My first encounter with my “stateless” classification took place when I was sixteen years old. I was travelling abroad to attend university. The visa officer stamped my student permit on my travel document and asked me to check the details.
I took a look and all the details were indeed correct: a correct spelling of my foreign name, the correct date of birth and country of birth and then, my nationality. It had “stateless” typed in capital letters right after the semi-column.
I returned my travel document and informed him that my nationality was entered incorrectly. I am Palestinian. He was an old man with the kindest face. With a half-embarrassed smile, he informed me that since I don’t hold a Palestinian passport, or any passport for that matter, I am classified under international law as stateless.
I thanked him and walked away head down. I took a long time after that encounter to figure out what it all really meant.
There are many emotional challenges attached to being a stateless person. These range from feelings of inferiority and vulnerability, all the way to potential moments of despair and despondence.
But let me spare you the emotional part and get to the practical bit. Being stateless poses many practical challenges. In the world we live in today, and on any given day, nationality plays a central part in our existence. It can indeed be difficult to imagine what life is like for people living in a legal no-man’s land.
The most-felt setback of being stateless has to do with international travel, the basic right of free movement.
My personal challenges take all kinds of shapes and forms. These include visa delays, increased scrutiny at destination airports, stringent entry conditions and outright rejection of entry to certain countries. The one positive aspect though was that they make for good travel stories.
These challenges of being stateless as a young woman interested in traveling the world were manageable. Fast-forward a few years and as I am getting older, the challenges are less fun.
With my stateless status, a few questions keep me up at night. Where do I settle? More accurately, where can I settle indefinitely? Will I be able to always work? Who and where do I go to if I am ever in trouble? How do I fully fund my health insurance and old-age care? How will I survive potential unemployment periods?
These same challenges face citizens all around the world, but stateless refugees have no baselines to start from. And baselines help.
To prevent the serious consequences of statelessness for individuals and societies, the international community through the United Nations has agreed that all human beings should enjoy the right to a nationality. Possession of nationality is essential for full participation in society and a prerequisite for the enjoyment of the full range of human rights. Palestinians today form the largest stateless community in the world. Statelessness has dominated and shaped the lives of four generations since the Palestinian exodus of 1948.
The right of return for stateless Palestinian refugees, and hence their right to a Palestinian nationality, reaches far beyond being a human rights issue or a political matter, as important as these two are.
The right of return is a personal matter. It is personal to around six million stateless Palestinians; many of whom are up every night, trying to find answers to basic life questions.
I ponder upon the bigger Palestinian question in general, and the right of return in particular and I realise this is history in the making.
In recent years we have witnessed apologies pouring from national governments over years of oppression, genocide, racism and violation of human rights: from the Holocaust, American slavery, Apartheid and all the way to Australian Aborigines.
In most of these cases, this happened as personal stories emerged from beneath the numbers. I seek to only add a personal story to the account of six million stateless Palestinians. Perhaps it can all soon be history too.
Rana Askoul is a Dubai-based writer
On Twitter: @RanaAskoul
