Zimbabwe identity nightmare

I never imagined that a simple act of processing identity documents could be so demanding, complicated and tiresome, writes ONAI HARA.

My father, being Zambian, migrated to work in Zimbabwe - where he got married and where my siblings and I were born. This is where we have lived our entire lives. Even after my father left for Zambia (and never returned), we all remained in Zimbabwe. This was about 15 years ago, and ever since then my siblings and I have been under the care of our mother.

We were raised among the local people and naturally shared the local beliefs and languages: I speak all three official languages. I have a Zimbabwean birth certificate and national identity card. As far as I was concerned, this made me Zimbabwean. This was my blissful belief for the first 18 years of my life. How wrong I was!

When I turned 18 my world changed completely. I went to the passport offices to apply for a passport. I was told this was impossible as I did not have a valid citizenship certificate. I was confused! At no point in my life had I ever been asked to justify my nationality or citizenship. I was told that because my father was born in Zambia that also made me Zambian, even though I had never been to Zambia myself!

Nightmare
Because my father held a Zambian passport, my own Zimbabwean national documents were now rendered irrelevant in deciding my citizenship. This was just the beginning of my nightmare.

Surely a Zimbabwean birth certificate and identity card confirmed my right to be a Zimbabwean? Apparently not. Indeed, the response wrecked my world: I was told that I was, in fact, stateless.

It troubled me for months that I could be treated as a foreigner after being born and living in a country for the first 18 years of my life - without ever leaving it. I thought it was impossible for somebody to be said to belong nowhere. Surely everyone belongs somewhere? And I did not see why I had to suffer because my father was a Tumbuka born in Zambia, and I had no trace of him.

Growing up, I never identified with my Zambian relatives whom I had never seen. I thought I had nothing to do with them. In my current predicament I began to feel that at least being identified as one of them might have been much better than being said to belong nowhere. Since my father was not around to explain to me who the Tumbuka people are, I had to learn about their beliefs and practices from books and whenever I had an opportunity to interact with some of them. I felt forced to relate with people I really didn't identify with.

University
By then I was in the final year of my A level studies. I needed to belong somewhere: I had to be a citizen of some country to hold a passport, since I intended to go to university the following year. Enrolment is limited at Zimbabwean universities, so preference is often given to citizens, which would obviously hamper my citizenship-less chances. In addition, foreign students are required to pay double the tuition fees, and to apply for study permits. Without a passport, it would also be impossible for me to leave Zimbabwe to go to university abroad. My tertiary education and my future were now at stake. I felt my future slipping away from under my feet. I felt really disadvantaged by the system.

I seriously considered exploring how to get Zambian citizenship. But I knew this was going to be another very long process and I knew that my mother did not have the capacity to finance all the necessary expenses. And since my family lives in Zimbabwe, it would be impossible for me to stay in Zambia and study there because I do not know anyone there, as we have failed to trace any of my father's relatives.

At this point in time, my urgent need for a passport meant that I was left with no option but to renounce my 'foreign' citizenship. I was informed that the process would take anything between six months to God-knows how many years! I was informed that there was an option to make an emergency application and that this would reduce the waiting time significantly. This made sense since it was an 'emergency application'.

Emergency
But the reality soon dawned on me, as I joined the long and winding queues at the offices for these 'emergency documents'. My greatest worry was all the time I was spending in queues rather than in class - and I was in an important examination year: a critical year in my studies. Indeed, in my life.

When my application was finally considered, I was given a confirmation letter and a declaration of renunciation that I had to deliver to the Zambian embassy to denounce my Zambian citizenship - a citizenship I don't believe I ever owned in the first place. The processing took a few days. It looked as though the Zambians were quite eager to offload me to someone else - although they (the Zimbabwean authorities) didn't appear very eager to take me in! But at last I could now apply for a Zimbabwean passport.

This whole experience made me wonder what citizenship really means. I now hold a Zimbabwean passport and citizenship, but I also now feel that I do not truly belong here. If I belonged, why did I have to struggle that much to get documentation? Had it not been for my education, I would not have gone through all the long processes required to get my hands on Zimbabwean citizenship.

At least I am not now sitting at some border with an unknown citizenship status. But I wonder how many other people are sitting at various borders - not knowing who they are anymore. How many people have suffered because of the decisions that were made by their parents before they were even born? And what hope do they have when all the power to decide where they 'belong' resides with countries' laws and regulations governing citizenship - particularly outdated patriarchal laws and regulations that still prioritise fathers - and is not necessarily based on their understanding of who they really feel they are? I sincerely think a better way to make such decisions should be considered.

BUWA! - Feminism and Culture