight. However, even this once-abundant fish is becoming increasingly difficult to find.
Maurice Onyango, a fisherman and community leader in Homa Bay, says the lake is being pushed beyond its limits. “There should be off-seasons, there should be rules,” he says. “But people don’t follow them. Some own dozens of boats. There’s no discipline anymore.”
Kenya, Uganda, and Tanzania share Lake Victoria. Once one of Africa’s richest inland fisheries, the lake is now under stress from overfishing, population pressure, pollution, and climate change. In some places, stocks have dropped so low that governments have stepped in.
In Uganda, the ‘hurry‑up’ fishing method that scooped up too many young fish too quickly — widely used to catch silverfish (locally known as Mukene) — was banned in 2024 in favour of a more selective “chota‑chota” scoop method, in a bid to allow stocks of Nile perch and other juvenile fish to recover. Although the policy targeted gear, not the fishery itself, the move has shaken communities along the lake, especially women who relied on small fish for their trade.
At Katosi Beach, in Uganda’s Mukono district, women have adapted in creative ways. The Women of Hope group was formed in 2004 to support fishmongers. In 2020, they pooled their savings and received 25 million Ugandan Shillings (about 7,000 USD) in matching funds from the government to buy a fish-drying machine. The shift from charcoal to briquettes, and from open-air drying to a cleaner, faster method, has improved the quality of their fish and made their work less hazardous.
“We were in full-blown poverty before we bought this machine,” says Nakityo Prossy, who joined the group in its early days. “But now, even with the ban, we find ways to keep going. We try other skills too: soap making, pig rearing, weaving.”
For older members like Margaret Nyakeisti, 74, the group is not only about income. Alongside other women in Katosi, she has weathered hard times and found strength in the friendships the group provides. With fish stocks dwindling and the Mukene ban in place, the Women of Hope now pass on new skills to younger women and girls — ensuring the next generation has options beyond fishing. “This lake gave us everything once,” Margaret says. “But maybe it’s time to look elsewhere.”
In both countries, some women have taken to fishing themselves – a move once seen as the domain of men. It is physically demanding and often dangerous, especially in poor weather and without safety gear. Few see it as a long-term solution.
The Uganda National Women’s Fish Organisation (UNWFO) is one of several groups working to prepare women for that shift. They train fishmongers in business skills and food safety, support women in refugee communities, and push for stronger representation in fishing policy. In recent years, they have also partnered with the Ministry of Agriculture and international organisations such as GIZ to research safer fishing practices and lobby for tighter regulation.
“Women have the information,” says Josephine Kawala, the organisation’s communications officer. “But they often keep quiet because of stigma. We try to build their confidence, support their ideas, and make space for them to lead.”
Groups like UNWFO and the Women of Hope demonstrate how women are adapting and seeking alternatives. Yet the pressures on the lake — from overfishing, weak enforcement, and climate change — run deeper than local innovation can solve. As stocks dwindle and traditions falter, the question remains: how long can women carry a trade that depends on a lake running out of breath?
For older women like Patricia, the uncertainty is deeply felt. “We were once many in this trade,” she says. “Now we are fewer. The lake is tired. But we are still here.”
Though he lives not far from the Blue Nile in southern Khartoum, 43-year-old Mahmoud Abd el-Dafe’ has found himself drinking polluted water from a household well – more than once. With the war now grinding into its third year, water supplies from the river have collapsed, leaving residents like Abd el-Dafe’ parched and desperate.
In Al-Azhari, the neighbourhood where he lives, around 3,000 people have been forced to dig into the dry earth with their bare hands to reach groundwater. What they pull up is cloudy and grey, thick with salt, sediment, and at times even worms. Still, it’s all they have. The consequences are visible: stomach pain, intestinal infections, and waves of diarrhoea sweeping through families.
Clean water – once one of the Nile’s most basic gifts – is now out of reach. Heavy shelling and airstrikes have destroyed treatment plants and severed the electrical grid, cutting off safe drinking water to entire districts.
And it’s not just thirst. The war has pushed farming and fishing to a halt along the Nile. Security threats have driven farmers and fishermen from their land and riverbanks. Where they once fed others, many now go hungry themselves.
According to 2021 estimates by former Minister of Irrigation and Water Resources Yasser Abbas, 20 million Sudanese live along the Blue Nile, relying on agriculture and fishing. The region includes the Gezira Project, Africa’s second-largest agricultural scheme, and dozens of farms across Sennar State in central Sudan.
When fighting spread from Khartoum into these agricultural heartlands, the country’s irrigated food system collapsed. The United Nations estimates 26 million people in Sudan are now in urgent need of assistance.
“Military clashes and airstrikes between the army and RSF destroyed electrical grids,” says Abd el-Dafe. “That stopped the pumps that draw water from the Nile. The groundwater wells in our neighbourhood broke down too. We were face-to-face with thirst, so we started digging with our bare hands.”
Some took even greater risks: braving gunfire to reach the river and hauling water back in donkey-drawn carts. One barrel can cost up to 20,000 Sudanese pounds (about USD 9) – unaffordable for most.
“My neighbours and I in Al-Azhari have been suffering for two years,” says Abd el-Dafe. “Even though the army now controls the area, I still can’t benefit from the Nile. Most of the treatment plants are still out of service.”
In neighbourhoods across southern Khartoum – including Al-Salama, Mayo, Ad Hussein, and Al-Kakla – residents have turned to unsafe groundwater after official water systems broke down. Engineers can’t reach treatment plants to repair them.
“In 2024, we documented many cases of cholera and other intestinal diseases due to drinking contaminated water,” says Fateh Hussein, a member of the South Belt Emergency Response Room.
