Map of Ogaden, Ethiopia courtesy of Wiki user Lencer.

The violent, separatist conflict in southeastern Ethiopia known as the Somali region or Ogaden has been referred by some as the next Darfur. The conflict has claimed thousands of lives over the last 15 years.

Ethiopia sealed off the region to media so there is little accurate information about the conflict, including claims of human rights abuses.

The region is rich in natural gas and is home to about 5 million predominantly Muslim people, mainly ethnic Somali nomadic tribes. The U.S. has said little about the conflict, as Ethiopia is its main regional ally in the increasingly unstable Horn of Africa region.

Worldfocus interviewed David H. Shinn, a former U.S. ambassador to Ethiopia and Burkina Faso. Amb. Shinn is currently an adjunct professor of international affairs at The George Washington University’s Elliott School of International Affairs. His research interests include China-Africa relations, East Africa and the Horn, terrorism, Islamic fundamentalism, conflict situations, U.S. policy in Africa and the African brain drain.

Worldfocus: Ethiopia has labeled the Ogaden National Liberation Front (ONLF) as a terrorist organization. Is this an accurate description?

Amb. Shinn: While the ONLF has on occasion used tactics that qualify as terrorist — for example the kidnapping and/or killing of civilian Ethiopian government officials — it does not have any links of which I am aware with international terrorist organizations.

It receives external support from the government of Eritrea, which opposes the government of Ethiopia. It also receives financial assistance from Ogadenis in the Somali Diaspora. In 2007, 74 persons, including nine Chinese oil field personnel, were killed during an ONLF attack on a Chinese oil exploration work site in the Ogaden protected by Ethiopian troops.

The Chinese may have died in a crossfire between Ethiopian and ONLF forces. In the view of the U.S. government, ONLF activity so far does not meet the test of a terrorist organization. Should the ONLF escalate its tactics, however, this could change.

Worldfocus: The U.S. denied Ethiopia’s request to label the ONLF an international terrorist organization but also remained silent on claims that the Ogaden region is potentially the next Darfur. Ethiopia has shut down media access to the region, so accusations of human rights abuses are unconfirmed. Should the U.S. and other Western countries be speaking out?

Amb. Shinn: On those occasions when there are carefully documented human rights violations by the government of Ethiopia, the ONLF or any other organization, the U.S. and the rest of the world should speak out.

Virtually all of the information coming out of the Ogaden comes from either the Ethiopian government or the ONLF. Much of the information from both sides is unreliable. The problem, therefore, is making certain that accurate information exists before speaking out publicly. A good start would be a willingness by the Ethiopian government to allow independent, third party observers into the Ogaden to provide information about events there.

Worldfocus: Do the 4.5 million ethnic Somalis living in the region mostly support the ONLF? Do the majority of Ogadenis want to secede from Ethiopia?

Men chewing khat in Jigjiga, the capital of Ogaden. Photo: Flickr user CharlesFred

Amb. Shinn: It is impossible to know with any certainty what Somalis in southeastern Ethiopia really want. Because of the difficult security situation, there are no public opinion polls in the area. I think it is reasonable to conclude that the vast majority of Somalis feel marginalized in their own country and that most of them have legitimate grievances against government policies. But do most of them support the ONLF? There is no conclusive evidence.

Not all of the Somalis living in Ethiopia’s Region Five or Somali Region are ethnic Ogaden Somalis. There are significant numbers of non-Ogaden Darod, Isaaq and Dir. Ogadeni from the Darod clan constitute the most numerous group of Somalis and occupy the largest geographical part of the region.

While there may be widespread support for the ONLF by the majority Ogadeni, many Somalis from other clans are concerned about Ogadeni domination. It is even less clear whether the Ogadeni who support the ONLF agree on a political outcome for the region.

Worldfocus: Do Ogadenis have irredentist tendencies, and what is their relationship with Somalia?

Amb. Shinn: In March 2009, there was a leadership split in the organization. The leader of the main faction of the ONLF, Mohamed Omar Osman, is on the record as saying that he wants to hold a referendum so that the Somalis in the region can determine if they wish to remain part of Ethiopia, become an independent country or join with Somalia. It is my understanding that the leadership of both factions of the ONLF prefers an independent Ogaden.

Worldfocus: With national elections slotted for next May, what is at stake for the ONLF and their representation or lack thereof in the Ethiopian government?

Amb. Shinn: Ethiopian national elections in May 2010 will probably change nothing in the Ogaden. Because of the difficult security situation, it is doubtful that elections can even take place in much of Somali Region.

The ONLF, although it participated in the government as a political organization from 1991 to 1994, has shown no interest in rejoining the political process. Even if it believed that the Ethiopian government would allow it to compete freely and fairly as a political party, which it does not believe to be the case, it does not appear that the ONLF is prepared to lay down its arms.

The head of the original ONLF faction, Mohamed Omar Osman, did state in October 2009 that he is prepared to engage in negotiations with the Ethiopian government, but only in the presence of a neutral third party and in a neutral location.

- Lisa Biagiotti

Somali Pirates

Connie Kargbo is an associate producer at Worldfocus and a native of Sierra Leone. She writes here of the story behind Somali piracy.

There is news today that Somali pirates have hijacked a Chinese fishing vessel in the waters off the Seychelles in the Indian Ocean — a move that seems to be expanding their reach to the east.

Last week, Somali pirates who had hijacked a Spanish fishing vessel with 36 crew members on board in early October demanded a ransom of $4 million in exchange for the release of the hostages.

The ransom demand is average — pirates these days usually request between $2 and $6 million for the release of ships and hostages. The difference is that the pirates are calling the $4 million a payment for illegally fishing off the coast of Somalia.  It may come as a surprise to some but this little-known dispute about Somalia’s fishing industry is at the root of the ongoing pirate situation today.

When Somalia’s central government was overthrown in 1991 the country quickly deteriorated into what many are now calling a failed state.  With the lack of central leadership and ongoing clan warfare, law enforcement took a backseat to the violence.

This lawlessness spread to the coast of Somalia with the arrival of  illegal foreign fishing vessels.  Many of these vessels did not have the proper rights to fish in these waters, but the lack of regulation made it easy for them to fish to their hearts content. Some of these ships were owned by countries now patrolling the coast of Somalia, the country’s police chief said Wednesday.

This illegal industry in turn began to hurt local Somali fishermen who were dependent on the fish they caught. Competition from foreign fishermen depleted fish resources and also brought toxic waste to Somali waters.

Fearing for their livelihoods, local fisherman began patrolling off the coast of Somalia and fining ships that were found to be illegally fishing in the area. Just as some illegal foreign fishing vessels found an untapped and lucrative zone to make money, in time the Somalis who patrolled the coast exploited their newly found money-making opportunity.

What began as a way for Somalis to protect their livelihood eventually became the livelihood.  Reprimands and small fines for ships found illegally fishing became hijackings and million dollar ransoms on any ship that was caught, regardless of whether or not the ships actions were illegal.  And so pirates were born off the coast of Somalia.

Nowadays most Somali pirates are not former fisherman but stealth businessmen looking to make a buck. And while illegal fishing vessels have largely been replaced by foreign navies patrolling the coast on the lookout for pirates, within Somalia the problems of rampant violence and insecurity still persist.  Until there is an overhaul of the country’s fundamental problems, crime along the coast of Somalia will largely be a reflection of the country’s internal conflict.

- Connie Kargbo

These men, women and children are scattered across six continents and excluded from virtually all the benefits of nationality. From Rohingyas in Myanmar to Nubians in Kenya and Bidoon in Kuwait, stateless people live without the protection or recognition of a government.

