By Koang Kay Keak, guest author, humanitarian, Ph.D. candidate at Addis Ababa University and former researcher at CVT Ethiopia

In Nguenyyiel refugee camp in Gambella, Ethiopia, a camp with over 100,000 refugees, I saw something extraordinary. Amidst trauma, displacement and despair that grip the lives of thousands of people, there was a sanctuary of treatment: The Center for Victims of Torture (CVT). As a researcher with CVT from 2021-23, I saw firsthand how this organization provided intensive mental health care and helped save the lives of refugees who had experienced extreme conflict-related trauma. During my time with CVT, my research documentation shows a remarkable trend: clients showed significant improvement in their mental health symptoms from intake to their six-month follow-up. These were not just numbers – they represent real people who were getting back their ability to sleep, trust and hope again.

These were not just numbers – they represent real people who were getting back their ability to sleep, trust and hope again.”

In 2023, when I decided to move on to take up a leadership role within the humanitarian sector, I felt a deep sadness leaving behind clients who were slowly returning to life. Yet, I took relief in knowing that the dedicated counselors at CVT would keep the flame of healing alive for these survivors—thanks to the critical funding from the U.S. government through the Bureau of Population, Refugees, and Migration (PRM).

Today, CVT faces an existential threat. In January 2025, I learned of a funding freeze affecting CVT’s programs. At the time, I remained hopeful that the U.S. government—a longtime champion of human rights—would not abandon this lifesaving work. Yet now, under the administration of Donald Trump, the U.S. government has completely withheld this vital funding, putting the lives of torture survivors at risk.

As I write this, I am thinking of clients who sit in darkness as their mental health counselors stop showing up in the camp. I am also thinking of the 80,000 people—mostly women and children—from Nasir, Ulang and Longochuk in Upper Nile, South Sudan, who have been displaced by renewed conflict. These survivors have endured the unimaginable trauma of watching loved ones perish in aerial bombardments. Now, the majority are fleeing to Ethiopia as refugees, where they will need urgent mental health crisis intervention and long-term psychological care. CVT has always been on the frontlines in such emergencies, providing life-saving mental health support to those shattered by violence. Without funding, who will be there to help them heal?

One client, a survivor of the Juba massacre who lost his entire family, told me, ‘With CVT, I saw a light at the end of the tunnel.'”

If this decision is not reversed, the consequences will be catastrophic. During my two-year tenure, CVT’s clinical team in Gambella provided intensive therapy to over 400 clients. Many arrived on the brink of psychological collapse—isolated, suicidal or completely withdrawn. Through trauma-informed care, culturally sensitive therapy and relentless compassion, CVT helped them reclaim their mental stability and sense of humanity. One client, a survivor of the Juba massacre who lost his entire family, told me, “With CVT, I saw a light at the end of the tunnel.” That light must not be extinguished.

This is not just about funding a program. It is about preserving dignity, saving lives and upholding the moral responsibility to care for those most affected by conflict. Cutting funding to CVT sends a dangerous message—that the lives of torture survivors are nonessential. I urge policymakers, human rights advocates and the public to speak out.

To save CVT Ethiopia is to save countless lives—now and in the future. The survivors are watching, and they are counting on us.