By May 2025, cholera had surged across Sudan, particularly in the capital. The Sudanese Ministry of Health reported up to 800 new cholera cases per day in Khartoum. The Sudan Doctors Committee confirmed more than 1,000 deaths in five states, likely linked to drinking polluted water.
According to Mohamed Al-Ajab, Director General of the Khartoum State Drinking Water Authority, “The war has shut down five of the thirteen Nile-based treatment plants.” Around 1,400 groundwater wells were also damaged by shelling.
“We urgently need support to restart the Nile water plants,” says Al-Ajab. The damage, he adds, is severe and requires an emergency plan to restore or dig new wells.
In central Sudan, once the heart of the country’s agriculture, many farmers have fled the fighting. Among them is Baha al-Din Mirghani, who left his farm in the Gezira Project in December 2023 and relocated to Port Sudan.
“I left everything behind, including harvest-ready crops,” he says. “I used to be self-sufficient and sell surplus produce. Now I’m displaced, relying on minimal charity.”
He remembers better times: “The Nile was my lifeline. We grew corn, wheat, and vegetables year-round. We even got fresh fish. But the war severed that lifeline.”
Fighting has eased in some areas since January 2025, but many farms lie in ruins. Irrigation systems are broken. Equipment is gone. For now, most displaced farmers can’t return, making it unlikely that residents will be able to benefit from the Nile in the near future, according to Mirghani.
Fishing, once vital for food and income, has also ground to a halt. A 2016 African Development Bank Group report states that the Sudanese Ministry of Livestock, Fisheries and Rangelands estimates “the total potentially harvestable inland fish catch at about 110 thousand tons, including the Red Sea fish that account for only 10 thousand tons per annum”.
Behind the Jebel Aulia Dam on the White Nile lies one of Sudan’s richest inland fishing areas, with an estimated yield of around 4,500 tons per year, according to FAO 1982 statistics. It once supplied Khartoum with fresh fish, but today that supply chain lies in ruins.
Fisherman Anwar Abdullah used to paddle across that vast reservoir in a wooden boat. Now he lives in a refugee camp in Biale, northern Kampala. “I fished for over 10 years,” he says. “But the war took the Nile from me. I’m in hell living far away from it.”
Sharaf Eldeen Youssef Adam, of Sudan’s Youth Network for Civil Monitoring, says hundreds of thousands have lost fishing jobs. That includes over 100,000 professionals from 40 cooperatives, as well as thousands of amateurs.
The damage hasn’t stopped with people – the Nile river herself is suffering.
According to Dr Abdel-Majid Mirdas, an environmental health expert and member of the Royal Society for Public Health in Sudan, the river’s ecosystems are breaking down. Behind the Jebel Aulia Dam, fish like qaramit, qarqouri, and abu qarf have multiplied, blocking dam gates and threatening operations.
As these fish decompose, oxygen levels drop. Other species die. Water quality declines. Disease spreads.
Mirdas warns that deteriorating conditions are allowing parasites and bacteria to thrive, endangering both aquatic life and public health.
Once a source of life, the Nile in Sudan has become a stagnant thread hemmed in by conflict, its waters out of reach for those who need them most. Farmers and fishermen have been uprooted, their lives reduced from production to dependence, as hunger deepens and clean water remains a distant promise. Even as they stand within sight of the river, eyes fixed on its surface, they remain thirsty – trapped between the memory of abundance and the reality of survival.
Lake Tanganyika is a vital lifeline for Burundi’s 13 million citizens. Stretching nearly 673 kilometres, it is the longest freshwater lake in the world and the second deepest.
Shared by Burundi, the Democratic Republic of Congo, Tanzania, and Zambia, it supports millions of people with fish, water, and transport. One prized local species is Mukeke (Lates stappersii), a commercially important fish widely consumed across the region.
But the lake is under pressure. Pollution, overfishing, and illegal fishing methods have drastically reduced fish stocks, especially Mukeke. Meanwhile, plastic waste and climate-induced changes are degrading water quality and threatening aquatic life.
On the road from Bujumbura to Rumonge Province, a passenger attributes the decline in fish populations to rapid population growth. Others on the bus disagree, sparking a brief debate.
This exchange reflects a broader discomfort across the region: while many factors contribute to environmental degradation, the impact of fast-growing populations on natural resources is often under-discussed.
Yet, the Nile Basin is experiencing significant demographic changes. According to the Nile Basin Socio-Economic Outlook 2050, the population of the 11 Nile Basin countries is projected to nearly double from 556 million in 2020 to 1.044 billion by 2050.
In countries like Burundi, the Democratic Republic of Congo, and Uganda, the population is expected to more than double during this period. This rapid growth intensifies pressures on fisheries and ecosystems, underscoring the need for integrated resource management (NBI).
Rumonge Province in southern Burundi, about 75 kilometres from Bujumbura, is known for its abundant Mukeke. The province has long been a hub for artisanal fishing. But today, the landing site is quiet. Few people are around. Garbage and sediment line the lake’s edge, emitting a sharp smell. Boats are pulled ashore.
Among the fishers is 55-year-old Daniel Rurihose, who has spent his life on the lake. He remembers when fish were plentiful and families could live comfortably. “We could catch large Mukeke just a few metres from the shore,” he recalls. “Now, it’s no longer the same.”
The problem, he says, is not only the falling catch but also the rising costs. A bucket of fish that once cost 2,000 Burundian Francs (BIF) – around USD 0.65 – now goes for 10,000 to 20,000 BIF (USD 3.25 to 6.50) – and for much smaller fish. “Sometimes I earn just BIF 15,000 or BIF 20,000 a day (USD 4.90 to 6.50),” says Rurihose. “In the past, it could be over BIF 100,000 (USD 32.50).”