The UNHCR and countless United Nations proclamations have tried to address this lingering problem.

Worldfocus’ project “Stateless to Statehood” examines the root causes of statelessness in the post-colonial period.

Click on the highlighted countries for more information, much of which was provided by Forced Migration Review and Refugees International.

South Yemenis in favor of secession from the North protested around the world this week on the anniversary of an uprising against former colonial power Britain.  In New York, a few hundred vocal Americans of South Yemeni descent demonstrated outside the United Nations building.

South Yemen was an independent nation after the British left in 1967. North and South Yemen unified in 1990 and a new country- the new Republic of Yemen  - was born with Ali Abdullah Saleh as its leader and San’a as its capital.  But the union has been uneasy and southerners have complained of being marginalized.

“We are a nation living under occupation,” said Hamza Saleh Meqbel, Vice President of TAJ (Southern Democratic Assembly), a South Yemeni political organization based in the United States.
Mr. Meqbel says the central government in the capital Sanaa has reneged on all commitments it promised and signed with the south upon unification.

“The unification treaty is invalid because the regime in Sanaa has lost its credibility. It was supposed to be a partnership, but the north has turned to occupiers and we no longer want a part of this unity.”

Ahmad al Muthana, the President of TAJ, claims that his group represents the majority of people in the south. “We are constantly in communication with our brothers in the south, we fully support them in their struggle,” he says.

So far the separatist South Yemenis have resorted to peaceful means in their quest for independence, including marches and protests. But al Muthana says, “if the regime keeps oppressing and killing our people, we will turn to arms.  We have no choice.”
That sentiment was echoed by many of the protesters. On Friday, Yemen’s interior ministry banned demonstrations in the south.

The problem in the south is not the only challenge for the Yemeni government.  Its forces have also been engaged in a military confrontation with Shiite rebels in the north.  The Yemeni government accuses the rebels of being loyal to Iran.

An unstable Yemen may spell disaster for the rest of the world.

Al Qaeda has claimed responsibility on several attacks in Yemen against tourists and U.S. interests, most notoriously the attack on the USS Cole in 2000 in the Red Sea port of Aden.

Yemen’s intelligence and military apparatus are busy with rebels in the north, as well as the separatists in the South, which makes it easier for Al Qaeda members to operate inside the country.

- Mohammad al-Kassim

There are estimates of 16 million total refugees and asylum seekers living throughout the world. Refugees fall under the responsibility of different global agencies. There are 10.5 million refugees under the auspices of UNHCR, while UNRWA has responsibility for the estimated 4.7 million Palestinian refugees.

Image courtesy of UNHCR.

Four-fifths of all refugees come from the developed world and almost half of all refugees under UNHCR’s responsibility are from Afghanistan and Iraq. According to UNHCR, one out of every four refugees in the world is from Afghanistan.

It is estimated that half of the world’s refugees are living in urban areas, while one-third live in refugee camps, according to the UNHCR. Africa and Asia contribute the most the numbers of refugees, as shown in the graphic above.

See UNHCR’s full 2009 Global Trends report for more information.

Pakistan is host to the largest number of refugees worldwide (1.8 million), followed by the Syria (1.1 million) and Iran (980,000).

There were 16 countries that reported allowing the resettlement of some 88,000 refugees in 2008, according to government reports. The United States accepted the highest number of refugees (60,200). In addition, 604,000 refugees voluntarily returned to their home countries in 2008.

Image courtesy of UNHCR.

According to UNHCR there were 827,000 asylum seekers in 2008.

Image courtesy of UNHCR.

Throughout the world, there are an estimated 26 million internally displaced persons. IDPs generally flee their homes for the same reasons as refugees (armed conflict, human rights violations and war), but they remain within their native country and are technically protected by the law of that country.

For an excellent, detailed explanation of global human displacement, look at the Guardian’s map.

Khan explains how 40 million people are uprooted from their homes in Africa, Asia and South America and the root causes of their dispossession.

Two weeks ago, the French government shut down a Calais camp that housed thousands of illegal migrants hoping to deter human smuggling. Al Jazeera English’s Hamish MacDonald reports that many of the migrants remain in Calais with their lives in a state of limbo.

A mostly Bidoon slum outside Kuwait City.

Bidoon literally means “without” in Arabic and refers to a group of Bedouin, formerly nomadic Arabs, who are perceived as socially and culturally inferior to the dominant “merchant” tribes of the Gulf States. Around 100,000 Bidoons reside in Kuwait, and many also live in the United Arab Emirates and Saudi Arabia.

As competition for unskilled jobs has increased over the past few decades, the Kuwaiti government began a campaign to strip Bidoons of their rights. Many worked on oil rigs but have since lost many of their jobs to South Asian migrant workers.

Most are legally unable to attain jobs, own property or register a car.

As opposed to some other countries such as Bangladesh (where statelessness is also a problem), in Kuwait there are very limited legal means to change nationality and registration. The state simply does not entertain complaints about legal status.

Ashraf (whose real name we don’t use) is a Kuwaiti Bidoon who was born in Kuwait, just like his father and grandfather. Yet, he has neither marriage contract, access to formal employment, nor birth certificate for his child.

He resides in a slum in al-Jahra, 35 kilometers outside of Kuwait City. Historically, there was a wall around the main urban area of Kuwait City to keep out lower status social groups.

Ashraf talks with Worldfocus about how he traveled to the U.K. to seek better employment opportunities but was subsequently deported.

Worldfocus: How does statelessness affect you?

Ashraf: I don’t have any rights in Kuwait. First, I don’t have a job. If I want to look for a new job, employers say, “No, you can’t work because your ID card is just for six months.” I must go renew it every six months.

I don’t have a marriage certificate. My son hasn’t a birth certificate, ID card or any other proof of his existence. Also, medicine for Bidoons is not free. How can I get money for it when we are not allowed jobs?

Worldfocus: How has your situation gotten worse over the past decade — in terms of employment and housing?

Ashraf: I am now almost 28-years-old, and I feel miserable. I worked in co-operative society, and they did not give me my salary for three months. After one year, they fired me from the job and did not give me my final paycheck.

My salary was 150 Kuwaiti dinars ($524), and my flat rent is 100 dinars ($349). This means just 50 dinars ($175) for my wife, son and myself for many months.

I can’t make any legal case because the employer has Kuwaiti nationality, and I am stateless.

Worldfocus: Do you fault the Kuwaiti government agencies for your statelessness problem?

Ashraf: The government agencies are the first reason for the problem of stateless people. And the second reason is some of the members of the Kuwaiti parliament. Third, some Muslim clergy are at fault.

At the Executive Committee of the Illegal Residents, they wanted to put me down for Iraqi nationality on my marriage certificate. I took it up with the research and investigation office. Then I asked why they had put down Iraqi nationality. And I requested that they give me proof — because I wanted to go to the Iraqi embassy to get an Iraqi passport.

The clerk there said that it was up to me if I wanted to take it. Then I said to him that I wanted Israeli nationality because they’re better than Kuwait, and they grant all rights to Israeli people. He then told me to get out of there.

Worldfocus: What are you currently doing to resolve your statelessness situation? Have you sought the help of NGOs, media, or friends?

Ashraf: It is very hard to resolve this problem from Kuwait. Maybe it’s easier from America, the U.K., France or another foreign country to solve the stateless problem. I was in the U.K. to claim asylum, but they refused me because they said, “You have all your rights in Kuwait.” I asked them, “If I have all my rights, then why did I come to the U.K.?”

