Closing the Protection Gap in Tongogara Refugee Settlement, Zimbabwe

Introduction

This article examines humanitarian protection in Zimbabwe from 2013 to 2023, marked by fluctuating funding, a surge in refugee arrivals, and the interruption of schooling during the COVID-19 pandemic. The focus is not on drafting new policies. It is on asking a harder question: whether existing child sexual abuse prevention and response systems in Tongogara have been resourced, monitored, and coordinated in ways that match Zimbabwe’s legal commitments. For many children living in Tongogara Refugee Settlement (TRS), it is the only place they have known. They attend school within the settlement, play in its narrow residential zones, and grow up within systems originally designed for temporary protection. Over time, emergency arrangements become ordinary routines. That shift significantly impacts child protection.

Zimbabwe ratified the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child (UNCRC) in 1990, and the African Charter on the Rights and Welfare of the Child in (ACRRWC) 1995.¹ Sexual exploitation of minors is criminalized under domestic law, and refugee children fall within national protection structures. But the law on paper does not guarantee safety in practice. Refugee settlements operate through shared authority. Government social services, the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), police units, and non-governmental organisations each hold part of the mandate. Coordination depends on staffing levels, stable funding, and administrative continuity. When those elements weaken, implementation becomes uneven. Hathaway observes that refugee protection systems often rely more on routine administrative practice than on judicial enforcement.² In such settings, frontline decisions quietly shape the reach of rights.

Displacement also alters social relationships. Families separated from extended kin lose informal layers of supervision that might otherwise buffer children from harm.³ Economic strain can push adolescents toward arrangements that blur the line between coping and exploitation. Trauma histories may delay disclosure or reduce confidence in institutions.⁴

Zimbabwe’s legal and policy framework governing child protection: The case of Tongogara

Zimbabwe’s legal and policy framework governing child protection is formally robust. The UNCRC obliges states to protect children from all forms of sexual exploitation and abuse and to establish mechanisms for prevention, reporting, investigation, and recovery.⁵ The ACRWC reinforces these obligations in the regional context, emphasizing both protection and accountability.⁶ Within Zimbabwe, the Constitution recognizes children’s right to protection from maltreatment, while the Criminal Law (Codification and Reform) Act criminalizes sexual offences against minors. Refugee children in Tongogara are covered by the national child protection system, with clear legal provisions in place. The challenge is not the law itself, but how consistently it is implemented in a long-standing settlement facing fluctuating humanitarian conditions.

Refugee protection in Tongogara operates through a layered system involving government, UNHCR, NGOs, police, and health services. While effective when coordination and staffing are stable, it depends heavily on communication and resources. Most abuse cases are handled through local reporting channels rather than courts. As a long-standing settlement, Tongogara faces additional strain from fluctuating funding and crises such as the COVID-19 pandemic. Over time, this slows institutional momentum, limiting outreach, increasing caseloads, and placing pressure on administrative processes. UNICEF emphasizes that stable documentation systems are critical in humanitarian settings precisely because staff turnover is common.⁷ When experienced personnel leave and documentation is not fully integrated, institutional memory erodes. The settlement may retain its policies, yet the nuanced understanding of recurring risk patterns may fade. Protection requires continuity, not only commitment.

Displacement reshapes family and social oversight structures in ways that policy frameworks do not always anticipate. Extended kin networks, that once provided supervision and informal sanction mechanisms, may fragment during migration. Wessells notes that uprooted communities often lose protective buffers embedded in everyday social life.⁸ Many families in Tongogara arrived after the conflict, often separated from relatives. Caregivers juggle survival demands, such as food distribution, documentation, and securing income, leaving adolescents with less supervision. Traditional support systems have weakened, and trust within the community is still developing. When abuse occurs, families may hesitate to report, especially if the perpetrator is known. Some cases are handled privately through informal agreements, which may seem practical, but keep them outside formal systems, and weaken accountability.