Pollution is a growing problem across the Lake Tanganyika basin. Waste from households, transport, and industry – especially in towns like Bujumbura, Kigoma, Uvira, and Rumonge – flows untreated into the lake. Experts warn that the most dangerous pollutants include hydrocarbons, pesticides, and heavy metals from paints and tanneries (NORCE Research).
Gaspard Ntakimazi, an environmental scientist specialising in hydrobiology and fisheries, says these pollutants are especially harmful to species that reproduce in shallow coastal waters. “Their eggs and larvae die, while juveniles and adults flee,” he explains.
Fisherman Rurihose agrees: “Leftover oil from palm production is dumped into pits that eventually drain into the lake.”
Climate change compounds the problem. Heavy rainfall has increased sedimentation and reduced water clarity, disrupting photosynthesis and oxygen levels. “When ph or temperature passes certain thresholds, the water becomes toxic for fish,” says Rémy-Marie Nkurunziza, an environmental chemist at the University of Burundi. “Fish die or migrate.” (IWA Publishing)
In Burundi, three fish species make up most of the annual catch: Mukeke (Lates stappersii), Ndagala (Stolothrissa tanganyikae), and Sangala (Lates mariae). The country’s fisheries law distinguishes between artisanal and traditional fishing, and sets strict rules on gear and seasons. But enforcement is weak.
Many fishers now use gillnets with mesh sizes below 7.6 centimetres – too small to avoid catching juvenile fish. Others use mosquito nets or rope lines, methods that damage fish stocks. “People now use mosquito nets to catch baby fish. When the babies die, the stock declines,” Rurihose says.
Ntakimazi confirms that large Mukeke are now rare in Burundi’s waters. “They are caught in gillnets in the central and southern parts of the lake, especially near Kalemie. Only a few reach southern Burundi.”
Plastic waste is another problem. Floating plastic blocks sunlight, disrupting oxygen production, while decaying plastics reduce oxygen levels through bacterial activity. “Some fish die from lack of oxygen or ingesting plastic,” says Nkurunziza.
He warns that plastic waste has accumulated in Burundi over the years, and a significant portion ends up in Lake Tanganyika, especially during heavy rains that flush debris into the lake from stormwater drains.
Water transparency is one indicator of lake health. While earlier observations mention a decline from 270cm in 2016 to 200cm in 2022, site-specific data from 2021 and 2022 show variation: in Kajaga, transparency rose from 191 to 211 cm; in Rumonge, from 162 to 177 cm (IWA Publishing).
While the trend is inconsistent, experts agree that sedimentation and pollution remain serious concerns.
Burundi once operated industrial fishing through Greek-owned trawlers, but since 2005, only artisanal and traditional fishing remain. Artisanal fishing now accounts for over 80% of national production.
Still, the catch is falling. Compared to 2016, reported national fish production dropped 23% by 2019. Unofficial reports suggest an export decline from BIF 348.8 million (approx. USD 113,500) in 2015 to BIF 3.5 million (approx. USD 1,140) in 2019.
While these figures could not be independently verified, FAO data confirms that Burundi has long had minimal fish exports, often below 10 metric tonnes per year (FAO).
The impact is felt widely. Fish buyer Estelline Dushime, 26, says she often returns home empty-handed. “Mukeke is rare and expensive,” says Dushime. “You spend your capital and get nothing.”
Odette Karerwa, head of the fisheries office in the Ministry of Environment, acknowledges the challenges. “We have limited resources to monitor fishing,” says Karerwa. “We penalise illegal fishing under the law, but enforcement is hard.”
She supports establishing alert systems to help fishers respect closed seasons and buffer zones. Beyond fishing practices, she also highlights the impact of pollution on the lake’s health. “People dump oil into the lake. That has to stop. Legal action is needed,” says Karerwa.
Experts also stress broader reforms: fishing licenses, gear limits, and protection for breeding zones. “We need coordinated management of shared fish stocks,” Ntakimazi says. Lake Tanganyika must be governed collectively.”
Regional efforts exist, including the Lake Tanganyika Authority, which coordinates action among the four riparian countries – Burundi, the Democratic Republic of Congo, Tanzania, and Zambia – to promote sustainable use and joint management of the lake’s natural resources.
For Nkurunziza, public awareness is key: “People must learn that rivers and lakes are not dumping grounds. Local leaders must take the lead in educating their communities,” says Nkurunziza.
Rurihose, the fisherman, hopes for better days. “If the catch improves, I can pay school fees,” he says. “But now, it’s harder every year. Times have changed.”
His reflection sums up a reality many here share – things have changed, and not for the better. But the decline is not beyond repair. With committed efforts from communities, authorities, and neighbours across the lake, Tanganyika could still be steered onto a more hopeful path.
The stench hits before the sight does. In neighbourhoods like Gudele and Kator, mounds of rubbish sit for weeks by the roadside, swarming with flies and stray dogs. Plastic bags flutter in the wind. Open drains overflow with sewage and discarded waste. From rotting food to used syringes, the city is slowly being buried.
“This city is choking,” says Mary Kiden, a mother of three who lives near Jebel Market. “Every day, I walk past piles of garbage that no one ever collects. Our children play near them. We get sick. But no one comes to clean. No one cares.”
Despite years of foreign support and repeated government promises, waste collection in Juba has broken down. A mix of underfunding, poor planning, and political interference has left many streets without basic sanitation.
A 2020 study on municipal solid waste management in Juba found that around 95% of households lacked access to regular waste collection services, with trash collection limited, inconsistent, and often fee-based. The study highlighted widespread open dumping and burning, and pointed to deeper issues such as poor infrastructure, low public awareness, and weak policy enforcement (ResearchGate).
Officially, the Juba City Council is in charge of managing the waste. In reality, insiders say the system barely functions.
“We’re severely underfunded,” says Samson Manzara Daniel, a mid-level officer at the council. “Budgets are often delayed or diverted. Sometimes contracts for waste collection are handed to people with no trucks or staff, just because they’re connected.”