As for the Kuwaiti media, they’re just lies for us. And Kuwaiti NGOs - I’ve never tried working with them.

I want people to stand with us opposite the Kuwaiti Embassy in the U.K. to stop the injustice. Let’s solve this problem which has lasted for more than forty years.

Chinese soldiers guard the Xinjiang Grand Bazaar in July.

From 2007 to 2008, Kinsey Wright taught English in Urumqi, the capital of China’s Xinjiang region. She writes about her experience watching coverage of early July’s Uighur civil unrest while in north India with exiled Tibetans.

“Ssshhh,” he whispered. “We mustn’t speak of those things here! Someone might understand English!”

‘Here’ was Urumqi, the provincial capital of China’s far northwestern Uighur Autonomous Area.

For me, an American, there was little risk in discussing Uighur nationalism, financial domination by Han Chinese or China’s harsh treatment of Islam. But if the wrong person overheard us, it could cost my Uighur friends everything. Some things in Urumqi are just not spoken about in public.

One of many areas that refute the Western misconception of a homogeneous China, the Uighur Autonomous Area (Xinjiang in Chinese) is populated with myriad cultures, religions, and a ‘dissident’ movement.

One of my most passionate issues is human rights in China, specifically violations related to the Uighur minority. I religiously follow everything that happens with the Uighurs, since I was intimately connected to them when I lived in Urumqi for nearly a year.

I cannot count the number of times I was silenced in public areas or confided in with secrets that people from both sides just needed to get off their chest. Once, a Han Chinese high school student who wanted to do Uighur studies at Xinjiang University told me how he was fearful about what his parents would say. Another time, half-Uighur, half-Han sisters recounted how they were unable to tell anyone in their group of friends about their mixed heritage for fear of being ostracized.

But I am also not so near-sighted as to believe that Uighurs are the only people having a hard time. There are the Tibetans, as well as the Mongolians, Hui and other groups who voice disagreeable opinions.

Tibetan exiles in McLeod Ganj, India

Early this summer I traveled in McLeod Ganj, India, home to the Dalai Lama. I was lucky enough to be present for the Tibetan spiritual leader’s birthday celebrations. When the Urumqi riots broke out in early July, I was en route to watching a documentary on the Dalai Lama’s life. I was extremely disturbed when I realized that much of the Urumqi unrest happened very close to where I had lived. Some of the rioting was right outside the building where I taught English.

Before the showing of the film, my sister and I were loudly discussing the riots. While I noticed that people were interested in our conversation, nobody interjected. They couldn’t focus on anything other than their own Tibetan cause. After suffering through the film for 25 minutes, I finally burst into tears. I needed to email friends still in Urumqi to see if they were alive.

On one level, I considered myself fortunate to be surrounded by another group of oppressed people from China. I assumed that the Tibetans would be outraged and ready to speak out about the Uighur situation — on account of having their own similar experiences. But the Tibetans didn’t show much sympathy for the Uighurs who were beaten and killed by the Chinese authorities. In fact, none of the Tibetans or the foreigners in McLeod Ganj had much to say about anything other than the Tibetan cause.

I approached a group of three Tibetan monks in a restaurant where my sister was having lunch. I first spoke to them in English, and when they didn’t understand, I switched to Chinese.

The monks had no idea what was happening in Urumqi. They weren’t even sure where Urumqi was. When I gave them a brief overview, the monks replied, “Oh yes, we know about their struggle, but that is different. They are Muslim. It is a religious issue.”

When I inquired further and compared the two groups situations, the monks politely replied, “The issues are different. Working together would do no good. We are happy living here in India.”

I left the restaurant and walked into one of many Tibetan shops. The shopkeeper spoke English, and when I asked him about the riots, he said he had gone and prayed for the people of Urumqi that morning. This comment sparked a feeling of hope.

When I asked whether he had been discussing the issues with his fellow Tibetans, he replied, “No, it doesn’t really affect us here. It is a different issue with the Uighurs. I always go and pray when I hear about riots erupting that end in death. I did the same for Iran.”

The majority of Tibetans I spoke with simply did not know about the Uighur unrest. Even those who knew didn’t seem to think that it affected them. They certainly didn’t see the situation as an opportunity for the two groups to work together. In one Tibetan’s words, “The issues are different. It doesn’t do either of us any good to work together. It is more complicated than that.”

After returning to the United States and reconnecting with some Uighur friends here, they showed me some photos from protests held in the States. And in the background of several of the photos, across the street from the main action, was a small group of Tibetans vigorously waving Tibetan flags.

- Kinsey Wright

Photos courtesy of Flickr users Remko Tanis and Kristianfisk under a Creative Commons license.

Karen children in Thailand.

Myanmar has been in the headlines of late, with pro-democracy leader Daw Aung San Suu Kyi’s conviction and sentencing to 18 months of house confinement.

But as a Worldfocus contributing blogger writes, a humanitarian disaster that has been brewing inside Myanmar for years has received relatively scant attention.

In the wake of Myanmar army attacks on ethnic Karen rebels, roughly 100,000 mostly Karen refugees have fled to Thailand and some half a million others are displaced within Myanmar.

Caroline Stauffer is in Bangkok and writes at World Policy about the plight of Karen refugees.

In a field cut off from the rest of Thailand by a muddy mountain pass, 1,000 people have been living under thin tarps for the past six weeks, having fled landmines and shelling in their native Myanmar.  The tarps and wood platforms do not protect them from monsoon rains or the mosquitoes that spread malaria around their makeshift villages.

Factions of the Karen people have fought for greater autonomy from the country formerly known as Burma for 60 years, but the Karen villagers I spoke with just seem to be caught in the crossfire.

In the last few months, the world has turned its focus to the secretive, military-ruled state.

U.S. Secretary of State Hillary Clinton voiced concern over Myanmar-North Korea military links at the July Asean Regional Forum.  The state show trial of pro-democracy leader Aung Sun Suu Kyi attracted international media coverage, brought UN Secretary General Ban Ki Moon to Burma and garnered a new release of the U2 song dedicated to the world’s best known prisoner of conscience. In an apparent gesture to this global clamor, the Nobel Prize-winning leader of the Burmese opposition was given what for the junta was a slap on the wrist — another 18 months of detention where she has already spent half of her adult life under house arrest.

Still, though the world has mobilized for the cause of Aung Sun Suu Kyi, the decades old humanitarian disaster occurring in rural Burma remains under the international radar, and the situation is deteriorating.

The Karen villagers I spoke with on the Thai-Burma border said they face forced recruitment by the regime’s army and its ally, the Democratic Karen Buddhist Army.  Villagers are made to serve as porters or told to walk in front of army patrols, literally serving as human shields. Their stories confirm accounts from exiled media and aid groups that the regime is forcibly recruiting civilians to build up a border guard force.

The Karen are not the only people in multi-ethnic Burma suffering abuse. Ten established camps in Thailand house Karenni, Shan, Mon, Kachin and Rohingya people.

The junta has said all ethnic resistance groups must put down their arms and become political parties before elections can occur. Some groups have tentatively aligned with the regime and are now called cease fire groups. Others fear that without arms they will lose any negotiating power they have left and will not be able to protect their people from the regime’s army.

The regime has been militarizing the Thai-Burma border for years. China and Thailand have signed on to invest in dams in Karen State, and demand that the area be secure before construction can begin. In the unruly, heavily mined jungles of Myanmar, enhanced militarization inevitably means more violence.

