Living in the Shadows: The Invisible Lives of Millions Without Birth Certificates

Arnold Ncube washes cars in the dusty backstreets of Thembisa township, scrubbing windshields and wiping down mirrors for spare change—not because he lacks ambition or education, but because officially, he doesn't exist.

The 25-year-old South African was born in Johannesburg to a South African father, which should automatically qualify him for citizenship. But without a birth certificate to prove it, Arnold has been forced into a shadow existence that denies him access to education, healthcare, banking, and formal employment. He's one of an estimated 10,000 stateless people living in South Africa, and part of a global crisis affecting millions.

"It's a painful thing," Arnold explains, his voice heavy with frustration. "You're basically invisible. You don't exist. It's like you're living in the shadows. You don't have a bank account, you can't apply for a decent job that you can earn a living with."

Arnold's nightmare began when he tried to register for secondary school. Having been abandoned by both parents—his father left before he was born, his mother when he was just 14—he had no one to help him obtain the crucial document that would unlock his future.

While his peers progressed through school and began building careers, Arnold watched from the sidelines. The psychological toll has been devastating.

"When I see my peers, they are done with school now. Whereas I couldn't study further. It's a lot. Depression was once my friend," he admits, trying to maintain the positivity that keeps him going each day.

His story isn't unique. Across South Africa and around the world, millions of people find themselves trapped in administrative limbo—born in a country but unable to prove it, entitled to citizenship but unable to claim it.

The true scale of statelessness is difficult to measure precisely because these individuals, by definition, slip through bureaucratic cracks. The UN's refugee agency (UNHCR) and civil rights organizations estimate there are at least 4.5 million stateless people worldwide. Some experts believe the real figure could be as high as 15 million.

Without official statistics—since governments struggle to count people who technically don't exist in their systems—these numbers remain educated estimates based on field research and advocacy work.

The causes are varied and complex: administrative barriers, poor record-keeping, discriminatory nationality laws, conflict and displacement, and the simple misfortune of being born to parents who themselves lack proper documentation.

For Ghana and other African nations, where birth registration systems in rural areas can be inconsistent and cross-border migration is common, the issue carries particular relevance. Children born to migrants, refugees, or in areas with weak administrative infrastructure face similar risks of becoming stateless.

Christy Chitengu knows exactly what Arnold is going through—she lived it herself until just three years ago.

Now a human rights lawyer and advocate, Christy only discovered she was stateless at age 17 when her high school principal called her into the office with troubling news: the school had no official documents for her and couldn't understand how she'd been admitted in the first place.

"I was born in Johannesburg to two foreign parents [both from Zimbabwe] and at my birth I was given a handwritten South African birth certificate," Christy recalls from her home in northern Johannesburg.

The problem? South African officials require printed certificates. The handwritten document she'd been given at birth—likely issued by a hospital or clinic—held no legal weight.

Christy explored claiming Zimbabwean citizenship through her parents but hit another bureaucratic wall. By age 16, she was too old for late birth registration in Zimbabwe. Even if she could have obtained Zimbabwean papers, she would have needed to physically leave South Africa to collect a passport—impossible without documentation that would allow her re-entry.

She remained trapped in limbo until Lawyers for Human Rights took on her case pro bono, finally securing her South African citizenship three years ago. Now she dedicates her legal career to helping others escape the same trap.

South Africa's statelessness crisis occurs against a backdrop of tension over undocumented migration. The country hosts large numbers of migrants from across the continent, and both authorities and local vigilante groups have been cracking down on irregular migration for years.

Some argue that granting citizenship to children born in South Africa to undocumented parents would reward illegal immigration. Christy firmly rejects this framing.

"I think citizenship is not a reward. It's an entitlement for someone to be able to live a dignified life and for someone to be seen as a human being," she argues. "I think if we look at it through that lens, we realise that there's nothing that we lose by recognising a child who would otherwise not be able to go to primary school or receive healthcare."

Her perspective echoes broader human rights principles: children should not be punished for circumstances beyond their control, and every person deserves the basic dignity of legal identity.

The BBC made multiple attempts to contact South Africa's home affairs department, which handles immigration and citizenship matters, but received no response regarding how the government is addressing statelessness.

Jesus Perez Sanchez, who works for the UNHCR, emphasizes that statelessness isn't merely a legal technicality—it's a barrier to human development and economic contribution.

"For us, statelessness is not just a legal issue, it's a matter that involves the right to development," Sanchez explains. "That person who's affected by statelessness will not be able to contribute fully to the country that is hosting. So we think that it's important that as a matter of inclusion, all issues of statelessness are addressed so that all these people on the margins of society can contribute fully to society and the economy."

Without legal identity, people cannot:

• Open bank accounts or access financial services

• Enroll in formal education beyond primary level

• Access public healthcare services

• Own property or sign legal contracts

• Travel internationally

• Vote or participate in democratic processes

• Work in the formal economy

These restrictions don't just harm individuals—they deprive countries of the full economic and social contributions these people could make if recognized as citizens.

Experts advocate for several policy reforms to tackle statelessness:

Universal birth registration: Ensuring every child born is registered immediately, regardless of parents' documentation status.

Gender-equal nationality laws: Allowing mothers to pass citizenship to their children, not just fathers—crucial in cases where fathers are absent or unknown.

Registration for refugee children: Permitting refugees to register children born in host countries, preventing statelessness across generations.

Simplified late registration: Creating pathways for older children and adults to obtain documentation when early registration was missed.

For Ghana, where mobile technology and digital identification systems are advancing rapidly, there's an opportunity to build robust birth registration systems that prevent statelessness before it begins. The country's national identification program could serve as a model, provided it includes mechanisms to capture children born in remote areas or to marginalized populations.

Back in Thembisa township, Arnold is doing something he couldn't do for years: planning for the future.

After years of struggle and invisibility, he now has a lawyer fighting for the papers that will finally prove he belongs in the country where he was born. His dream is to return to school and study computer science—a goal that seems within reach for the first time.

He plays football with local children, participating in the community that has supported him even when his own government couldn't see him. His story is still being written, and for once, it might have a happy ending.

But for millions of others around the world living in similar shadows, the wait for recognition, dignity, and identity continues. They remain invisible, existing in the margins of societies that desperately need the contributions they could make—if only someone would acknowledge they exist.