The result is that waste collection vehicles sit idle. In many neighbourhoods, garbage has not been collected for months.
Peter Majak, a resident of Juba, says his community now hires young people to dig makeshift pits and bury the waste. “It’s the only way we can live with some dignity,” he says. “But how long can we keep doing this?”
The consequences stretch beyond the city’s roads. Waste is now finding its way into water sources, including the Nile.
Bol Abraham Garang, an environmental activist, warns that the impact could be long-lasting. “We’ve seen medical waste dumped in the open, near streams and boreholes. This exposes people to hepatitis, cholera, and other serious diseases,” he says.
He adds that plastic waste blocks natural drainage systems, worsening floods during the rainy season. “When the rains come, the garbage doesn’t go away — it just spreads.”
Juba’s waste problem is not unique. Other towns across South Sudan face similar challenges. In Bor, a 2017 study identified open dumping as the most common disposal method. Residents cited long distances to dump sites and a lack of environmental policies as major challenges (Michigan State University).
Medical waste management has long been a concern. A 2012 assessment by South Sudan’s Ministry of Health, supported by the World Bank, highlighted serious gaps in the handling of hazardous waste, including the open burning of sharps and infectious materials (World Bank). At the time, disposal practices posed clear risks to public health and the environment. While national guidelines were developed in response, it remains unclear how widely they have been implemented in the years since.
More recently, a study at Al-Sabbah Children’s Hospital in Juba revealed inadequate biomedical waste management practices, with issues in waste segregation and disposal methods (SciTech Central).
Juba’s waste problem persists even as international donors continue to support urban development across South Sudan. Agencies like USAID, the World Bank, and the UN have invested millions of dollars, but residents and local observers say much of that support has little lasting effect.
“Some NGOs come in with good ideas — community bins, clean-up days,” says a local NGO worker, speaking on condition of anonymity. “But there’s often no coordination with the government, and follow-up is rare. Sometimes, money just disappears.”
Calls for greater oversight and accountability have largely gone unanswered.
Bol Garang believes the problem lies in what the government chooses to focus on. “Sanitation doesn’t win votes,” he says. “It’s not a ribbon-cutting event. So it’s ignored.”
In the absence of functioning public services, residents are left to cope on their own. Informal dumpsites now sit next to homes, schools, and markets. Broken glass and medical waste lie where children play.
Public health experts warn that the situation is reaching a dangerous point. Cases of cholera are increasing. Burning plastic causes respiratory problems. But signs of change remain limited. Some local groups have started small-scale clean-up efforts. A few private businesses have proposed recycling initiatives, though most face delays, red tape, and a lack of support.
“What we need is a working budget, proper oversight, and clear responsibility,” says Samson Manzara Daniel. “Let professionals handle it. Keep politics out.”
Mary Kiden agrees. “We don’t ask for much,” she says, watching smoke rise from a burning pile of rubbish. “Just a clean city. A healthy place for our children. Is that too much?”
Imagine a world where streams defy gravity, flowing uphill against all odds. An Ethiopian proverb uses this rare image to explore the intricate dynamics between gender and leadership.
Some see it as a metaphor for women’s extraordinary ability to achieve what seems impossible—like making a stream run uphill. Others may interpret it as a reflection of societal scepticism, where both women’s leadership and uphill streams are seen as impossible.
However, natural phenomena like at Kenya’s Kituluni Hill show that streams can indeed appear to flow uphill, challenging our perceptions of what is possible. But is this incredible defiance of gravity real? Or is it a trick of the eye?
In the dual world of impossibility and illusion, choices are limited: women either achieve the unimaginable, or their leadership remains fantasy. True progress means moving beyond duality. Let’s explore the proverb from a fresh perspective, by flipping it on its head.
What if streams must run uphill for women to lead? This suggests that significant obstacles must be overcome for women to hold their power. The real question is: Do we want to create a world where women can live fully without having to defy gravity? If so, why?
The Niles journalists delve into what we collectively stand to gain when the limitations and barriers surrounding women are removed so that their—and our—basic human needs are fulfilled, not only to survive and live well but also to live free and belong.
What do you need?
Editorial
SURVIVAL
Survival 101: Stop the war, protect the future
Interview / Esther Muwombi
Virunga: How violence destroys choice
Photo-essay / Daniel Buuma
Women leading water conservation in Kajiado County
Sola Arasha
Women navigating the Nile: Survival charts a path towards change
Rita Opanji James
Amua: A journey towards self-determination in Migori
Photo-essay / Curity Ogada
A tale of two rivers
Pius Sawa
WELLBEING
Together strong: The first female farmers’ union in Upper Egypt advances fairness and equality
Sara Gamal
Zuri: A journey to give back blossoms in support and wellbeing
Mugume Davis
Surrounded by water, deprived of access: The paradox of scarcity at Lake Victoria
Daniel Remo Msangya, Jasmine Shamwepu, Veronica Modest
Toxic water, unequal impact: The gendered toll of industrial pollution
Sharon Musaki
Women of Ukerewe innovate in cooking, challenge the patriarchy and protect resources
Lilian Ruggua
Trading fish for freedom
Winnie Cirino
Soil, water and dignity: Untangling gender and power in the Nile Basin
Data story / Joyce Chimbi
FREEDOM
Guardians of the Nile: Women’s synergy protects the basin
Keziah Wangui Githinji
Free to grow? How the gender of money defines economic futures
Ferdinand Mbonihankuye
Ganobia Hora: Young women embody ecofeminism in southern Egypt
Enas Kamal
Women in STEM open the door to freedom
Innocent Kiza, Okello Jesus Ojara
Ripple effect: Gender equity in water governance key to prosperity and sustainability
Comment / Raphael Obonyo
IDENTITY
Shaping identities through leadership
Raphael Obonyo
A relentless pursuit of solutions
Annonciata Byukusenge
Women uniting wildlife and tourist trails
Diana Kibuuka Nakayima
Eco-caregivers: Nurturing the future
Comment / Keziah Wangui Githinji
Bold bonds
Pauline Ongaji
Building the foundations of transformation
Esther Muwombi, Mugume Davis Rwakaringi
When asked with care, attention, and a readiness to listen, the question “What do you need?” opens the door to connection and understanding. Women are often expected to take on caretaking roles, profoundly connecting them to nature and the resources that sustain their communities. This responsibility extends beyond their immediate families, positioning them as stewards of the land entrusted with managing and protecting vital natural resources.