[...] One 50-year-old Karen woman I spoke with knew nothing about refugee camps or elections. She did say she was tired.  After traveling across the Thai-Myanmar border three times in her life, she just wanted somewhere to stay put.

More abuses will occur in the coming months as the rains stop, elections approach and the critical gaze of the international community focuses on the aftermath of the trial in Yangon — or yet again abandons the country entirely.

To read more, see the original post.

The views expressed by contributing bloggers do not reflect the views of Worldfocus or its partners.

Photo courtesy of Flickr user Yan Pritzker Photo | SF under a Creative Commons license.

Worldfocus: You’re from Gaza, but you weren’t born there?

Gaza City in 2007, the year that Hamas ascended to power.

Nizar al-Wazir: My family has lived in Gaza City for generations, but I was born in Dubai 27 years ago. My parents were unable to return to Gaza after leaving the coastal strip to study abroad in the late 1970s. After the UAE, we lived in Jordan for three years — until the Oslo Accords allowed us to return to Gaza in 1994.

I did high school in Gaza before attending Birzeit University from 1999 to 2003. But I couldn’t visit my parents 60 miles away in Gaza, due to the 2nd Intifada.

Worldfocus: Is your family involved in politics?

Nizar al-Wazir: My uncle, Khalil “Abu Jihad” al-Wazir, was a co-founder of Fatah. He was Yasser Arafat’s right hand man and the commander of Fatah’s al-Assifa military wing. He was exiled from Israel to Gaza in 1948, and then from Jordan to Lebanon to Tunisia. He was assassinated there by Israel in 1988 — at the beginning of the first Intifada.

My family has always been Fatah, but my parents stay out of politics. They still live in Gaza City, where my father is a consultant for the Fatah-controlled Ministry of Finance. My mother is a deputy assistant at the Ministry of Education.

Worldfocus: When do you think Palestine will achieve statehood?

Nizar al-Wazir: We were optimistic after Oslo, when I attended the Seeds of Peace Camp in the U.S. After the beginning of the second Intifada, F-16 bombardments were regular. Electric generators were knocked out, so we had power for five or six hours each day.

After Shalit was captured, we had sonic booms over Gaza five times per day — for over a month.

Anyway, I don’t see the Palestinian state coming any time soon. The West Bank is too divided into small cantons, and Gazans are too extreme.

Worldfocus: In 2008, the U.S. State Department cancelled seven Fulbright grants because the recipients could not get visas. After a diplomatic outcry, the grants were reinstated two days later. Could you explain the political issues at stake?

Nizar al-Wazir: With a Palestinian Authority passport, one can travel everywhere. But getting a visa is the difficult part. Israel has imposed strict movement restrictions since Hamas took over Gaza. I can’t even have friends from other countries visit me in Gaza.

The Department of State even sends different forms to Fulbrighters in Gaza and the West Bank. We are not viewed as being from the same Palestinian entity.

I was nominated for a Fulbright scholarship for the first time in 2005. But I couldn’t get a placement at an American university because I couldn’t travel to either Egypt or Jordan for the GMAT.

Of the seven Fulbrighters chosen from Gaza in 2007, only three made it to the U.S. — mostly via personal connections. But there was no media attention that year.

In 2008, seven Gazan Fulbrighters were very close to losing their scholarships, until the media alerted Condoleezza Rice and the international community.

Worldfocus: After your work in Washington D.C. is finished, will re-entry to Gaza be difficult ?

I plan on returning to Gaza at the end of this summer. Some of my friends think I should go back to the West Bank and not Gaza. But since I’m in the U.S. on a State Department grant, the U.S. Embassy in Jerusalem might organize a group re-entry for a group of us to re-enter Gaza.

Photo courtesy of Flickr user OneArmedMan under a Creative Commons license.

Language has become a symbol of independence in Greenland.

In recent months, Greenland has taken steps towards self-rule. The changes follow a referendum last November, in which 75 percent of the electorate voted to take more control of their own land.

Cultural identity is also highly important to Greenlanders, and Kalaallisut — or Greenlandic — is now the official language.

Jason George of the Pulitzer Center on Crisis Reporting writes that the language has become a symbol for national pride.

When Denmark gave up control of Greenland last month—ending 300+ years of colonial control—one of the first changes Greenland made was to declare Greenlandic the country’s lone national tongue.

For Greenlanders it was a point of pride to drop Danish off the list, but people here also wanted to symbolically declare that Greenlandic is central to the country’s future. They see nothing nostalgic or quaint about Kalaallisut, the most widely-spoken dialect, even if only about 55,000 people speak it.

At a popular internet café in the capital, local teenagers spend summer evenings playing computer games, chatting online in English with other gamers around the world. All Greenlandic students learn English in school and many are as comfortable with the language (and its locker room humor) as any American teen.

However amongst themselves these teens talk almost exclusively in Greenlandic, and there’s no evident pressure to ‘look cool’ by speaking English. In fact one 15-year-old gamer, Rasmus Nielsen, told us that when he moved here from Denmark 10 years ago the kids teased him about not being able to speak Greenlandic.

He learned quickly.

Of course learning a new language is easiest for kids. Professor Lenore Grenoble struggled to gain some grasp of Greenlandic before arriving here on Monday. Even with several tutoring sessions from her University of Chicago colleague Jerrold Sadock, Grenoble made little headway. “I’ve learned three phrases,” said Grenoble, who’s researching Greenland’s success at maintaining its language, despite strong outside pressures.

“It’s a very difficult language,” added Grenoble, who speaks several other languages herself, including one spoken only in the Siberian arctic.

Why’s Greenlandic so difficult?

Beyond its 10 cases, eight moods and four-person forms, Greenlandic is polysynthetic, meaning words are often made up of roots, affixes and suffixes. This quirk makes many words terribly long. In fact, some can be entire sentences, such as amaasiaarput (“They walk in a row”) and taamaaqatigiipput (“They are considered as equals.”)

Grenoble will travel today to Sisimiut, above the Arctic Circle, to begin the bulk of her work and meet with Carl Olsen, chairman of the Oqaasileriffik, the Greenland Language Secretariat. The Oqaasileriffik oversees how Greenlandic adopts new words, like qarasaasiaq for “computer” (literally “artificial brain”), and how it hopes to survive.

For the Secretariat and Greenlanders, maintaining their language is not just an issue of communication, but security and sovereignty.

To read more, see the original post.

The views expressed by contributing bloggers do not reflect the views of Worldfocus or its partners.

Photo courtesy of Flickr user stml under a Creative Commons license.

“Jack.” Photo: Karen Zusman

Last week, authorities in Malaysia announced that they arrested five immigration officers for rounding up illegal immigrants from Myanmar and selling them to human traffickers.

Karen Zusman, an independent journalist, recently returned from Malaysia, where she reported on the plight of Burmese refugees.

In Malaysia refuses to recognize Burmese as refugees, she recounted the story of “Jack” — a Burmese refugee in Malaysia whose girlfriend, brother and friend had been rounded up by immigration officials and put in detention camps.

In this audio interview, she catches up with Jack about recent developments in Malaysia. His girlfriend has been deported to Myanmar to marry a soldier, his brother remains in a detention camp and his friend “John” has been released, but faces an uncertain future.

Jack yearns for a brighter future, but has himself lost his job. Though he has a UNHCR refugee card, he still fears the police and has nowhere to turn. Above, listen to Karen Zusman’s interview, edited by Katie Combs.

