Across Jinja, the Masese dumpsite exposes women and children to severe health risks while sustaining their livelihoods, highlighting the intersection of poverty, gender inequality, and environmental mismanagement.
At the edge of Jinja City, the Masese dumpsite spans roughly 11.8 hectares in Masese III, a residential area of Walukuba Division, about four kilometres from the city centre and a few kilometres from Lake Victoria.
Once intended as a controlled landfill, the site has become both a lifeline and a growing threat. Each day, trucks unload tonnes of mixed waste from markets, households, schools, hotels and industries, while nearby residents live with the smell, contamination and constant fear of disease.
For women who depend on picking waste to feed their families, the dumpsite is both work and risk. Florence Nabirye, 40, a mother of three and a resident of Jinja City, has spent the past 20 years collecting waste to survive.
“I wake up at 6 a.m. every day to go and pick waste, often with my children, especially during school holidays,” she says. “This is my only source of income. It is how I educate my children and buy food for them. From the beginning of the year until the end, this is what I do because I have nothing else to do.”
Nabirye explains that individuals, not companies, buy the waste she collects. “We mainly pick polythene bags. Ten kilograms sell for 1,000 Ugandan shillings,” she says.
When Nabirye first started working at the site, her health suffered. “I fell sick with diarrhoea and was admitted to hospital for two weeks,” she recalls. “But over time, my body adapted, and I no longer experience stomach problems.”
The dangers, however, remain constant. “The biggest challenge we face is the daily injuries from syringes and sharp objects that cut us all the time,” she says. She adds that she sometimes deworms herself, but not regularly.
Another resident, Musa Waiswa, says the dumpsite has transformed the area entirely. “This used to be a road where cars could take shortcuts to the main road,” he explains. “Authorities tried to stop the dumping, but it was already too late.”
According to Waiswa, dumping has continued for years. “For the past four years, city council trucks have been dumping waste here. Individuals do it too, but mostly it is the city council.”
Residents have repeatedly raised complaints, he says, with no results. “We have forwarded our concerns many times, but no solution has been provided. We have almost given up.”
Mark Mpadwa, an environmental scientist at Jinja City Council, confirms that Masese is not a properly constructed landfill.
“What we have is a dumpsite, not a landfill,” he says. “Under normal circumstances, this would be considered illegal. But due to limited funding, there are many gaps in waste management. The site is already beyond its intended capacity, and if nothing changes, it could become a serious environmental and public health hazard.”
He says the problem begins at the community level. “Waste is not separated properly. Organic materials are mixed with plastics of different densities, and low-density plastics cannot be recycled effectively. This results in large volumes of mixed waste ending up at the site.”
Mpadwa also highlights the risk posed by methane, produced during the decomposition of biodegradable waste. “Methane is a greenhouse gas that poses health risks to people working at the site and to residents living within 200 metres of it,” he says.
Kenneth Nandala, a senior health inspector at Jinja City Council, says diarrhoea is the most commonly reported illness among nearby residents and informal waste pickers, alongside cuts, tetanus risk and skin conditions.
“These individuals are not council employees; they are community members who access the site to collect items they consider valuable,” he explains. “Because the dumpsite lacks fencing, anyone can enter. This unrestricted access increases health risks.”
Nandala says more than ten trucks of waste are dumped at Masese daily. “If collection stops even for a day, the town quickly becomes unsanitary,” he says, adding that the site does not meet public health standards.
Maria Kasasa, deputy mayor of Jinja’s Southern Division, says there are no structured programmes to support women who pick waste. “This is done at an individual level,” she says. “Some women are not licensed or known. They just go to the site to provide for their families.”
She adds that behaviour change remains a major challenge. “The government has policies, but sometimes the public is not ready to follow them.”
At the national level, Barirega Akankwasah, executive director of the National Environment Management Authority (NEMA), says Uganda must rethink how it views waste.
“Waste is wealth,” he says. “It can be turned into fertiliser, briquettes for energy, electricity and recycled materials. The solution lies in separating waste at the source and adding value.”
Akankwasah says NEMA monitors waste facilities and enforces environmental law where necessary. “Our decisions are guided by the law, not by politics or economic pressure,” he says, adding that environmental compliance information is available to the public under the Access to Information Act.
From a community perspective, Sharon Biira, advocacy lead at Girls for Climate Action, says the dumpsite reflects deeper inequalities.
“This is not just an environmental problem,” she says. “It is about gender inequality and unemployment. Women are exposed to serious health risks just to earn as little as 1,000 shillings a day.”