The same systems that oppress women often exploit and degrade nature, reflecting a broader disregard for nurturing and care. These systems elevate qualities like aggression, dominance, and control — usually labelled as masculine — while undervaluing traits traditionally associated with femininity, such as empathy, collaboration, and care. The result is a culture of competition, exploitation, and a relentless drive for dominance. This system is known as patriarchy.
In this edition, The Niles journalists delve into the roots of the constraints imposed by patriarchal systems and cultures. They offer solutions drawn from diverse experiences, traditional knowledge, and modern innovations. While these solutions provide a path forward, their success depends on recognising that both men and women are participants in the patriarchal system — and both can be part of the solution. At the core of all human existence lies the answer to the same question: What do we need? The answer encompasses four basic needs: survival, well-being, freedom, and identity.
As we explore what it means to be well, free, and belong, it becomes clear that these concepts are inextricably linked with our identities. In many Nile Basin cultures, womanhood and manhood are often confined to traditional definitions. But what happens when these roles are challenged? When individuals step outside the boundaries of these expectations and assert their need to live fully?
The journey that follows is not merely about personal survival or well-being; it is a broader pursuit of the freedom to redefine what it means to be a woman or a man in these societies. It is a continuous effort towards belonging to a community that recognises and values individuals for who they are rather than confining them to predetermined roles based on gender.
When women and men alike begin to question and push against these traditional confines, they are not just seeking to expand their own horizons — they are also paving the way for a more inclusive and equitable society — a society where caregiving, nurturing, and maintaining the social fabric are seen as valuable contributions from all members and where qualities like empathy and collaboration are valued alongside strength and leadership.
This same spirit of redefinition and challenge is essential in Nile Basin cooperation. As countries within the region navigate complex water management, resource sharing, and environmental sustainability issues, women’s leadership — grounded in empathy, collaboration, and a deep connection to the land — becomes crucial. Women leaders are not just advocating for equitable resource distribution; they are also reshaping the framework of cooperation to include voices and perspectives that have traditionally been marginalised.
If more women were to take on leadership roles within this context, a leadership style rooted in collaboration, empathy, and care could emerge as the dominant approach. This shift would encourage others to adopt these values, creating a ripple effect that could strengthen cooperative efforts across the Nile Basin. In this way, women’s leadership would not only influence the outcomes of cooperation but also transform the very nature of leadership itself, paving the way for a more inclusive and sustainable future for the entire region.
Through these acts of defiance and redefinition, we see the emergence of a new narrative — one where men and women are not bound by the limitations of patriarchal structures but are free to build identities and communities that reflect the diverse and dynamic nature of human existence. This is the story that unfolds in the pages of this edition, offering us all a glimpse of what is possible when we dare to ask: What do you need? And how can we work together to remove the obstacles in our path?
This article is part of The Niles Issue #19, The Feminine & The Nile, produced by Media in Cooperation and Transition (MiCT) with financial support from the Stockholm International Water Institute (SIWI). It is part of the initiative The Niles: Strengthening Media Capacities and Networks in the Nile Basin, supported by the Deutsche Gesellschaft für Internationale Zusammenarbeit (GIZ) and commissioned by the German Federal Foreign Office (AA). The views expressed in this publication do not necessarily reflect those of SIWI, GIZ, the German Federal Foreign Office, or MiCT.
Q: What sparked your journey into environmental activism, and how do you maintain your motivation despite the challenges you face?
A: As a first-year physics’ student, I believed science could change the world. A violent incident at my university, where regime loyalists attacked students, affirmed my belief. Regime loyalists came to our school and threw two students from a balcony, with one tragically passing away. This made me realise that scientists need to be decision-makers. During the following months, I researched science diplomacy, leading to topics like water and climate change. I then volunteered with a local organisation focused on these issues. I’ve been committed ever since.
Q: Can you share a success story highlighting the positive impact of women’s leadership in environmental conservation?
A: My success story started with a big failure. Our initial project plan, in a suburb of Khartoum, called Mayo, aimed to plant trees and create wall art. However, we discovered that our target area lacked water, and because of the water shortage, there were several school dropouts. Children spent hours searching for water and had little time to be in school. So another question arose: “How can we ask someone to irrigate a tree if they cannot easily find water to drink themselves?” We made calls here and there to talk about the problem. We eventually formed partnerships, and different organisations came to visit. Our initial project budget was USD 5,000. This small project grew into a USD 5 million initiative that addressed water and sanitation needs, built more schools, and significantly improved the community. Though the war halted our work, the partnerships and resources we gathered were a great success.
“How can we ask someone to irrigate a tree if they cannot easily find water to drink?”
Nisreen Elsaim
Q: How can women in Sudan contribute to building climate resilience in their communities, especially in areas affected by war and violence?
A: We conducted a study on the impact of the war on Sudan’s climate. The study revealed that the only way to avoid a famine catastrophe during this conflict is by building community resilience in relatively safe areas to continue agriculture. Women, often responsible for agriculture, are key to this resilience. They possess the indigenous knowledge necessary to sustain agriculture, which is crucial for preventing famine, where millions could die from hunger rather than bullets. Despite facing systematic rape and slavery during this war, women are still making significant contributions to their communities through agriculture and other activities.