For more:
- Watch Burmese refugees rounded up and sold in Malaysia
- Listen to Malaysia refuses to recognize Burmese as refugees
- Read Karen Zusman’s blog post, A Burmese family’s story of multiple arrests, weekly bribes
- Find more information on the Please Don’t Say My Name website

Greenlanders at a political rally in Copenhagen. Photo: Ben Piven

Multimedia reporter Ben Piven traveled to Denmark in 2005, where he photographed Greenlanders in the capital. That year, when record-high winter temperatures in Greenland exceeded 60 degrees Fahrenheit, Greenlandic political groups continued to lobby for their own state.

I read two weeks ago how midsummer’s day was the occasion for big celebrations in Greenland’s capital of Nuuk, a small town snuggled between fjords on the southwestern coast. Clad in sealskin boots and waving red and white Greenlandic flags, a procession of indigenous Inuit people reveled in their newfound autonomy. Greenland had just become an “equal partner” with Denmark, the former colonial power. And the Danish Prime Minister Rasmussen even proclaimed that Greenland could declare full independence whenever it wanted!

Greenland is a massive expanse towards the north pole that should have been called Iceland or Whiteland, since 81 percent of the world’s 840,000 sq.-mile island is covered with a giant, uninhabitable ice sheet. But Greenlanders will be sticking with the Inuit name, Kalaallit Nunaat, now that the landmass of fewer than 60,000 people is moving farther away from Denmark.

Irrespective of the political situation, glaciologists and environmentalists are very worried about Greenland’s main glacier, Sermersuaq. Containing about 10 percent of the world’s fresh water, it is melting at an alarming rate — having receded ten miles over the last decade. But scientists disagree on both the pace and the consequences of the melting, even as Manhattan-sized chunks break off from the island.

The population mostly lives along the south-eastern coast. Map: Creative Commons

Yet, some Greenlanders stand to benefit from climate change. In a BBC article from July 25, Prime Minister Kuupik Kleist was quoted as saying, “We understand that this is a global issue…but we see opportunities as well as challenges. I want a Greenland that is open to those opportunities.”

In the future, thawing glacial streams may provide ample amounts of hydropower. Yet, rising ocean levels and melting permafrost are flooding areas of settlement. At the same time, thawing glaciers have not been detrimental for many farmers.

More vegetables could supplement the traditionally fatty Greenlandic diet, which is rich in musk ox, reindeer, and scallops. At the same time, traditional dog-sledding is more difficult for hunters as the ice sheet disappears, and shrimpers lose out when the shrimp stocks move farther north in search of colder waters. The largest sector of the economy is the fishing industry — shrimp, seals and whales. These days, scientists are hoping to extract biogas from the Greenland shark, whose meat is actually toxic to humans.

Others are happy about the prospects of global warming facilitating a Greenlandic gold rush. The state-owned oil and mining firms, NUNAOIL and Nunaminerals, are hoping to cash in on potentially enormous underground deposits, which are now more accessible due to rising temperatures. So global warming is a mixed bag, promising greater economic independence as well as environmental hazards.

While politically a part of Europe since the 18th century, the increasingly autonomous Greenland is also reasserting its indigenous Greenlandic (Kalaallisut) language and culture. Similar Eskimo/Inuit communities of northern Canada and Alaska are also increasingly seeking more rights.

The flag of Greenland.

Just last month, Greenlanders elected Kuupik Kleist as prime minister. The head of the leftist Inuit Ataqatigiit (Community of the People) party wants full autonomy from Denmark. In the meantime, the Danish queen, Margrethe II, enjoys largely ceremonial authority over the island.

Since 1979, Greenland has enjoyed home rule. In 2008, Denmark transferred more responsibilities to the local government but maintained control over foreign policy, security, and finance. Recently, however, Danish media have lamented the possibility of being dragged into an Arctic arms race, as Canada, the U.S. and Russia also vie for resources.

Aside from global warming, the biggest problem for Greenland is how to wean itself off Danish support. Total annual grants are $633 million ($11,300 per Greenlander), which amounts to about half of Greenland’s GDP per capita. Greenland’s young government is hoping that nascent industries such as mining, energy and tourism will make up for the difference.

Socially, Greenland is plagued by high rates of domestic abuse, alcoholism, and suicide — especially for the 88 percent of the population who are Inuits or mixed Danish-Inuit. A small number of Greenlanders live in Denmark proper, and many of them are also plagued by alcoholism and dependence on the generous Danish welfare state.

In sum, ice-fishing and dog-sled races could start attracting more visitors in a tourist season conveniently extended by global warming. Bright red Air Greenland jets could be flying soon to an airport near you.

- Ben Piven

The Zakariyya mosque. Photo: Jen Marlowe

Jen Marlowe is a filmmaker, writer and human rights activist currently traveling throughout Israel and Palestine.

She describes exploring the destroyed village of Zakariyya with Sami Al Jundi, a Palestinian acquaintance whose mother fled the village during the 1948 war. A Jewish community now resides in the town, whose name was changed to Zekharya.

The mosque was surrounded with a chain link fence, with barbed wire on top and signs in Hebrew attached: “Zekharya Village. Dangerous building. Entrance is forbidden!”

Despite the signs, the fence did not completely encircle the mosque and Sami, our friend Marcy and I entered the grounds easily. We picked our way through the rubble, pushing aside the undergrowth blocking the door. The structure was crumbling; it had not been maintained for over sixty years. Sami stood in silence looking at the mosque, taking in the eroding interior along with the piles of trash and scrap metal on the floor. The mosque is among the few remains of the Palestinian village Zakariyya — Sami’s mother’s village.

Sami examines the remains of the mosque. Photo: Jen Marlowe

I’m writing a book with Sami, to be published by Nation Books next year. The book details his life experiences, shedding light both on the Palestinian narrative — sorely missing from the U.S. media — and Sami’s own unique outlook on life.

Sami and I interviewed his mother two years ago about her memories of Zakariyya, including her flight as a small girl in 1948, during what Israelis consider their war of independence and Palestinians consider the “Nakba” (the Catastrophe), marking the beginning of the dispossession that has been central to the Palestinian experience since then. Zakariyya is one of approximately 400 villages (numbers vary according to the source) that were destroyed in 1948. Like many of the others, there is now an Israeli town built on and around Zakariyya’s ruins. Its new name is a Hebrewized version of the original; Zakariyya became Zekharya.

Sami’s mother passed away four months after we interviewed her, before we could ask her follow-up questions. So we decided to venture to Zakariyya ourselves. Sami began getting nervous as we lingered in and around the mosque. “We may not be welcome here,” he said repeatedly. “Someone might shoot us.” There was no real danger of being shot. Sami was tapping into a deeper fear, connected to the violence his mother witnessed in 1948.

The Arabic name of the village is scratched out. Photo: Jen Marlowe.

The Zakariyya school is still standing near the village’s entrance. It was converted into a small convenience store. As we approached it on our way out, I asked Marcy to pull over so I could photograph it. I investigated the entrance’s road sign. The name of the village is written in Hebrew, English and Arabic. Or it was until recently; the Arabic was almost entirely scratched out.

“It wasn’t like that when I was here last time,” Marcy said.

Marcy was in Zakariyya a week ago. This vandalism was fresh.

Less than an hour later, we were sitting in Deheisheh Refugee Camp, talking with Sami’s uncle Mustafa, two years younger than Sami’s mother. We asked Mustafa to fill in the missing gaps of his sister’s story, and he was more than happy to oblige. Sami and I learned the details of how his grandfather died fighting the British in 1939 and the attacks that pushed out the residents of Zakariyya.