Economic vulnerability adds another layer to the protection landscape. Refugee households in Tongogara depend heavily on humanitarian assistance, and formal employment opportunities remain restricted. Adolescents often seek supplementary income to support themselves or their families. Research in other refugee contexts documents transactional sexual relationships emerging in conditions of material scarcity.⁹ These relationships rarely begin with overt force. They may involve offers of money for transport, food, or small gifts. For policymakers, such arrangements fall within established definitions of exploitation. For adolescents navigating poverty, however, the situation may appear as a coping mechanism within constrained choices. This divergence complicates prevention efforts. Awareness campaigns that rely solely on legal terminology may fail to resonate with lived economic realities. Moreover, disclosure in these contexts carries consequences. Reporting abuse may disrupt household income streams or provoke internal conflict. Silence can therefore be rationalized as protective, even when it perpetuates harm.

Trauma histories further shape response patterns. Many families residing in Tongogara arrived after exposure to armed conflict or persecution. Betancourt et al. found that repeated exposure to violence can recalibrate how young people interpret subsequent harm and influence disclosure behaviour.¹⁰ Within the settlement, some caregivers experience emotional exhaustion. Engaging with formal legal processes requires time. For households already under economic strain, prolonged interaction with administrative systems is burdensome. Trauma does not imply indifference to abuse; rather, it may alter thresholds for reporting and prioritization.

Gender norms intersect with these pressures in specific ways. Girls may fear blame, reputational damage, or social restriction if they disclose abuse. Boys may hesitate to report due to expectations of toughness and concerns about masculinity. Save the Children International documents similar patterns in humanitarian contexts where silence functions as a social shield, preserving family standing while weakening formal accountability.¹¹ Policy frameworks often assume that awareness leads directly to disclosure. Evidence suggests otherwise. Education serves both developmental and protective functions within Tongogara. Schools provide structured daily routines and adult supervision, limiting unmonitored movement within residential zones. Teachers often serve as informal focal points for protection, receiving disclosures and referring cases. When schools operate consistently, adolescents spend significant portions of the day within supervised environments. The COVID-19 pandemic disrupted this protective layer. Prolonged school closures increased idle time and reduced structured oversight. Globally, UNICEF noted heightened protection risks associated with extended school shutdowns in vulnerable settings.¹² Administrative systems remain central to an effective response. Child protection information management systems should capture disaggregated data by age, gender, type of abuse, referral pathway, and case outcome.¹³ In Tongogara, records are kept by different actors but are poorly integrated, weakening data and trend tracking. This makes prevention reactive. The gap is not legal but operational: shaped by economic strain, limited capacity, and weak coordination.

Insights from the Field

Field engagement conducted between 2013 and 2023 shows that awareness of child sexual abuse within TRS is significant. Children are generally able to describe behaviors that constitute abuse, including coercion, unwanted touching, manipulation through gifts, and pressure related to material exchange. Adults also recognize that minors cannot legally give consent. Community leaders, teachers, and social workers provide definitions of abuse that closely match statutory standards. Knowledge is present, yet disclosure remains inconsistent, and institutional follow-up is often lacking. Awareness campaigns have helped create a shared language around abuse, but simply sharing language does not ensure reporting or ongoing support.

Economic vulnerability remains a key driver of risk. Adolescents, especially those out of school, often feel pressure to support their households. In contexts with limited livelihood options, small exchanges such as transport money, food, or airtime become part of relationships with older individuals, blurring boundaries. Reporting these situations can threaten household stability, so many cases remain outside formal protection systems.

Staffing pressures affect response quality. Social workers handle multiple responsibilities beyond abuse cases, and high caseloads limit time for prevention and follow-up. While urgent cases are addressed, ongoing monitoring is often inconsistent. Documentation is also fragmented across agencies, with records stored separately and in different formats. This weakens trend analysis and makes it difficult to track patterns over time, leaving prevention efforts more reactive than proactive.

Informal resolution mechanisms persist within the settlement. Some families prefer to address abuse allegations privately through negotiation, apology, or compensation. These choices are influenced by concerns about stigma, fear of reputational damage, and mistrust of lengthy legal processes. While informal resolution may appear pragmatic, it removes cases from official monitoring and reduces opportunities for deterrence.