Q: What are the main barriers preventing women from participating in environmental activism and climate change mitigation efforts in Sudan, and how can these barriers be addressed?
A: Women in Sudan often lead the way in activism, yet bureaucracy prevents them from holding higher positions. Few women head organisations despite the higher numbers of female volunteers. Cultural customs, lack of education, and inadequate women’s rights further hinder their participation. Addressing these issues requires systemic changes in both cultural attitudes and organisational structures. There needs to be greater awareness among households and communities about global environmental problems because these issues transcend borders. What happens in the USA can affect people in Sudan. Raising awareness will help women become active on a larger scale. Additionally, financially empowering women is crucial. If women cannot earn, they cannot make decisions. It’s that simple.
Q: How do you engage with local communities to raise awareness about environmental issues, and what strategies have proven most effective?
A: I start with a needs assessment to gauge the community’s knowledge. Local communities, especially in rural areas, often understand environmental problems intuitively and have their adaptation methods. Focusing on these local solutions and scaling them up has proven effective.
“Women have developed innovative, efficient methods for food preservation and resource use, which are crucial for sustainability.”
Nisreen Elsaim
Q: What unique perspectives and skills do women bring to climate change activism and environmental conservation in Sudan?
A: Women in Sudan are deeply connected to nature through their daily responsibilities, such as fetching water, gathering wood, and managing household needs. For decades, they have excelled at inventing new methods for drying meat, preserving food, baking, and cooking more economically and efficiently to reduce the amount of wood and water needed. They have developed innovative, efficient methods for food preservation and resource use, which are crucial for sustainability. Their strong connection to nature enables them to find practical solutions to environmental problems.
“Due to the ongoing conflict, my vision feels more like a dream.”
Nisreen Elsaim
Q: How has the conflict impacted your efforts to advocate for environmental conservation?
A: It has added complications and increased the workload but has not stopped our work.
Q: What are the current environmental initiatives or projects you are involved in?
A: At the national level, we are focusing on addressing the impact of the war, such as widespread tree-cutting for military operations and energy production. We are conducting needs assessments and research to identify safe areas for intervention. Globally, I am working to create a network for climate action in conflict-affected countries, providing resources and training to help these communities function better despite instability.
Q: You have expressed confidence that the global climate movement will succeed and yield positive results. What do you consider to be a successful outcome for this movement, particularly for Sudan?
A: The most significant success is the existence of the movement itself. For a long time, climate change was seen as an issue for elites or developed countries, but now there is a robust climate movement in Sudan. Even under dire circumstances like displacement and loss, people are still researching and working on climate issues. They are communicating with the international community and each other, keeping climate change at the top of their agenda. This persistence, despite their hardships, is the most significant success.
“Stop this war right now. The environmental cost is unbearable for everyone involved.”
Nisreen Elsaim
Q: What is your long-term vision for Sudan’s environment, and what steps are necessary to achieve it?
A: Sudan is rich in natural resources, and managing these resources effectively requires a holistic approach. This is my vision. My vision is tremendous, but due to the ongoing conflict, it feels more like a dream. I pray for peace daily so we can implement the strategies my fellow activists and I have envisioned for Sudan.
Q: What message do you have for the warring parties in Sudan regarding the war’s impact on the people and the environment?
A: The impact of this war on our people and the environment is devastating. Stop this war right now. The environmental cost is unbearable for everyone involved. The people and the government cannot afford it.
This article is part of The Niles Issue #19, The Feminine & The Nile, produced by Media in Cooperation and Transition (MiCT) with financial support from the Stockholm International Water Institute (SIWI). It is part of the initiative The Niles: Strengthening Media Capacities and Networks in the Nile Basin, supported by the Deutsche Gesellschaft für Internationale Zusammenarbeit (GIZ) and commissioned by the German Federal Foreign Office (AA). The views expressed in this publication do not necessarily reflect those of SIWI, GIZ, the German Federal Foreign Office, or MiCT.
The Virunga National Park, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, is Africa’s oldest national park. Established in 1925, it encompasses diverse landscapes from snow-capped mountains to volcanic plains and rainforests. The park is known for its exceptional biodiversity, including critically endangered mountain gorillas.
However, Virunga faces violence, poaching, habitat loss, and resource extraction threats. Conservation efforts are underway, but park rangers protecting the park’s wildlife and resources often face danger.
As dawn breaks, the Kanyarutshinya camp in eastern Congo stirs. Women and children, the heart of this displaced community, rise to venture into Virunga National Park, not for leisure but to stave off hunger.
Their journey is arduous. For three hours, they trek through rain-soaked hills, the lush beauty of Virunga contrasting sharply with their plight. This UNESCO World Heritage Site, home to endangered gorillas, has become risky farmland.
Over 7.2 million people, primarily women and children, live in camps like Kanyarutshinya. Government aid is scant, forcing them to cultivate potatoes within the park.
Their path is dangerous. Violence is a constant threat, with clashes between rebels and the national army erupting within the park. At three checkpoints, the women pay 1,000 Congolese francs (about USD 0.35) for the risky privilege of farming forbidden land.
Yet, the women persist, which is both inspiring and tragic. Farming alleviates hunger but harms the park’s fragile ecosystem. Over 300 hectares have already been damaged. Displaced people cultivate crops and cut down trees for survival, activities that persist due to ongoing violence. The park’s use as a battleground further complicates conservation efforts.
The story of these women underscores the human cost of violence, its devastating impact on the environment, and how, ultimately, it robs them of choice: survival becomes the only option, no matter the cost.