Biira argues that waste separation must start at household level and that women should be central to solutions. “They already understand the problem because they live it every day,” she says.
For local authorities, the path forward involves investment in infrastructure, enforcement of waste separation and long-term alternatives to dumping.
As Jinja continues to grow, the risks at Masese highlight what happens when waste management systems fall behind urban reality — and how urgently change is needed to protect both livelihoods and public health.
Plastic pollution has become a growing concern across the Nile Basin, threatening water quality, ecosystems and livelihoods that depend on the river. While international resolutions and regional frameworks increasingly acknowledge the scale of the problem, translating policy commitments into effective action remains a complex challenge.
In 2024, the United Nations Environment Assembly adopted Resolution 6/13 during the sixth session of the United Nations Environment Programme (UNEP). The resolution calls for stronger and more inclusive water policies to address the interconnected crises of climate change, biodiversity loss and pollution. It builds on earlier commitments, including Resolution 3/10 of 2017 on water pollution and Resolution 5/14 of 2022, which laid the groundwork for a legally binding global instrument to end plastic pollution.
These policy efforts reflect growing concern about declining water quality worldwide, including in major river systems such as the Nile. Pollution from land-based sources, combined with urbanisation, industrial activity, agriculture and inadequate sanitation, has intensified pressure on water-related ecosystems throughout the basin.
Recognising that resolutions alone are insufficient, UNEP has called on governments, regional bodies and other actors to strengthen cooperation and move from policy to implementation. In the Nile Basin, this has brought renewed attention to plastic waste entering the river through domestic and industrial sources.
According to Rivers are Life, a global initiative advocating for river protection, poor waste management and limited recycling infrastructure are key drivers of plastic pollution in the Nile. Bottles, bags and other debris obstruct water flow and degrade habitats, with consequences for aquatic life and fishing communities.
“The rise of plastic pollution in the Nile can be attributed to rapid population growth, coupled with inadequate waste management systems,” Rivers are Life Team notes. “As more people rely on the river for their daily needs, the amount of plastic waste generated increases, exacerbating the problem.”
Regional assessments echo these concerns. The Nile Basin Initiative’s 2022 report identified waste mismanagement as a long-standing development challenge across basin countries. With the introduction of chemically complex materials such as plastics, the problem has become more severe.
Against this backdrop, regional cooperation has become a central focus. UNEP is collaborating with the Nile Basin Initiative, with support from the Deutsche Gesellschaft für Internationale Zusammenarbeit (GIZ), to strengthen water quality and plastic pollution monitoring in rivers. The collaboration aims to improve data on plastic waste transport from Nile catchment areas to the Mediterranean Sea.
As part of this work, UNEP participated in a workshop held in Kisumu, Kenya, in February 2025 under the Nile Basin Initiative framework. The workshop focused on mapping plastic pollution sources, waste management practices and technical capacity building.
During the opening session, Gladys Wekesa, a member of the Nile Technical Advisory Committee from Kenya, emphasised that “awareness and capacity development are important in tackling plastic pollution in the Nile,” adding that reversing pollution would require “cooperation and unity of purpose among different actors.”
International concern has also grown. In 2022, European Union ambassadors called for increased support to the Nile Basin Initiative, warning that pollution in the Nile ultimately affects the Mediterranean Sea. Attilio Pacifici, then EU Ambassador to Uganda, noted that pollution in the Nile should not be viewed as an African issue alone.
While policy frameworks provide direction, their impact depends on implementation. Across the basin, community-led initiatives illustrate both the potential and the limits of current responses.
In June 2024, the Intergovernmental Authority on Development (IGAD), in partnership with the Government of South Sudan and with financial support from the Swedish International Development Cooperation Agency (SIDA), launched the Nile River Banks Cleaning Campaign Against Plastic Pollution. The campaign focuses on cleaning sections of the White Nile and involves youth and women.
Speaking at the launch, David Kwaje, head of the IGAD mission in South Sudan, warned that plastics “destroy habitats, choke aquatic animals and facilitate the transport of invasive species into water bodies,” adding that plastic consumption can affect human health.
Reporting by Infonile, a cross-border journalism initiative, has also highlighted plastic pollution as a threat to aquatic life in South Sudan.
In December 2025 more than 20 young volunteers organised by Save the Nile removed plastic waste from the White Nile riverbank in Juba. The clean-up began near Juba Bridge, with support from the Juba City Council, which provided waste transport.