Gender norms shape disclosure. Girls often fear blame or stigma, while boys hesitate due to expectations of strength. These pressures, combined with economic hardship and trauma, discourage reporting. Environmental factors also increase risk, including poor lighting and the need to move across the settlement at night. COVID-19 pandemic-related school closures reduced supervision, removing a key protective space. Overall, the protection gap in Tongogara is layered, requiring attention to these interconnected factors beyond legal measures alone.

Conclusions and Policy Recommendations

Child sexual abuse in Tongogara persists not because of weak laws, but because of gaps in how those laws are put into practice. Protection systems exist, and awareness is high, yet everyday constraints such as limited resources, fragmented systems, and social pressures continue to shape outcomes. Strengthening child protection in this context requires sustained investment in staffing, coordination, data systems, and community trust. In long-term displacement and refugee settings, protection is not achieved through policy alone, but through consistent, well-supported implementation.

Endnotes

1. Bhaiseni, Blessing. “Zimbabwe Children’s Act Alignment with International and Domestic Legal Instruments: Unravelling the Gaps.” African Journal of Social Work 6, no. 1 (2016): 3–6.
2. Hathaway, James C. 2005. The Rights of Refugees under International Law. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. https://doi.org/10.1017/CBO9780511614859
3. Wessells, Michael G. 2015. “Bottom-up Approaches to Strengthening Child Protection Systems: Dilemmas, Innovations, and Opportunities.” Child Abuse & Neglect 43: 8–21. https://psycnet.apa.org/doi/10.1016/j.chiabu.2015.04.006
4. Betancourt, Theresa S., Boris A. J. M. Boris, Elizabeth A. Newnham, Robert T. Brennan, Theodore S. S. Boris, Maryam Pyne, Jennifer S. S. Boris, and John R. Weisz. 2013. “Trauma History and Psychopathology in War-Affected Refugee Children.” Journal of the American Academy of Child & Adolescent Psychiatry 52 (12): 1285–1294. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.jaac.2013.09.008
5. United Nations. 1989. Convention on the Rights of the Child. Adopted November 20, 1989. https://www.ohchr.org/en/instruments-mechanisms/instruments/convention-rights-child
6. African Union. 1990. African Charter on the Rights and Welfare of the Child. Adopted July 11, 1990. https://au.int/en/treaties/african-charter-rights-and-welfare-child
7. UNICEF. 2021. UNICEF Child Protection Strategy 2021–2030. New York: UNICEF. https://www.unicef.org/reports/child-protection-strategy-2021-2030
8. Wessells, Michael G. 2015. “Bottom-up Approaches to Strengthening Child Protection Systems: Dilemmas, Innovations, and Opportunities.” Child Abuse & Neglect 43: 41–44. https://psycnet.apa.org/doi/10.1016/j.chiabu.2015.04.006
9. UNHCR (United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees). 2011. Action against Sexual and Gender-Based Violence: An Updated Strategy. Geneva: UNHCR.
10. Betancourt, Theresa S., Boris A. J. M. Boris, Elizabeth A. Newnham, Robert T. Brennan, Theodore S. S. Boris, Maryam Pyne, Jennifer S. S. Boris, and John R. Weisz. 2013. “Trauma History and Psychopathology in War-Affected Refugee Children.” Journal of the American Academy of Child & Adolescent Psychiatry 52 (12): 1285–1294. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.jaac.2013.09.008
11. Save the Children International. 2019. The War on Children: Let Us Learn in Peace. London: Save the Children. https://resourcecentre.savethechildren.net/pdf/the_war_on_children_2019.pdf/
12. UNICEF. “COVID-19: Children at Heightened Risk of Abuse.” March 23, 2020. https://www.unicef.org/zimbabwe/stories/covid-19-children-heightened-risk-abuse
13. UNICEF. 2021. UNICEF Child Protection Strategy 2021–2030. New York: UNICEF. https://www.unicef.org/reports/child-protection-strategy-2021-2030