Biamungu had tried to forget the bitter truth, the life he lived at the edge of statelessness. Because that’s the life he had lived: displaced, without documents of identity from his country, and denied documentation from the country that hosted him.
It pained him beyond belief that his lack of papers locked him in an ordeal that seemed like it would never end.
Despite his hard work to change his life and better his community, he couldn’t access the opportunities his hard work unleashed. He received numerous invitations to international conferences but he couldn’t travel. He couldn’t apply for any call for anything that required a passport or ID number, or even to anything that required a refugee identification proof. He couldn’t have the money he worked for transferred to his name, because he couldn’t open a bank account. He couldn’t marry, because he wouldn’t be issued a marriage certificate. His child couldn’t have his birth registered.
Biamungu was caught between a wasted present and a lost future. He agonized that his dreams were unattainable when he had the means and the stamina to realize them. His despair was caused by a woman who devised a human-trafficking-like scheme that dropped him and his fellow travellers in Zimbabwe under the cover of a scholarship.
“Alphabetically speaking, Zimbabwe is the last country in the world,” he would think, wondering whether that curious fact had impacted his life. But he would refuse to accept it, and brushed the thought off his mind.
The woman confiscated their passports. No human rights organization could save him anymore. Who would trust a person with scant identity, very limited connections, and poverty in a world already burdened with suffering? Worst of all, where he was, harrowing stories have been normalized. His story was not much worse in the eyes of those who served them, those who worked for the UN Refugee Agency. Tales of rape, killing, and mutilation have flooded their offices for years and hardened them; it was business as usual. Nevertheless, the indignity they inflicted on people like him remains. The year he was served with rejected papers, he missed a census meant for all forcibly displaced people in Zimbabwe. A head count exercise (census) is crucial for governments and humanitarian organizations to know how many refugees and asylum seekers need food, water, shelter, and healthcare. It also helps assess the demographic profile such as gender, age, nationality, family size, education level, and skills, so that support could be properly targeted and distributed. A census helps identify vulnerable groups like children, elderly people, and persons with disabilities who might require extra assistance.
Biamungu was depressed and demoralized by the experience in which a person with rejected papers is locked into a jail where life doesn’t happen.
Three years later, in the chilly and dusty winter, when the next month-long census was announced, Biamungu decided to participate. He chose not to go first or in the midst of the exercise but on the last day when the lines grow faint. He was escaping the curiosity of friends who may have been interested to know his refugee status. In the community, one who is known as having no proper documents is the one who is isolated and has limited friends and livelihood support.
His friend who worked at the main office informed him that the census was almost over because people had stopped coming. Bianmungu mustered the courage to get verified. He got on his bike and rode to the main offices. He parked his bike inside the security reception at the gate. The security guard looked stunned: he had almost missed his chance. He tied a yellow ribbon around Biamungu’s wrist and pointed to a small gate where he had to go around a fence and enter through the site of a newly built block.
Under the baobab tree, a few feet away from the diamond mesh-electrified wire fence and a few meters away from the offices where the verification was conducted, a man sat on a chair with a young girl standing by his side. The girl was an interpreter. Unlike the man, Biamungu knew the girl, she came from the community, a refugee. Refugees often offer language interpretation services for similar registration missions that involve the community. There were no people in line, just a group of enumerators and interpreters scattered around the expanded compound, all from the refugee community, many of whom were young. Most laughed at Biamungu when he arrived, ridiculing him for almost missing the census. He was a popular person, familiar to most of the community. A lot, if not all, didn’t know the weight he carried because of the wrong papers. The man at the gate, who worked with the government, he assumed, asked if he had come for verification.
“Yes,” he said.
“Your hands are empty. Where are your documents?”
From the pocket of his jeans, he pulled a thin plastic poly paper and unfolded it before handing it to him. It contained his UNHCR photo-slip, a cash card, and an in-kind assistance card.
The man’s expression darkened. “And where is your refugee status and temporary permit?”
He told him he had lost both. He didn’t dare to say he had been rejected and that his government temporary permit that also carried the stamp for the duration of asylum seeking had expired. He knew he would ask for them too.
He shook his head wildly. “Go to the police,” he said. “They will write you a letter justifying the loss of your documents. Come back within half an hour.”
Biamungu rode to the police station as fast as he could, a newly built block by World Vision. It previously served as a warehouse for storing crops from refugee farmers, but since President Trump’s policies froze aid and forced major NGOs to shut down their fieldwork, the building was allocated to the police.
After reaching the police post, he entered the alley. He glanced over the huge opening on the right side, where the police reception is positioned as indicated by a huge table, a load of stationery and huge files and three empty bottles of Black Label beer on the table at the left corner, empty. A few feet away from the big table, a police officer was seated. She wore casual clothing. In her right hand, she held a cup of tea and a slice of bread in her left. Biamungu thought the officer wasn’t on duty. It was 2:30 pm and he had thirty minutes to report back. The bike ride alone took about 20 minutes.
“Hi, Madam Officer. How are you?” he asked politely. “I was referred to your station to collect a letter. I lost my documents and couldn’t proceed with the verification.”
“Who sent you here?” asked the police officer, her voice loud and intimidating.
“A person who worked at the gate,” he calmly replied.
She gave him a cold face and took a sip from her tea. “Which document did you lose?”
“My status and a permit,” he said.
“We don’t have papers.”
“Do you mean bond paper? Because I can bring you some.”
“No. I mean police report papers,” she said, still facing the other side of the window. She sipped her tea slowly while glancing at him sideways. She used to call Biamungu by his name when they met in the community, she would even joke with him, but now she looked tough; it was time to make money from free services. “How much do you have?” “Are you asking for the money I can pay to have the letter?”
“Yes.”
“How much am I supposed to pay?”
“Ten US dollars.”
“I don’t have money, Madam officer,” he said, baffled.
“How much do you have?”
“Nothing. I have nothing, Madam Officer.”
She shook her head, stood up, and staggered to another table where she set down the empty plastic cup. “Okay then. We don’t have papers. You can leave if you have nothing.”
He pleaded. He explained his situation and how the verification exercise was important for his life.
“Leave,” she commanded. So he left.
