In detention, we were not treated like humans. How long does it actually take to assess someone for a visa? How many tests do you have to do? The whole assessment shouldn’t be more than four or five months, surely. Within my community in Australia, I see so many stateless people who haven’t been given visas. For more than 13 years they have been on Bridging visas—without having the chance to be interviewed and state their case. This limbo; it plays with their mind and causes many of them to have mental health problems. That makes me feel incredibly sad. Everyone needs a clear pathway and plan; some form of certainty. When you are stateless, you’ve always been uncertain about your life. You are looking for certainty. Uncertainty makes you feel unwell. People seeking asylum and waiting for the outcome of their protection application need to have some sort of positive engagement with the government. We’re still human. We have dignity, We can learn. We are not ‘less than.’ I look at all my friends from the community. They become workaholics because they identify with that and feel they need to appreciate this country. But as soon as they are not working, their mental health gets worse because they haven’t got their visa situation sorted. And they feel their life is in limbo. It’s kind of a journey where you never know where you are. There has to be a cut-off. We must say, “Okay, these people have suffered for 10-15 years. Enough is enough. Let’s stop their suffering here and give them their dignity and recognise their identity. Let them feel they belong.” Many of these people have partners they haven’t seen for 10-12 years. They haven’t seen their family for many years. They have siblings in different countries. It is just the right thing to do. Give them a visa so they can get on with their life. After getting out of detention, I had over 10 years of temporary visas, including Bridging visas and Safe Haven Enterprise Visas (SHEVs). The Australian government recognised me as a refugee but would not give me a permanent protection visa. I am a Paralympian, and I wanted advice about accessing a Distinguished Talent visa. I went to my lawyer, who said, “You’ve got a half a per cent chance.” That’s what I was looking for. I achieved my goal with the hope created by ‘half a per cent chance’ and four years of advocacy. During this time, I represented Australia in Thailand in the goal ball competition. I still remember when we came home, I was passing the airport security gate. When my Australian mate went through it, there wasn’t anyone there; as soon as my name came up, seven big people came to check me out. I was quite sad when my friend pointed this out to me. What did I do wrong other than seeking asylum in this country? And now the country is benefiting from me. I got a permanent residency visa because of my special talent in blind sports. The government issued me a visa that recognised my special talent as a sportsperson. They said, “You are the first.” Then I remember one of them said, “Hopefully, the last.” I had my permanent residency visa for three months and got my citizenship. After I got my citizenship, I felt that after 30-something years, I belonged somewhere. I can actually have a life without having issues. Not without having any issues—there are always issues for everyone—but without having the basic issues. But after the honeymoon, you realise where you live now is still far from the perfect world. So I feel happy. I feel I belong somewhere. At the same time, I feel sad about being out of my own land. Yeah, there is a mixture of happiness and growth in me. It reminds me of the season of autumn. When you see the colourful leaves floating from the branches to the ground. The beauty of walking through the colours of these leaves, the crunch as you walk across them. But also the sadness, because the leaves are leaving the tree. Winter will come, but then it will be followed by Spring—there is hope coming. Being stateless is like not belonging, not having somewhere to reside completely—not having that right. A feeling of limbo, the feeling of hanging in the air. A while ago, someone said, “The only place I feel I belong in is the airplane. Between two places, fully existing in neither.” Before citizenship, I was quite depressed and anxious. I had so much trouble making a life in the new country because of my short-term visas. It made it hard to integrate. Everyone feels pity towards you. The feeling right after you get citizenship is also interesting. You ask yourself, “Are these people helping me genuinely my friend?” Many times, I doubted—I questioned my friendships. I asked one of my friends, “Now what? Are you going to still be my friend?” And I remember she said, “You’re stuck with me.” You know? It’s a genuine question because you think these people just feel pity for you, and they’re helping you get out of this hardship. Unfortunately, I ruined some friendships because of this thinking. The mental health impacts are significant. I was very lucky to have had some good people come my way. And I bumped into good people. When you bump into good people, they explain things to you and help you shape your perspective. My understanding of what has happened to this country, how this country became a country; I felt connected to the First Nations people, to the first people who were here before white settlers. And I felt a sadness for them. Understanding Statelessness in Australia | Peter McMullin Centre on Statelessness 95