Displaced girls and women carry potatoes through Virunga National Park. Photo: The Niles / Daniel Buuma
This article is part of The Niles Issue #19, The Feminine & The Nile, produced by Media in Cooperation and Transition (MiCT) with financial support from the Stockholm International Water Institute (SIWI). It is part of the initiative The Niles: Strengthening Media Capacities and Networks in the Nile Basin, supported by the Deutsche Gesellschaft für Internationale Zusammenarbeit (GIZ) and commissioned by the German Federal Foreign Office (AA). The views expressed in this publication do not necessarily reflect those of SIWI, GIZ, the German Federal Foreign Office, or MiCT.
In Kajiado Central, Olgos village endures an arid landscape with sparse rainfall and frequent droughts. Vegetation is scarce, and the sun beats down relentlessly, making water a precious and often elusive resource. This scarcity significantly impacts residents, especially women, who are the primary caregivers.
Despite these hardships, the indigenous women of Olgos have become custodians of water, using age-old techniques to sustain their families and livestock through droughts.
Founded in 2018 in response to the increasing challenges posed by climate change, the Engape Group focuses on local water management. This collective of 23 women employs traditional water conservation methods, such as sand pits, sand dams, earth pans, and shallow wells, to ensure a consistent and reliable water supply throughout the year.
Naomi Moitaso
“Sandpits provide a reliable water source during dry seasons.”
Peninah Moitaso, an Engape Group member, highlights the cultural heritage of these techniques. “These water conservation methods have been a part of our culture for generations,” she says. “Our grandmothers and mothers taught us how to build and maintain them. They are deeply embedded in our traditions and are more than just survival strategies.”
The Engape Group has implemented several projects that have significantly impacted the community. One such project is the construction of earth pans, which collect and store rainwater. “An earth pan is constructed where water naturally accumulates, such as in a low-lying area. Rainwater and surface runoff fill the pan during the rainy season, providing a vital water source throughout the dry season,” explains Moitaso.
Another technique is the sand pit, which harvests and stores rainwater in sandy soils. “Sandpits provide a reliable water source during dry seasons, ensuring access even when surface water dries up. They recharge local groundwater tables and improve overall water availability,” says Naomi Moitaso, another member of the Engape Group. “These methods ensure we have clean water for drinking and other uses, reducing the burden of fetching water from distant sources.”
Statistics back the success of these traditional methods. According to a 2019 report by the Ministry of Water and Sanitation, water access in Kajiado County has increased by 15 percent since implementing community-driven water projects, highlighting the effectiveness of local initiatives in addressing water scarcity.
Agnes Bene
“Reliable water has significantly improved our hygiene and health.”
Agnes Bene, one of the group’s founders, notes the cultural and environmental challenges women face in her community. “Men often do not participate in water conservation efforts and contribute to the problem by harvesting sand, which dries up rivers and exacerbates water scarcity,” she explains. “The rivers, once pristine water sources, have been destroyed by sand harvesters. Men take livestock to water sources first, which culturally means that the livestock must drink before women can fetch water. This practice forces women to wait, further exacerbating their struggle for water access.”
The situation in Kajiado County mirrors broader trends in the Nile Basin, where water scarcity is a growing concern. According to the World Bank, over 200 million people rely on the River Nile for their daily water supply. With the population expected to double by 2050, the pressure on water resources is set to intensify, making sustainable water management practices more critical than ever.
Engage Group’s water conservation efforts provide practical solutions and foster economic and social advancement among women. “Our projects have transformed our lives by providing a constant water source when surface water is scarce. Reliable water has significantly improved our hygiene and health, reducing waterborne illnesses,” says Bene.
The group’s initiatives have received support from the Neighbours Initiative Alliance (NIA), an NGO that has provided training and resources for effective water management. “Through capacity strengthening and knowledge transfer, NIA has equipped us to implement sustainable water projects. This support ensures the longevity of our efforts and empowers community members, especially women, in water security and management,” adds Bene.
Peninah Moitaso
“These water conservation methods have been a part of our culture for generations.”
The Engape Group envisions a future where water becomes more accessible to women in their community. They aim to construct more shallow wells and boreholes, reducing the burdensome distances women currently travel in search of water. The group is also working to halt sand harvesting, which depletes the water table and exacerbates water scarcity.
These women are not just surviving but leading the way in sustainable community water management. Their efforts highlight the power of traditional knowledge and community-driven solutions in tackling modern challenges and women’s critical role in addressing water scarcity and climate change, providing a blueprint for similar initiatives across the Nile Basin.
This article is part of The Niles Issue #19, The Feminine & The Nile, produced by Media in Cooperation and Transition (MiCT) with financial support from the Stockholm International Water Institute (SIWI). It is part of the initiative The Niles: Strengthening Media Capacities and Networks in the Nile Basin, supported by the Deutsche Gesellschaft für Internationale Zusammenarbeit (GIZ) and commissioned by the German Federal Foreign Office (AA). The views expressed in this publication do not necessarily reflect those of SIWI, GIZ, the German Federal Foreign Office, or MiCT.
In Migori County, located in southwest Kenya near Lake Victoria, many women endure hidden struggles. The region, reliant on the Migori River for much of its water, faces challenges that extend beyond scarcity. For some, like Ruth Atieno, the river and its surroundings have been sites of profound trauma and violence.
Atieno recounts her harrowing journey with painful clarity. “I was raped while fetching water one evening,” she begins, a chilling echo of familiar stories from the Migori River and distant boreholes in Oruba. This violent attack left her bruised, traumatised, and HIV-positive.
Ruth Atieno
“I was raped while fetchingwater one evening.”