“Together, we collected thousands of plastic bottles dumped along the Nile,” said Ateny Adut, the Communications Lead at Save the Nile, who took part in the clean-up. In his update to the public, after the event, through social media, he warned that plastics break down into microplastics that enter the food chain and take over 100 years to decompose. That is why urgent action was required to tackle plastic pollution.
Similar efforts have taken place in Egypt. Volunteers participating in a Nile clean-up in Cairo to mark World Cleanup Day in September 2022 collected plastic waste from the river using boats and fishing nets.
Around 60 volunteers have also joined clean-up activities organised by VeryNile, an Egyptian environmental initiative focused on removing plastic waste from the river and promoting recycling. “We pick up plastic waste from the Nile and its bank,” said Mohsen Ahmed, a university student who has volunteered with VeryNile for about three years. [Source needed:
Together, these initiatives highlight how policy ambition, regional cooperation and community action intersect along the Nile. They also underline a persistent challenge: while clean-ups and awareness campaigns can reduce visible pollution, systemic drivers such as waste infrastructure gaps and plastic production remain largely unaddressed.
At the Rural Focus Initiative for Applied Technology (RuFI) in Kirembe Cell, students and trainers are turning plastic bottles into eco-bricks used to build walls, seats and small structures. Their hands-on approach shows how innovation can grow directly from local environmental pressures.
“People have been complaining about Uganda being a highly polluted country,” says RuFI director Jovia Biira. “So we came up with the idea of constructing bottled houses. We’ve been moving around the town collecting the waste.”
What began as a school project has spread into surrounding communities. RuFI now trains households in the technique, and some have built simple toilet structures using plastic bottle bricks.
“Out of plastic, as you see, we have constructed houses. We have seats, and when the community tours around, they pick this innovation. We train them, and many have put up structures such as toilets,” Biira says.
RuFI estimates that more than 30,000 bottles have been reused in its projects.
At Muhokya Primary School, a 200-member environment club turns plastic waste into ropes, door mats and tree shades. Deputy Head Teacher Kabugho Yodesi says the initiative strengthens both learning and environmental awareness.
“Some of these items like door mats are taken by pupils to their own homes, and the ideas are trickling into communities,” she explains.
Kasese Secondary School is applying a similar approach through its nature club, which repurposes plastic bottles into litter bins and old paper into bags.
“Kasese Secondary School is actually one of the schools that has explored different ways to conserve the environment,” says Senior Five student Martin Kiiza. “We have focused on plastics, and we came up with a project of making plastic dustbins to keep our environment pollution-free.”
Club members Nakawoya Natasha and Gloria Ngabire believe these efforts go beyond the classroom. “At the gate, you are not supposed to enter the school with anything made of plastics,” Ngabire says. “We are saving you from carbonated drinks — and saving the environment from pollution. As young people, we have to set the right path.”
A Primary Seven pupil at Muhokya says the school has collected about 10 tonnes of plastic waste since 2023, mostly bottles from water, soft drinks and herbal medicines. Pupils are now teaching these techniques to family members.
“Some of these projects have come up because of the new curriculum. Students do routine projects that use very little budgets,” the pupil adds.
The wider Rwenzori region has seen rapid population growth and increasing use of packaged goods, producing more plastic waste than local disposal systems can handle. With limited collection infrastructure, much of the waste ends up in open spaces, drainage channels or nearby wetlands.
Joreme Bwambale, Director of Rwenzori Royal Institute, says the challenges extend beyond litter. “The first issue we found is that there’s no place to recycle,” he notes. “But the other issue is people’s behaviour — they see no problem with dumping waste wherever they are.”
Patrick Nyamunungu, a sociologist working with China Railway 18 Group, says waste disposal systems in the municipality have also contributed to the problem. “People are using the drainage channel as a waste dumping site because they closed down the many manholes they were previously using to dump their garbage,” he says. “It blocks the water and could eventually weaken the newly constructed road infrastructure.”
Although the district lacks precise records of how much plastic enters the environment each day, events such as flooding — often worsened by clogged drainage — show how widespread the problem has become.
At Kasese Secondary School, agriculture students are using plastic waste in backyard gardening projects. “These are the life skills we’re learning through the new curriculum,” says teacher Lawrence Kalenzi. “Some of our students are selling these products and earning an income.”
Caritas Kasese Diocese is also promoting plastic reuse. Environmental officer Yosia Kibakuli warns that microplastics pose serious health risks. “Each person consumes the equivalent of a credit card’s worth every week,” Kibakuli says, citing the rise in microplastics. “They don’t decompose, so it’s important that we innovatively take them out of the environment.”
