registration. However, they do not address the fact that in most cases, identification requires discrimination, between those who are or are not entitled to a particular status and its related benefits. And a state-backed foundational identity register for adults will almost inevitably make distinctions based on legal status in the country, between citizens and noncitizens: a principle that that proof of legal identity should be issued to all does not avoid the task of deciding what status is recorded. Creating a two-step process (indiscriminate biometric registration, followed by allocation to a status), does not avoid the problem – even though it could in some (limited) circumstances postpone the need to resolve it. Interim statuses are likely to become permanent, trapping people in long-term marginalisation: there are stateless people around the world who have held such ‘interim’ documents over many decades. The countries where new identity systems are expected to be of the greatest benefit are the countries where the highest percentage of the population is currently unregistered. This means that the process of enrolling all adults into a national population register requires a multitude of individual decisions as to whether a person is a citizen or not; and if not a citizen, whether they have another status entitling them to remain in the country. The problem is that there are many millions of people in the world whose citizenship status is simply not clear: a smaller number than those without identity documents (for many of whom citizenship will be uncontroversial), but still a very substantial figure. The process of clarifying this status may very well be empowering for those who fall the right side of the line; but deeply disempowering for those who fail whatever tests are imposed. The tendency in practice is for new identification systems to reinforce existing patterns of discrimination (UN Human Rights Council, 2020). In Kenya, existing identification systems, especially the national identity card in place since before independence, have extremely well-documented existing patterns of discrimination and exclusion, denying access to certain groups whose citizenship is seen as presumptively doubtful (Manby, 2018a, Chapter 7.3). The government itself acknowledged that 10% of Huduma Namba applicants were turned away because they did not have an existing national ID or birth certificate (Mugo, 2019). Similar patterns are visible in many other countries where new identification systems have been supported with development funding. In Mauritania, the upgrading of the national identity card appeared to be part of an ongoing effort to strip black Mauritanians of citizenship, and was linked to an amendment to the nationality code to remove any rights based on birth in Mauritania and require timely birth registration as the basis for a claim to nationality. A protest movement Touche pas à ma nationalité accused the government of ‘biometric genocide’ (Salem, 2018). In Sudan, the introduction of a new civil registration system and national identity card following the secession of South Sudan was mobilised as an opportunity to screen those alleged to be of southern Sudanese origin and remove their right to Sudanese citizenship (Assal, 2014). In Uganda and Tanzania, the introduction of a biometric national identity card, where no such card had previously existed, where interpretation of the citizenship law was challenging (to say the least), and where birth registration rates were low, led to large numbers of applications lying undecided because of the lack of a procedure to resolve uncertain status, and subsequent exclusion from services (Manby, 2018b; Perrot & Owachi, 2018; Unwanted Witness, 2020). Even the Indian Aadhaar system, which includes no record of legal status in India (or, rather, the only status it is proof of is that of ‘resident’), has not been successfully rolled out in regions where legal status is particularly controversial, most of all in the north-eastern state 13