Zakariyya holds a prominent place in Mustafa’s house in Deheisheh and in his heart. A 1921 photograph of the old school (now convenience store) with students sitting cross legged outside is framed on a shelf. A map of Zakariyya is on the wall, with the former houses indicated and a code to decipher which areas were inhabited by which families.

An image of the old school.

Mustafa spoke not only about his memories of losing Zakariyya. He spoke about a more recent pain as well. His older sister, Sami’s mother, had been struck two times with brain tumors. The first was in 1977 when Sami was fifteen years old. She received a life-saving surgery. Mustafa came to the hospital in Jerusalem every day. He fed her daily, tenderly. She would eat only from his hands. The second tumor took root in her brain in 2007. But this time, Mustafa could not feed his sister as she lay on her death bed in Jerusalem. The Israeli military would not issue him a permit to visit her.

Mustafa and Sami sat in silence as I digested this information. The evening call to prayer sounded from a nearby mosque in the camp. It was time to wrap up the interview. I had one final question. “Did you realize in 1948 that you were leaving Zakariyya for good?”

Jen Marlowe and Sami outside of the mosque. Photo: Marcy Newman

Uncle Mustafa’s eyes glistened slightly, both from the memory of his beloved home and the fresh loss of his sister.

“Until now I don’t accept that I left for good. As long as I am alive, I have hope that I will someday return.”

Those who were forced to leave their homes will always be filled with longing to return to them. Acknowledgment and empathy are natural responses. But Mustafa’s yearning seems to be met with something other than empathy by the current residents of Zakariyya. With fear, perhaps? Dismissal? Contempt? Whatever it is, it permits the ancient mosque of the historic village to dilapidate to the point of ruin. It permits the Arabic word “Zakariyya” to be scratched out on the entrance’s sign. As if by scratching out the name, somehow the existence of Zakariyya and its people will themselves be erased.

Mustafa’s very presence, however, is a form of resistance to this deletion. Sami’s uncle sits surrounded by memories and remembrances of his home, waiting in quiet dignity for his longing and his claim to be acknowledged rather than erased.

- Jen Marlowe

The views expressed by contributing bloggers do not reflect the views of Worldfocus or its partners.

Conflict in Turkey’s Kurdish southeast has claimed 40,000 lives.

Selma Şevkli is a freelance reporter currently based in Bodrum, Turkey. She describes how the country has struggled to define its “Türküm,” which translates as Turkishness.

In 2005, Turkish lawmakers made it a crime to insult Turkey or Turkishness. Until last year, criticizing Turkishness was even punishable with up to three years in prison. Even as Turkey moves forward in the process of acceding to the European Union, it has moved further into its nationalistic bubble.

Article 301 of the Turkish Penal Code — criminalizing insults against “Turkish identity” – was used famously to incriminate writer Orhan Pamuk for accusing the Turkish government of complicity in murdering 30,000 Kurds and one million Armenians. The law has since been used to indict publishers, journalists and novelists. Our freedom of speech is hampred by our undying nationalistic political culture.

Turkish flags at a 2006 demonstration in Istanbul.

What is Turkishness? Is it a sort of nationality? A form of ethnicity? Or the name of one specific citizenship? As almost one-third of Turkey’s population consists of Kurds who are legally referred to as Turkish, the question has become increasingly significant.

As I was researching secular Turkish nationalism for my graduate thesis, my first question to the people I interviewed was “What is Turkishness?” The answers varied widely, but for many people, it was a race or ethnicity. My second question asked whether Turkishness should include other ethnic groups in Turkey — Kurds, Armenians, Greeks and many other smaller groups. After all, who qualifies as a Turk?

Turkish nationalism has been integral to the official discourse in Turkey since the beginning of the Turkish Republic in 1923. But for most of Turkey’s history, we have largely pretended that all our citizens are ethnically Turkish. The various ethnic and religious minorities have generally been ignored, forced to emigrate or assimilate. The issue of Turkish nationalism only became visible when the Turkish state was compelled to assess its ignorance and change its policies toward minorities — in soliciting an invitation to join the EU.

For many years, there was a total ban on Kurdish language and culture, as well as political pressure and economic restrictions in the Kurdish-populated region of the country. But things are changing now. Turkish state TV established a channel that broadcasts in Kurdish, which is a major departure from the language ban. Significant violence is ongoing, though less intense than ten years ago. It seems that policies dealing with cultural rights are making a difference.

Kurds are finally moving one step forward in Turkey, even though it is largely symbolic. Other minorities are not mentioned as much as the Kurds in the media, since their numbers are not as significant and they do not assert their rights as aggressively.

The Turkish state is suffering from its enduring ignorance towards other ethnic groups and an inability to adapt itself to the contemporary world. Although political reforms and new cultural policies seem to indicate a gradual shift, there needs to be a sea change in order to implement reforms more effectively and sincerely. For one thing, minorities should be mentioned in history class as essential parts of Turkey — instead of cited as national enemies. Patient and devoted, Turkey’s minorities have chosen to be a part of this country, and so it is time to recognize their rightful place in our society.

- Selma Şevkli

The views expressed by contributing bloggers do not reflect the views of Worldfocus or its partners.

Nairobi’s largest slum, Kibera, is largely populated by Nubians. Photo: Flickr user MothersFightingForOthers

Nubians in Kenya are one of the groups that Worldfocus is exploring on our extended coverage project Stateless to Statehood.

Adam Hussein Adam, project coordinator of the Open Society Initiative for East Africa, writes how his community’s plight is largely unknown outside of Kenya.

Kenyan Nubians have been defined as stateless people because their identity is questioned. They are without doubt one of the country’s most invisible and under-represented communities – economically, socially, politically and culturally. This is because they have been silent victims of discrimination, exclusion and violations of human rights and fundamental freedoms for as long as they have been in Kenya…

My great-grandfather worked in the service of the British in Somalia around the First World War and later resettled in Meru, a small town on the slopes of Mt. Kenya. His father before him worked for the Turko-Egyptian army in the Sudan. I, like my parents, was born in western Kenya.

Although I am well-educated, I have experienced serious difficulties in interacting with government officials. Between 1992 and 2000, I applied unsuccessfully for a passport five times, losing jobs in the process. One manager once asked me why I did not have a recognisable ethnic identity and that this was why I could not be promoted. Apart from studying to university level, which is an exception rather than the rule, mine may as well be the story of most Nubians. It is a story characterized by the need to survive through challenges that are never explained to you. It is a story characterised by limited interactions with state officials who always remind you it is your privilege to be served by them. It is a story characterised by assuming false identities in order to belong…

Before I encountered these challenges in my own life and found out that many of my Nubian colleagues gave up hope of productive careers because of delayed or denied identity cards, I had accused most of them of being lazy. Today I understand that Kenyan Nubians, whether citizens or not, do not belong.

The Kenyan government uses both ethnicity and territory to establish belonging. Since both Nubian ethnicity and their territory of occupancy are contested by the government, most Nubians live as de facto stateless persons without adequate protection under national and international law, irrespective of the fact that they should be considered Kenyan citizens under the Constitution. In Kenya nothing defines your citizenship more than your ethnicity. Nubians face institutionalised discrimination in issuance of documents. They are subjected to a vetting process of ethnic determination in order to acquire an identity card or passports.

Kenya today does not have official figures of Nubians and does not include them in census reports. There is no official recognition of the community; the Kenyan government had classified the community as ‘other Kenyans’ or just ‘others’ and has only recently started a process of recording Nubians as a named clan of other Kenyans.

Above all, Nubians live in temporary structures throughout Kenya and often on contested lands. Most Nubians’ settlements do not have title deeds and are only occupied on a Temporary Occupational Licence (TOL), leaving the present generation of Nubians as mere squatters.

