On USAID
Amena had always feared the dark, but the night of January 20, 2025, felt different. The shadows creeping through the flimsy tarpaulin walls of her shelter in Cox’s Bazar carried more than just the usual whisper of the wind; they carried uncertainty, a silent scream of desperation. The darkness seemed heavier, more oppressive, as if it mirrored the weight of the news that had spread like wildfire through the camp. She had overheard the whispers among the elders, the panic in her mother’s voice, the hushed conversations about the sudden decision in America—a place so far away yet powerful enough to crush her fragile world in an instant.
President Donald Trump had ordered a 90-day suspension of USAID funding. The announcement, delivered in a cold, bureaucratic tone, sent shockwaves through the refugee camps. The food rations would continue, the doctors would still come, but everything else—her school, the art classes where she painted the home she barely remembered, the women’s safe space where her mother found solace—would all be gone. At thirteen, Amena did not fully understand the intricacies of politics, but she understood what it meant to be abandoned. She had seen it before, in the faces of the soldiers who had driven her family from their village in Myanmar, in the indifference of the world as her people were labeled “stateless.” Now, she felt it again, in the abrupt withdrawal of support from a country that had once seemed like a distant but reliable ally.
Amena’s life, like that of nearly a million other Rohingya refugees, had always been shaped by forces beyond her control. Born stateless, raised in exile, and now stripped of the fragile hopes she had built within the refugee camp, she felt like a bird with clipped wings. Every morning, she would wake before dawn, her bare feet brushing against the cold earth as she ran to the makeshift school set up by aid workers. The classroom—cramped, hot, always noisy—was her escape, a world where she was not just a refugee but a student, a dreamer. That morning, as she clutched her worn-out notebook, a teacher with tear-filled eyes told the children that the school was shutting down.
“What will happen to us?” someone asked.
The teacher had no answer.
Amena did. She knew. They would be left like the stray dogs in the camp—fed just enough to survive but never given a name, never seen as anything more than a problem to be managed. Was that all she was? An inconvenience? An animal in a cage? The questions gnawed at her, but there were no answers, only the suffocating silence of a world that had turned its back on her once again.
The decision to freeze aid was framed as a temporary measure. But it may disrupt not only education but also vocational training, psychological counseling, and programs designed to empower women. The refugee camps of Cox’s Bazar, already overcrowded and fragile, may plunge deeper into crisis. Families who had relied on USAID-funded initiatives to rebuild their lives now facing an uncertain future. Women who had found a sense of purpose and community in the safe spaces will be left without support, their hard-earned progress slipping away. Children like Amena, who had dared to dream of a better future, are forced to confront the harsh reality of their existence once more.
The irony was cruel. The world had watched as Myanmar’s military drove the Rohingya out in what the United Nations called a “textbook example of ethnic cleansing.” The very countries that condemned the atrocities—like the United States—were now stripping away the lifelines that allowed refugees to survive with dignity. The suspension of USAID funding was not just a bureaucratic decision; it was a moral failing, a betrayal of the principles of compassion and solidarity that the agency claimed to uphold.
This crisis exposed the deeper flaws in USAID’s approach to humanitarian aid. While the agency had played a significant role in supporting refugees, its priorities had always been dictated by American political interests rather than long-term sustainability. The sudden suspension was not a financial necessity but a political maneuver—part of Trump’s broader “America First” strategy, which saw foreign aid as a burden rather than a moral responsibility. The decision reflected a broader trend of isolationism and disengagement, a retreat from the global leadership that had once defined American foreign policy.
The consequences extended far beyond Bangladesh. In Uganda, HIV treatment programs will face disruption, putting millions of lives at risk. In Syria, food distribution networks may crumble, exacerbating hunger in war-torn regions. In Afghanistan, women’s empowerment programs may collapse, undoing years of progress. The common thread in all these cases is the vulnerability of aid-dependent populations to the whims of American politics. For millions of people around the world, USAID is not just a source of assistance; it was a lifeline, a fragile thread connecting them to the possibility of a better future. When that thread is cut, the consequences are catastrophic.
USAID has long been criticized for its inefficiencies and mismanagement. Reports have documented instances where millions of dollars were funneled into projects that never delivered meaningful results. Large contracts awarded to American firms often sidelined local organizations that understood their communities better. In some cases, funds were wasted on administrative overhead rather than direct assistance. These shortcomings were not just bureaucratic failures; they were moral failures, betrayals of the trust placed in the agency by the people it was meant to serve.
Even in Bangladesh, where USAID had played a critical role in disaster relief and development, its programs were not free from controversy. Some agricultural initiatives led to environmental damage, while governance projects were accused of undermining local institutions by favoring foreign NGOs over national efforts. The 2025 funding suspension only reinforced the notion that USAID’s presence was as much about American strategic interests as it was about humanitarian assistance. For Amena and her community, the suspension is a stark reminder of their vulnerability, their dependence on the goodwill of a distant power that can withdraw its support at any moment.
For Amena, these debates meant little. What mattered is that her world is collapsing. She watches as her mother sitting silently in their dimly lit shelter, staring at the ration cards that would still provide food but nothing else. The camp had always been suffocating, but without education, without purpose, it will become a cage. The walls of the shelter seems to close in on her, the darkness pressing against her skin. She thinks of her father, who had been killed in Myanmar. She thinks of her friends, who are now scattered in uncertainty. And she thinks of the words she had read in a book given to her by an aid worker—a story about a girl who fought against all odds to build a future.
“Hope,” the aid worker had told her once, “is something no one can take from you.”
But as the days passed and the school remained closed, Amena wondered if even hope had its limits. The suspension of USAID funding was not just a policy decision; it was a blow to the very idea of hope, a reminder that the world could be as cruel as it was indifferent. For Amena and millions like her, the future have always been uncertain, but now it feels impossibly distant, a dream slipping further and further out of reach.
The international response was predictable—statements of concern, diplomatic murmurs—but no immediate action. The Bangladeshi government, already burdened with economic challenges, have little capacity to fill the gap left by USAID’s withdrawal. Other donor agencies are also hesitant to compensate, but bureaucracy and funding shortages can make any solution impossible. In the meantime, Amena and her community are left to navigate the darkness alone, their fragile hopes flickering like candles in the wind.
As the days turned into weeks, Amena finds herself returning to the empty school, her notebook clutched tightly in her hands. The building is silent now, the laughter and chatter of the children replaced by an eerie stillness. She sits on the steps, staring at the empty classrooms, and wondered if she would ever return. The suspension of USAID funding had taken away her school, her dreams, her sense of purpose. But it had not taken away her determination.
For Amena, hope was not just a word; it was a lifeline, a fragile thread connecting her to the possibility of a better tomorrow. And no matter how dark the night, she would hold on to that thread, refusing to let it slip away.
—–
Rajeev Ahmed
The Editor of Geopolits.com and the Author of the book titled Bengal Nexus