I needed a legal identity document to leave Lebanon and fulfil the criteria for the Australian visa. Our only option was a Lebanese travel document. This is where the lawyers came in exceptionally handy. We built an application using my letters of recommendation and my job offer from the consulting company, among other things. We applied and held our breath. Two or three months later, I got my Lebanese travel document. After arriving in Australia, I would say it was very smooth and seamless. There were challenges, but they were general challenges faced by anyone who migrated halfway across the world and barely knew anyone. One of the challenges was English: I’ve spoken English professionally before, and I was fluent, but I’ve never used English from dusk till dawn, 24/7 at work, at home, and everywhere. So, that really took a toll on me in the first couple of months. I was getting really drained, translating everything and then speaking it. As a stateless person, my key struggle came with acquainting myself with everything I never had access to. For example, applying for a driver’s license and learning to drive. I’d never used a train before, and I’d never used a train ticket or a bus ticket, so I had to learn. I’ve never had a bank account before. I kept forgetting my wallet everywhere because I never had to carry a wallet. I’d never had cards with my name on them, so I wasn’t used to holding them, so I’d forget them everywhere. I went through maybe two debit cards in the first year because I misplaced and lost them. I wasn’t used to carrying all of that. I came across the fact that I don’t have citizenship and the impacts of this when I was about 12 years old. At 12 years old, I remember playing basketball with my village team. I wasn’t the best, but I was good and enjoyed the sport. We were invited to participate in a state-wide championship, but—to prevent cheating—kids playing need to show an ID or a birth certificate. I didn’t have a passport or ID, so I couldn’t prove my age, which meant I wasn’t eligible to play. That broke my heart because I was practising with this team all summer and had to watch them play from the sidelines during the winter campaign. That’s when I encountered this problem, which has haunted me ever since. It is such a relief to finally know that I never have to deal with this again, and my children will never have to deal with it. One of the things that always haunted me growing up was that I would never want this for my children. If I fathered children in Lebanon, they would have had the same status as me. Recently, I said to my wife who is pregnant, “My daughter might be a citizen before me.” The legal part of citizenship aside, to be called a citizen of a country is something I’ve always wanted. I wanted to belong somewhere. The UNHCR #IBelong campaign failed to get the message across. They missed an opportunity to echo what it means to be stateless and not have a place to call home. It’s like being an orphan your entire life and never being adopted. That’s what it feels like. Getting a passport is one of these countries finally adopting you and saying, “You are my son or my daughter. Legally, I’m going to take care of you.” After two years with the consulting company, they sponsored me for my permanent residency, which I got. After four years, I was eligible to apply for citizenship, which I did. Around three months ago, I passed my citizenship test, and now I’m just waiting for them to tell me when the ceremony is. I’ll make my pledge, and then I’ll become an official Australian citizen. So it’s gone pretty well. And so I am counting the days until I become a citizen, and I will never settle for permanent residency. After everything I’ve gone through, for me to settle just when the citizenship is close, it’s almost spitting in the face of everything I’ve gone through over the years. I would never settle for anything less than a passport. I owe it to myself and everyone who believed in me. I can’t even describe what the citizenship ceremony will be like. It has been 33 years in the making, and many good people have tried their best to get me to this point. Unfortunately, they’re not here anymore to celebrate it. It’s going to feel, I think, overwhelming. I feel I’ll receive that citizenship certificate, which is the accumulated effort of so many amazing people—including my family—over 30 years, three decades, that helped me reach this point. There should be around 30 people standing on that stage receiving it, along with me. Still, I’ll try to make the best out of it and out of this opportunity because a lot of people paid a great price for me to get here. It almost feels like this quest I’ve been on for as long as I can remember, and I’ve finally cracked it. I wanted to go on a honeymoon with my wife. I couldn’t leave the country, so I applied for a certificate of identity, a travel document used by stateless people. And kudos to the Australian Government; I met the requirements. However, when I tried to access these so-called more advanced humanitarian European countries, they rejected the certificate of identity, except for the UK. I basically gave up on Europe. Understanding Statelessness in Australia | Peter McMullin Centre on Statelessness 87