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It has been 50 years since Kuwait gained its independence.  It has been 50 years that tens of thousands of long term residents in the country have not been recognized as citizens.  And it has been 50 years since the same nationality law that prevents individuals from securing their right to a basic human right to nationality has also prevented women from passing their nationality to a spouse or her children.

Today an estimated 80,000-140,000 stateless people call Kuwait home, but the country’s leadership refuses to review their cases or prove links to nationality elsewhere.  Refugees International has undertaken five missions to Kuwait to assess and monitor the deteriorating humanitarian situation. We have advocated for and continue to press for legal and administrative changes required to reduce human rights abuse and prevent future statelessness in the country.  But at the same time, the very lives of individuals who have been deprived of their rights are passing away. Abdulrzzaq Al-Enzi is one such man.

Though years younger than I am, Abdulrzzaq is prematurely gray, like many stateless men his age.  The stress and strain of trying to build a family and sustain a livelihood without having a legal status has taken a visible toll.  But as is the case with most statelessness, it’s both senseless and shameful.

Abdulrzzaq is stateless through no fault of his own.  Long before Kuwait had codified a nationality law, Abdulrzzaq’s grandfather came to Kuwait to try to earn extra income to help his parents after one of them became seriously ill.  Now, more than 50 years and three generations later, his descendents have no legal ties to any country.

Abdulrzzaq got married four years ago.  Although he married a Kuwaiti citizen, the law prohibits her from transferring her nationality to her husband.  In fact, the couple doesn’t have a marriage certificate.  It’s not that they didn’t try to get one.  When Abdulrzzaq went to the ministerial administrative office that would ordinarily provide the formal documentation for a newly couple, he was asked to sign that he was of Syrian nationality.  Abdulrzzaq, who is not Syrian, asked for proof of this so he could at least get a nationality.  Of course, the official did not have a hair of proof and so Abdulrzzaq refused on principle to write anything in the space intended for one’s nationality, and thus he was not able to secure the marriage certificate.

The couple’s daughter is not Kuwaiti because women cannot pass their nationality to their children or spouse.  But their bidoon baby doesn’t even have a birth certificate, largely due to the fact that her parents don’t have the necessary documents to obtain one, namely a marriage certificate.  Abdulrzzaq even paid several hundred Kuwaiti dinars to try and get a document for her, but despite his efforts, still no birth certificate.

Abdulrzzaq had a job but he reports that “it is finished now.”  He sometimes finds odd jobs but mostly works as a house husband, raising their little girl. They manage to survive because his wife has a job in the formal sector.

A deeply religious man, Abdulrzzaq tries hard to remain hopeful there will soon be a solution to his situation and for all of the other stateless people in Kuwait.  He sees the situation in Kuwait as akin to the story of Rip van Winkle and declares, “I could go to sleep now and wake up 100 years in the future and things would be the same for Kuwaiti bidoon.”

But his patience and fortitude, as well as that of thousands of others, is growing thin, very quickly.  He tells me he must speak out, and that he is not afraid of the response.  “I have nothing to lose,” he says.  “Perhaps it is better if I die so my daughter can get citizenship.”