Stateless individuals and communities like the Nubians are assumed to be hopeless and helpless victims, dependent upon the goodwill of others. Under the assumption that citizenship is the only vehicle for having a civic and political voice and that therefore stateless people lack any political identity, stateless people become less than fully human and are reduced to mere targets of humanitarian assistance. All energies are thus focused on how to acquire citizenship for stateless people as fast and as easily as possible.

What are the Nubians’ issues?

Obstacles to citizenship are also faced by other minority groups in Kenya such as Kenyan Somalis and Coastal Arabs although the Nubians have experienced some progress. The real progress in Nubian experience is in their adaptation and mastery of living in Kenya without belonging…

In 2003 the then Chairperson of the Kenyan Nubians’ Council, the late Yunis Ali, encouraged a procession of Nubians marching to Kenya’s High Court thus:

“My people! For a century, we have sought a compassionate hearing from all authorities in Kenya but we got none. Today, we march to the Kenyan High Court for justice – if not to get it, then as testimony that we stood up for our rights.”

In the end, the challenge of standing up to statelessness – or any human rights abuse – is that as a victim you see it through the emotional lenses of feelings and experience; others will then judge you as subjective. When you stand apart and subject the issue to objective criteria, legal definitions limit one’s expression; most of the legal terms are not expressive enough for local realities. For Kenyan Nubians the lack of a link to the state, lack of integration and lack of social acceptance have been part of our existence. We are neither Sudanese nor accepted as Kenyans.

As a statelessness advocate, I believe that legal links are important for anyone belonging in contemporary society; however, without addressing the social acceptability of any community of a people, groups like the Nubians will continue to live from one crisis to another.

The original article was published in Forced Migration Review, 2009. No. 32.

Last week, I read about Kurds laying claim to Iraq’s land and oil. Kurds in northern Iraq have taken steps toward further regional autonomy by finalizing their own constitution in the Kurdish parliament. The Iraqi government is not pleased about ever-bolder Kurdish claims to oil and gas revenues. Many American and Iraqi officials fear that Kurdistan is increasingly close to statehood, which could doom the Iraq’s federal arrangement.

Reading up on these recent developments reminded me of a my most memorable encounter with Kurdistan, which happened on September 5, 2007. Two days after I flew Iraqi president Jalal Talabani to a meeting with then-President George W. Bush, the Kurds reached an oil revenue-sharing deal with the Iraqi government. I know I’m not directly responsible for writing a page in history, but if you read the fine print, it’ll mention the pilot.

I was 20,000 feet above the Iraqi desert, flying an Air Force C-130 cargo plane en route to As Sulaymaniyah, a Kurdish governorate in northeastern Iraq near the border with Iran. No one in the crew had ever been there, so we opened up our airfield directory to check the airfield’s pertinent data.

Jehangir Irani with Pres. Jalal Talabani en route to meeting Pres. Bush. Photo: Jehangir Irani

The book lists airfields alphabetically, but finding As Sulaymaniyah wasn’t easy. It wasn’t under “s.” Nor was it under “Al,” “An” or “Ad.” Finally, after spelling it phonetically, “Alpha Sierra Sierra…,” did our navigator confirm it existed. But “Suly” didn’t just exist, it thrived. I saw none of the usual sights of war-torn Iraq. And I noticed a mix of Kurdish and Iraqi flags flying in this desert outpost just 160 miles north of Baghdad.

Where rising black smoke signals your arrival into Baghdad, Suly greets you with her rolling hills and valleys. Where dust and dirt line the floors of most Iraqi military facilities, Suly’s passenger terminal was so clean; let’s just say I wouldn’t be afraid to pick up where I left off after dropping my chow hall turkey sandwich.

Pres. George Bush’s meeting with Iraqi officials, Sept. 3, 2007. Photo: White House/Eric Draper

Then there’s the small matter of why I was there. My crew and I weren’t even scheduled to fly to Suly. But after landing in Baghdad, a high-priority task necessitated unloading our plane and flying to Suly with a short, bald Major as our only passenger - an unknown man who I labeled “the One.” After touching down in Suly, my plane was surrounded by a civilian team of former South African special forces. I was told by “the One” that Jalal Talabani, the Iraqi president, and a Kurd, was en route. This once placid airfield soon started buzzing, as doctors, political aides, and members of the Peshmerga, the famed Kurdish militia, found their way on to my plane.

On a culturally sensitive note, “the One” informed me that the Iraqi president shouldn’t be addressed as “Mr. Talabani.” I was to call the 73-year-old leader “Ma Jalal,” meaning “Uncle Jalal” in Kurdish. Though I’d never met the man, his charisma was apparent. Talabani wore a spotless silk suit that was impeccably pressed. His hair was coiffed slightly to the right, and his all-white mustache sat smartly on his upper lip. He was the gentleman that everybody would approach for a handshake and then walk away glowing.

I greeted Ma Jalal at my plane’s entrance and cranked the engines soon after he buckled up. We were now headed to Al Asad Airbase, a fairly large airfield controlled by the Marines, situated in the barren expanses of western Anbar province. It was here that the biggest surprise awaited us. In the distance stood Air Force One. President Bush had made yet another surprise trip to Iraq, and I was tasked with transporting the Iraqi president to meet him.

- Jehangir Irani

A Palestinian refugee stands with his belongings in Rafah Camp. Photo: Flickr user Rafahkid

Ahmed Moor was born and raised in the southern Gaza city of Rafah. Recently laid off from a finance job in New York City, he plans to work for a micro-finance initiative inside Palestinian refugee camps in Lebanon starting this fall. Though he is now an American citizen, Ahmed remembers what his life was like when his travel document was stamped “stateless.”

Worldfocus.org’s Stateless to Statehood explores a wide range of legal and political situations regarding the relationship between individuals and the states they live in. Kuwaiti Bidoon are considered de jure stateless because they lack government recognition and citizenship status. Palestinians in Gaza are stateless to the extent that they do not yet belong to a true state.

I was born in the Rafah refugee camp in Gaza, Palestine. My status as a refugee was compounded by the fact that I lacked a state identity. This was my status for the first ten years of my life.

I did not become an American citizen until 1995. My naturalization document has a picture of ten-year-old me and the word “Stateless” printed right above it. I remember my mother crying when she saw that word on her own document.

What did I know about statelessness? I am from somewhere. I have a culture and a people. I am from Palestine, and I am a Palestinian.

Palestine was supposed to be recognized as a sovereign state alongside Israel in 1948, but it never was. Palestinians from the Occupied Territories mostly do not have full citizenship rights and are now governed by a constantly shifting mix of overbearing Israel, impotent Fatah, and ascendant Hamas.

Sometimes I forget what it means to be stateless. Nowadays, I rarely think about how many times my family was refused entry a country. It has been so long since I slept inside airports because we did not have the privilege of leaving.

Yet, statelessness is more than lacking the privileges that sovereign states extend to their citizens. Being stateless means something more basic. Statelessness is sheer humiliation and the degradation of human dignity.

The stateless human being is inferior. He has failed to do what other men have done for themselves. It means that, for whatever reason, he is unable to govern himself. He is not complete enough to take control of his life and the lives of others in his community. He has failed to take his place in the United Nations - that great hall of mankind.

Men celebrate their independence days everywhere, but the stateless man is not independent. He is dependent and unwelcome. The stateless man lacks maturity and requires stewardship. He must always be grateful to others for allowing him to work and to live. He is a burden, always compelled to prostrate himself and apologize for intruding.