Atieno’s early life was marked by adversity. After losing her mother at 14, her education was cut short, and she was coerced into marriage by her father and stepsisters. Still a child herself, she became pregnant within a year. Her husband, unemployed and alcoholic, squandered their meagre resources and was abusive to Atieno. In the midst of this suffering, she remained the breadwinner, always taking on odd jobs. When she pleaded with her family to help, she was met with typical dismissive advice: “Stay, be patient, pray, build your home; there are no greener pastures; beating is part of any marriage.”
Fearing for her safety and that of her unborn child, Atieno fled to Migori. There, she earned a living as a housemaid, finding brief respite with a compassionate employer until her daughter was born. Life in the Oruba slums followed, where she juggled jobs washing clothes, fetching water, and cleaning homes. Her situation briefly seemed to improve with a new relationship and two more children, but it crumbled when she discovered the man was already married, and his wife threatened her life. Fearing further violence, she escaped with her children to hide.
With no education or job and three daughters depending on her, Atieno found hope with the Amua Mama Initiative, which supports abused women. Amua, meaning “decide” in Swahili. The name reflects the initiative’s work towards women’s self-determination and autonomy, empowering them to make vital choices about their health, education, careers, and relationships. Under Phoebe Kefa’s mentorship, Atieno began to see a path forward. “Phoebe was my solace,” Atieno shares. “She helped me realise that I have daughters to care for and living with HIV wasn’t the end.” This newfound support offered her a chance to rebuild and foster a safer future for herself and her children despite the shadows of her past.
Phoebe Kefa, a 58-year-old volunteer, is a catalyst for change in her community, supporting women and children affected by assault, rape, or domestic abuse while helping them seek justice. Alongside the Amua Mama Initiative, she teaches vocational skills like tailoring.
Kefa’s memories of youth starkly contrast with her mission: she recalls oppressive mantras that women should be subservient and endure violence to learn. Despite her struggles with infertility and societal scorn, her supportive husband enabled her to create a refuge for women facing similar issues, defying their husbands’ wishes.
Facing backlash for allegedly “poisoning their women,” Kefa and her husband relocated to Migori’s Oruba Centre. Here, her work expanded, aiding hundreds and continuing her advocacy against deep-rooted gender biases.
“The justice system has failed women.”
Jane Auma
Since 2019, Jane Auma, lawyer and CEO of Amua Mama Initiative, has transformed the lives of 65 women in Migori, especially at Oruba Centre. Initially believing only uneducated women suffered abuse due to lack of choice, Jane’s perspective changed after her own harrowing experience. When she tried to leave their toxic relationship, her then-husband conspired to have acid poured on her face. She spent two years in the hospital and faced a justice system that failed to prosecute her case. “The justice system has failed women,” Jane states. “If cases were handled without corruption, we could eliminate repeat offences and reduce assaults.”
According to UNICEF, one in three women globally will face physical or sexual violence in their lifetime—gender-based violence spikes during crises, driven by lack of education and poverty. Many women endure in silence, often blamed for their plight. Gender norms assign women tasks like fetching water, cleaning, cooking, and nurturing, exposing them to violence due to the uneven distribution of resources like water, sanitation, and hygiene (WASH). The 2014 journal article Violence, gender and WASH highlights the rising reports of WASH-related violence, yet documentation remains insufficient globally.
Jane Auma
“Larger organisations need to collaborate with local initiatives to pass relevant bills.”
“There is no effective policy on water and sanitation,” Jane stresses. “Policymakers must listen to communities, and larger organisations need to collaborate with local initiatives to pass relevant bills.” She also highlights the lack of funding for initiatives like Amua Mama, noting that WASH budgets do not reach the community level and that most funded organisations fail to address women’s and girls’ issues intimately.
These problems are compounded for women living with a disability. Mary Atieno, a 43-year-old woman who acquired a disability while young, faces daily challenges with the sanitation facilities in her community. The toilets are difficult to access and in a dire state, shared by everyone in the slum. Mary explains, “As a woman with a disability, I use a portable iron seat for the toilet, which is in a dire state.” Her vulnerability is heightened at night when she must be extra cautious to avoid predators. “Anything can happen to me in my vulnerable state,” she adds, wishing for cleaner and safer sanitation.
Mary Atieno is soft-spoken, kind, and always smiling despite her struggles. Her inspiring demeanour and unwavering positivity captivate those around her. After escaping an emotionally abusive relationship, Mary found solace and support through the Amua Mama Initiative. With their training, she now sews from her home in Oruba while raising her 16-year-old son.
Women like Mary, Jane, Kefa and Ruth demonstrate vulnerability, compassion, love, care, and a nurturing spirit, qualities that empower them as they raise the next generation. In stark contrast, many men feel compelled to exert power, authority, and violence. What if men embraced women’s nurturing qualities? Could this be the key to reducing violence against women?
Phoebe Kefa
“I think it all narrows down to how we raise our boys.”
Gender-based violence must be stopped. The women of the Amua Mama initiative inspire each other, support one another, and undergo a rebirth with each new chapter of their lives. They cultivate positivity and hope for a kinder world. Their next goal is to extend their counselling to boys in schools and men in the community, fostering empathy and enabling better care for their mothers, sisters, children, and wives. “I think it all narrows down to how we raise our boys,” says Phoebe Kefa. For example, “Mary has raised such a wonderful son—caring, compassionate, and so loving. Not only does he respect his mother, but everyone he interacts with.”
This article is part of The Niles Issue #19, The Feminine & The Nile, produced by Media in Cooperation and Transition (MiCT) with financial support from the Stockholm International Water Institute (SIWI). It is part of the initiative The Niles: Strengthening Media Capacities and Networks in the Nile Basin, supported by the Deutsche Gesellschaft für Internationale Zusammenarbeit (GIZ) and commissioned by the German Federal Foreign Office (AA). The views expressed in this publication do not necessarily reflect those of SIWI, GIZ, the German Federal Foreign Office, or MiCT.