Since the Trump administration started sharply cutting US foreign aid last year, we've reported on the consequences around the world.

And nowhere are those consequences more apparent than in Somalia.

After decades of conflict and repeated climate disasters, millions of Somali depend on humanitarian assistance, much of it previously funded by the US.

And now that lifeline is disappearing.

In the first of two reports from Somalia produced in partnership with the Pulitzer Center, special correspondent Niha Watiker and filmmaker Ed Ram show us what those cuts mean for some of the world's most vulnerable people.

Barely hanging on.

Born two months early, Mallet is trying to survive, he has been living outdoors here in the blistering heat on the outskirts of Somalia's capital, Moadishu, for 25 days.

His mother, Isho Awes Muhammad, and her three youngest children fled here from southern Somalia.

Malid was born on the journey.

They are among thousands here, mostly women and children who have been forced to flee their homes by a devastating mix of conflict, drought, and flooding.

The displaced have nowhere to go.

I live off people's goodwill, she tells us.

I only have whatever they bring me, but it's barely enough.

Isho said she's eating so little that she can't produce enough breast milk to feed her son.

She gives him water instead.

She never imagined this could be her life.

Just over a month ago, a mortar destroyed her neighbor's home.

And in an instant, she knew she had to run.

During her escape, she went into early labor and delivered twins on the side of the road.

Her daughter was still born.

I met farmers outside a nearby town who helped me bury my daughter, she tells us.

This is why I arrived here with so much blood loss and placenta attached to the newborn.

In the past, families like Eshos might have gotten help from American funded aid groups, but not anymore.

The United States was once the single largest donor of aid in the world.

But in early 2025, President Donald Trump began dismantling USAD, the United States agency for international development.

Almost overnight, emergency food for babies like Mal dried up.

funding space in Somalia has dramatically shrked.

As that American lifeline went dark, aid workers like Abdi Omar Durier were left helpless.

His nonprofit in Moadishu lost over 1.2 million in US grants.

That was agonizing.

It was painful.

It shows that our capacity to support the vulnerable people have been cailed very significantly.

Well, we have the willingness and actually the dedication those funding uh was able to change a lot.

Community leader Muhammad Abdi Abdullahi told us he feels the same way since the aid has been stopped.

He says hunger is widespread.

Add to that ongoing conflict, homelessness, lack of healthcare and sanitation, and we can very clearly see the vacancy left behind by the loss of aid groups.

When did this close down?

When did this place close down?

He took us to visit a nearby school built by the international nonprofit Prosper Global, formerly known as Mercy Corps and funded by USAD.

It now stands unused and empty.

The school closed last year, locking more than 1,700 students out of classes.

Prosper Global's loss of USAD funding also impacted critical projects like this drinking water station which is now closed that have really stalled because of the aid cut by the US government.

Dawu Jeran is Prosper Global Somalia country director and it's quite a recent recent yes yeah 2023 so people went from not having water to having water and now not having water again.

Um unfortunately this is one of classical example of the effect of the funding cut.

Welcome to this next door.

This community center now sits empty.

It was once filled with women and girls receiving pre and postnatal care and critical vaccines.

And if this population doesn't get these services then what happens to them?

Honestly the situation will be dire if the American government pulls completely out of a place.

Does that increase the security threat level in that place?

This vacuum created in their villages who will take over all the bad groups about 300 miles south of Moadishu is the coastal city of Kismayo.

Al-Shabaab, an al-Qaeda affiliated terrorist group is heavily active just across the river.

This area has become a dangerous front line between the militants and government forces, making the delivery of aid even more difficult.

On the day we visited, we traveled in an armored vehicle with an armed escort just to reach a center run by Save the Children.

This sanctuary is designed to give children small moments of joy and relief from their troubles.

It's where we met 10-year-old Bashar Abdi Razak Hassan.

She told us she and her mother were displaced from their rural home by drought.

My father is still working on our farm, she says.

But we need to stay with my mom who has pain in her legs.

Bashar and her mother have no income.

They live in complete poverty.

At home, nothing is cooked to eat.

Whatever I get here, I take to my mom.

She told us she is hungry.

I know.

Centers like this are such important spaces for vulnerable kids to come and play and get a meal so they don't go home hungry.

Because of widespread cuts in the Western Aid world, these types of centers are closing, which means that the staff here are left to volunteer their time and energy to make sure that these kids still have a safe space to come to.

Kadija Salat Ali is one of those volunteers and she took us to visit Bashar's home.

She told us she noticed from the first day she met Basharo that she was being forced to grow up very fast.

How old was she at the time?

She was 7 years old.

She was very young.

Yeah, she was 7 years old carrying a 20 lit jerry can of autumn.

Oh my gosh.

Kadijah used to get paid for her work, but that ended when funding ran out.

She now volunteers her time because she doesn't want to abandon children like Bashar.

Hello, Sadd.

Are you?

When we found Basharo, she was getting the dishes ready for dinner, which she said tonight would consist of tomatoes collected from a nearby shop and a banana cooked in oil given to them by a neighbor.

Inside, we met Bashar's mother, 37year-old Halema [_ ] Muhammad.

She injured herself two months ago doing heavy washing work.

Now, she's barely mobile and depends on Bashar for all the household chores and cooking.

They need help, but it's not coming.

Outside aid has stopped.

The reimbursements and the food they used to give us has all stopped, she says.

They used to do repairs for broken toilets and even houses, she added.

But everything has stopped now.

That applies to the healthcare clinics here, too.

Ismael do Ibrahim runs the Gdane Health Center near Casio and told us his clinic lost most of its operating budget after USAD was dismantled.

So this used to be full of medicines, medications, drugs, and now there's empty shelves.

Oh wow.

Okay.

And this is a result of the US funding cuts.

Cuts.

Okay.

That is the problem.

And it's a problem he says that affects untold numbers of people here far beyond this one area.

People used to come from villages all around to this healthcare clinic which used to offer a wide range of services.

Everything from maternity care to vaccinations to medications.

But now since USAD cuts these services have been drastically reduced and people don't really come here anymore because they know there's nothing for them.

He was bit dehydrated and he was put on IV fluids.

Back in Moadishu, we returned to the new arrival center to check in on baby mal.

We learned his mother had taken him to a local clinic after being assured she would not have to leave her other children alone and could bring them with her.

Baby Mal was given some emergency infant formula and it helped.

I feared he might die like the other one died, she told us.

But thank God.

The family still shelters here under a table in the new arrival center, trying to protect themselves from the relentless heat.

But unless Maliv continues to get help, his mother knows his future remains in peril.

She buried one child on the road to Moadishu.

She told us she will do everything she can not to bury another.

For the PBS NewsHour, I'm Nha Wader in Moadishu, Somalia.

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