Dark alleys of inclusion

In the third week of January 2021, a team of young girls from Karachi, born and raised in an urban slum, brought home a rare accolade. The team of five won the first prize in an international gymnastics competition held in Russia defeating teams from around the world. Their performance was fluid and artistic, their athletic ability shining at every step. This year, due to Covid-19, the competition and judging was all online. Winning the competition was a proud moment for the girls and their coaches, who despite the odds of poverty and minimal resources, did something quite remarkable. The girls were proud of their achievement and rightfully delighted to bring home the honour for their country.

There was however a problem.

The country that the girls thought they were representing did not recognise them as its own daughters. Their long hours of practice and impeccable performance did not matter. There was not going to be any recognition by any mayor, minister or a bureaucrat. The girls belonged to the marginalised and stateless Bengali community of Machar Colony in Karachi. In their minds and hearts, they represented Pakistan. The state however does not think so. They may have been born and raised in Karachi, they may have seen no other country, but for the state they do not exist. They never have.

The only reason these girls could participate in the competition was because it was online. Had the competition been held in person, they would not have been able to get a visa or travel. One needs identification documents, passports and ID cards to book flights and apply for visas. That privilege is not available to those who do not exist. These girls and their entire community are not in any database except of a few organisations that work in their community. The schooling of these girls will end soon because to appear for matriculation (9^th and 10^th grade) exams they need identification. They may be good in what they do but are not lucky enough to have any identification. They are not allowed to dream.

Imagine for a moment having extraordinary athletic ability, intellectual gifts or creative capacity that distinguishes you from your peers. Imagine then, having no channel to express that because you do not matter. Not proverbially but quite literally. If this is the state of those who are endowed with gifts, imagine the situation of those who need extra care due to physical, mental or emotional disabilities. Imagine if this trauma of non-existence is passed from one generation to the next.

There is a lot of talk about justice, equity and inclusion by federal and provincial governments. None of that, unfortunately, is true. The Bengalis, Burmese and other stateless (who are entitled citizenship by law) are outside the purview of any such inclusion. They are — for all practical purposes — outside the scope of a dignified existence. Everyone, even the state, knows that they are there, struggling in the far corners of our cities, surviving barely in the dark alleys of our consciousness. They exist in places we do not go lest we be faced by uncomfortable realities about who we are as a people. We choose not to look them in the eye as those eyes hold mirrors to us where we can see our xenophobia, racism and exclusion.

The global pandemic should have taught us the value of empathy, support and dignity. It should have also taught us the value of kindness in our conduct. But perhaps the biggest lesson is about our common bonds. We have survived because of selflessness of others. Maybe we can also help others survive the pandemic of exclusion.

The absolute best time to do something about the stateless in the country was decades ago. The next best time is today.

Published in The Express Tribune, February 9^th, 2021.

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