Caritas is training community members to turn plastic waste into useful household and business items such as bins.
RuFI’s Biira says the demand for plastic has grown so much that they now hire people to collect bottles and even buy supplies from Rwimi in neighbouring Bunyangabu District. “Plastic is no longer waste — if you can’t recycle it, someone else can,” she says.
District Environmental Officer Oliver Masika says school-based initiatives could scale quickly if more institutions embraced conservation. “Flooding and other disasters have hurt the education and health sectors — and they all start with our behaviour,” she says.
Local officials and community organisations across the region say plastic pollution remains a growing concern, driven by behaviour, limited recycling options and inadequate disposal systems. Those interviewed stress that lasting progress will require changes in daily habits as well as improvements in basic waste management infrastructure.
Kasese Municipality Mayor Chance Kahindo says community-led initiatives are starting to make a difference. He notes that over the last 24 months, the town has seen a visible reduction in plastic waste, crediting the efforts of schools and local residents who actively collect and repurpose plastics.
WWF–Uganda communications officer Happy Ali says children are playing a crucial role. “We have been working with schools because we know that this knowledge can easily be integrated within communities,” Ali says. “Today we are able to celebrate young people who are keen on finding solutions to conserve the planet.”
While school-led efforts alone cannot solve Kasese’s plastic problem, they show what local action can achieve — and how Uganda’s future environmental stewards are already shaping practical solutions in their classrooms and communities.
In western Kenya, the Nyakomisaro River is sinking under piles of plastic waste. But along its banks — and those of a nearby river — hope is returning as the community fights back.
Harrison Nyacheo stands where the path meets the water, his eyes fixed on the river winding through his hometown. Once it carried clean water from the highlands to Lake Victoria. Today, its surface is littered with plastic bottles and bags — a sign of a town growing faster than its waste systems.
“If you look at this river,” Nyacheo says, his voice tired but steady, “it’s full of bottles, almost like a dumping site.” For him and other residents, the river is not only water but a reflection of a shared struggle — even as small signs of change are beginning to show.
From the bridges in Kisii town, piles of bottles, papers, and packaging cling to the riverbanks. Rapid urban growth has outpaced proper waste management, turning the waterway into a drain.
“Some people even dig garbage pits close to the banks,” Nyacheo explains. “When it rains, plastics are washed straight into the water.” He blames the lack of public bins — but also what he calls poor attitudes. “We keep urging people to keep our environment clean.”
For businesswoman Risper Mochere, the cause is clear: careless behaviour. “People throw bottles and papers from the road and bridge,” she says. Still, she sees hope. “The youth collecting plastics are doing a good job. If unemployed youth were paid for this work, we could save our rivers.”
One of those collectors is Peter Oguta. Each morning, he picks plastic along the Nyakomisaro with a sack in hand. “This plastic comes from people’s homes,” he says as he bends to collect another bottle. “It used to end up in the river, but now it’s everywhere.”
The work is relentless. “Every morning, I collect about 20 kilos of plastic, and by evening another 20,” he says. It is a small effort against a huge problem.
Oguta’s effort has found support from Nelcus Osumo Lameck, founder of the Environment Homage Foundation. His group of 200 members works with the county government to rehabilitate the Nyakomisaro.
“This river flows into Lake Victoria, so it affects more than Kisii,” Lameck says. His foundation has launched a five-year plan that includes installing security cameras, placing modern bins, and expanding community outreach. He often reminds locals: “One plastic bottle can take 500 years to decompose.”
About 10 kilometres away, River Mekenye tells a different story. Its water now runs clear after the community fenced it off, stopped dumping, and began recycling plastics through the Precious Plastics project.
“We even tested the water,” says community leader Calvin Ondiek. “Before, chemicals from farms polluted it. Now, the Water Resources Authority confirmed it is safe.”
Kenya produces about 966,000 tonnes of plastic waste each year. According to the United Nations Conference on Trade and Development (UNCTAD), this is expected to rise to 5 million tonnes by 2030. Only seven percent is recycled, and at least 37,000 tonnes end up in rivers and seas.
Environmental expert Griffins Ochieng warns that recycling alone won’t solve the problem. “Plastic production keeps rising,” he says. “Pollution has reduced slightly, but we need stronger international standards.”
Still, the change in Kisii offers hope. On the Nyakomisaro, the work is heavy and slow. But with plastic pickers, activists, and communities like Mekenye showing what is possible, there’s proof that even rivers choked with waste can run clean again.
“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.