That’s what statelessness meant to a ten-year-old boy.

Today, I know better. Although I am no longer stateless, the real change in my status has nothing to do with my American passport. I know the history of Palestine and the injustice that bred the injustice that violates my dignity and does not permit me to govern myself in my country. My view of myself has changed but my struggle is the same. It is a struggle for control of my life and the lives of others in my community.

The failure is no longer mine. The failure rests with the people who do not recognize my citizenship and equality. My oppressor erodes his own humanity through his treatment of me. I am not insecure in the fundamental worth of my being; I know my intrinsic value.

So what does it mean to be stateless?

- Ahmed Moor

A vibrant and enterprising community of Tibetans lives in Ladakh, the easternmost area of the contested state of Jammu and Kashmir. Thousands of essentially stateless Tibetans have migrated westward to Ladakh since Chinese forces clamped down on Tibet in 1959. Although ethnic Tibetans in China have Chinese citizenship, the Tibetan exiles in India have residency permits but not Indian citizenship.

Tibetans arrived as refugees and remain refugees. The Tibetans feel at home in Ladakh, because of their common Buddhist faith and trading linkages. Even though many Tibetans were born in Ladakh, insurmountable statelessness pinches this Tibetan community.

Nawang Tso, a 47-year-old who has no imminent hope of returning to his ancestral land, said:

Neither we can get government job nor own land. I was born with this status and wonder how many generations of my family will have to live with this status.

Buddhist lamas in Ladakh, India. Photo: Luv Puri

For the last fifty years, Tibet has been governed by China. Tibetan refugees in Ladakh, like most other Tibetans, have rallied behind their spiritual leader. But the Dalai Lama does not demand complete secession from China. The present political stalemate between the Chinese government and the Tibetan leadership is over the territorial limits of the proposed Tibetan province, under Chinese sovereignty.

Tibetans want a Greater Tibet — the amalgamation of the Tibetan Autonomous Region with the whole of Qinghai province, western parts of Sichuan, areas of Yunnan and a part of Gansu. The Chinese government objects, emphasizing that ethnicity is no basis for border demarcation of Chinese provinces.

For the Tibetan refuges, Ladakh was a natural settlement area due to its culture, religion and landscape. Famous for its pristine beauty, Ladakh’s landscape has stark similarities with Utah’s Salt Lake City. Tibetan Buddhism influenced the culture of Ladakh and even vice-versa, as Buddhism spread to other parts of Asia through Ladakh. The centuries-old monasteries found in almost every village throughout Ladakh indicate this influence.

Similar to Tibetans, most Ladakhi homes have a small chapel containing various religious objects and sacred images. Other visible signs of the Buddhist faith are omnipresent prayer flags, stupas and mani walls.

Ladakhi cuisine shows the impact of the Tibetan community. This is true of restaurants thronged by foreign tourists and even of traditional Ladakhi homes. Gyal Wangchuk, a Ladakhi owner of the famous Siachen Hotel in the middle of Leh, Ladakh’s capital, said, “The majority of homes in the urban areas are no longer eating Ladakhi food, as now the new generation loves the Tibetan food. The famous Tibetan Momos can be found in every nook and corner of Ladakh.”

The Tibetan refugee community is staying in rented accommodations. The community’s employment prospects have been highly limited for the last five decades. In the middle of Leh, Ladakh’s capital, a Tibetan market has been established. The Tibetan community utilizes its contacts in Tibet to import black market Chinese-made goods to eastern Ladakh. Shoes, electronics, and pearls used to flood the main Tibetan markets, which are thronged by tourists during the summer. A pessimistic trader summarized the situation:

The times changed, as now the clandestine trade via eastern Ladakh became difficult. Most of the Chinese goods reaching here come through legal means, i.e. through the plains via Nepal. Profits have decreased. Uncertainty over our status will continue to affect us professionally, psychologically and physically.

- Luv Puri

In June, the U.S. Senate Foreign Relations Committee Report blacklisted Malaysia for trafficking refugees into Thailand.

Karen Zusman, an independent journalist, was one of few Westerners inside Myanmar in the immediate aftermath of the monk-led protests in 2007. She interviewed Burmese refugees and produced the audio documentary Please Don’t Say My Name: Burmese refugees at risk in Malaysia over the course of five months in Kuala Lumpur.

I met Jack in Kuala Lumpur after the protests in 2007. Jack was imprisoned and tortured for teaching human rights in his country. When he was released from jail, he fled to Malaysia.

I learned that he and nearly 100,000 Burmese who had fled persecution were now held hostage in a country  that offered no protection from vigilante groups, police and immigration officials. It was routine to hear refugee stories of mistreatment and physical and sexual abuse.

In January of this year, I returned to Kuala Lumpur, but things did not go as planned. I intended to document Jack’s story — his English was good, he was articulate, passionate and street smart. He was working in a restaurant in Kuala Lumpur with several other Burmese refugees.

Shortly after beginning to record, Jack’s Burmese girlfriend was arrested at the Thai-Malaysian border. She had fled Myanmar to be with Jack in Malaysia because her parents had engaged her to a Burmese soldier knowing the family would benefit greatly from the marriage. The girl was caught at the Thai-Malaysian border and imprisoned in Malaysia. Jack arranged for a friend, John, another Burmese refugee, to meet with the immigration officials at the border who were known to accept payment in exchange for releasing refugees. Malaysian officials took the money. And then arrested John.

Jack lost his girlfriend and his best friend in the same night.

Back in Myanmar, a Burmese soldier arrested Jack’s father, an elderly man with a heart condition, who now faced charges for “trafficking” the girl. Jack’s brother was arrested trying to leave Malaysia (also a refugee, he had a work permit but no travel documents).

I tried to console Jack the best I could. I tried — in vain — to get John released from prison by repeatedly reporting his arrest to the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR). John had been registered with the U.N. and so it was part of their task to release him from prison. But after he completed his sentence, he was subsequently transferred to detention camp.

While all this was happening, there were rumors that a U.S. Senate Foreign Relations Committee Report would soon be published bringing the Malaysian “deportation” (a.k.a. trafficking practices) under extreme scrutiny.

Jack and his friends were afraid that this would mean the trafficking would stop, and they would no longer have the option to purchase back their “freedom” should they be arrested. This was particularly distressing for Jack, who felt purchasing his girlfriend from traffickers once she was sold to them by Malaysian immigration was his only hope of saving her from a life as a Burmese junta-wife.

The report, which confirmed the allegations that the Malaysian government had been complicit in the sale of refugees to human traffickers at the Thai-Malaysian border, was made public in early April. Since then, as the refugees predicted, the incidents of trafficking have significantly decreased.

But because the raids by Rela (Malaysia’s citizen volunteer corps) and arrests have not decreased, the detention camps are severely over-crowded. Two Burmese refugees have died as a result of water contaminated with rat urine in a camp in Penang. John called while I was still in Malaysia and told me there were 47 people in one tiny cell with no water supply.

Jack’s brother called from a camp in another part of the country and told us that though the monsoon rains had begun, they were kept outside with no shelter and were given food to eat off of the mud floor.

Every week for five months, Jack wired money to each camp to pay for provisions such as toothpaste. Jack said the money was also for them to give money to their jailors so they would not be beaten. When Jack took time off from the restaurant to try and visit them, he was fired.

Now it’s July and Jack’s girlfriend has been deported to Myanmar. His friend was released last week and his brother is being hospitalized for a heart condition exacerbated by his time in the camp — he is still in the custody of his Malaysian jailors.

- Karen Zusman