Kosovo: A story of statelessness and the document that says, "you belong"

OBILIC, Kosovo* – On a bright morning in Obilic, Azra sits in the modest home she shares with her partner. As she talks about her family, her thoughts often turn to her mother and siblings, who she cannot visit.

For many years, going to a doctor or finding work was not straight forward for her. Born in Podgorica, Montenegro, Azra was never registered at birth. Without a birth certificate, or documents proving a nationality, she grew up and lived much of her adult life without official recognition of her identity.

“I did not have documents,” she says quietly. “My father died and I could not go to see him. All because of documents.”

Her mother is also ill, she adds. The family calls, sometimes visits, but Azra cannot easily do what daughters usually do when a parent is unwell and travel home to visit them.

“My mother is sick,” she says. “She cries for me to come and see her.”

Azra belongs to the Roma community. She speaks Romani, Serbian and some Albanian, though she smiles shyly when praised for switching easily between languages. Her life has been shaped less by where she feels she belongs than by what she could prove on paper.

Asked where she belongs today, she does not hesitate.

“I belong here,” she says.

For people without proof of identity, belonging can be both deeply felt and legally denied. Without documents, Azra could not access basic rights and services in the same way as others. She could not move freely or travel to see relatives in Montenegro, and had limited access to employment, social support and public services. Daily survival depended largely on her partner, who collects cardboard and other recyclable materials to sell.

“We sell what we can, so we can buy food and drink,” she says.

For Azra, the lack of documents has meant something more immediate: absence. Absence from important family moments. Absence from the ordinary opportunities that allow a person to imagine and plan for their future.

Her brothers and sisters live in Montenegro. Some also faced documentation problems in the past but were eventually able to obtain papers there. They can travel. Azra still cannot. When relatives recently came to visit, they stayed only a few days.

“When they left, I could not go with them,” she says.

Azra speaks with representatives of the Civil Rights Program Kosovo (CRPK), UNHCR’s legal aid partner, outside her home in Obilic. CRPK supported Azra throughout the procedure that enabled her to obtain temporary legal residence and continues to assist her with the next stages of the process and her further integration.

© UNHCR/Dragan Mitic

With support from UNHCR and its legal aid partner, Azra was assisted in regularizing her stay and obtaining legal residency. The process involved engagement with many different institutions in Pristina and was part of UNHCR’s wider work with partners to identify people without documents, provide free legal aid and support access to legal pathways to identity.

Eventually, Azra was issued a temporary residence card.

The card is small, but what it represents is immense. For the first time, Azra had formal recognition before the law.

“How did you feel when you received it?” she is asked.

“Good,” she replies.

It is a short answer, repeated more than once. But in Azra’s world, “good” carries the weight of relief. The document did not solve everything, but it changed the starting point. It opened access to basic health care. It gave her the right to work. It allowed her to be seen by institutions not as someone outside the system, but as a person with a recognized legal status and identity.

“Now I can go to the doctor,” she says.

Azra’s case shows why legal identity is not simply an administrative detail but a human rights issue. Without it, people may remain invisible to systems designed to protect them. They may be excluded from health care, education, employment, social protection and justice. They may be unable to register children, prove family links, travel, inherit property or plan for their future.

Azra’s new status is an important step, but not a permanent solution. Her temporary residence card must be extended, and further procedures may be needed in the future. Access to some services remains limited. People with this legal status have access to certain rights, including basic health care, education and employment, but gaps remain. Azra cannot access social assistance and therefore must cover her own hospital-related costs. The pathway to lasting solution can take years.

For Azra, the next hope is simpler: a chance to work.

“I would like to find some work,” she says.

It is a simple ambition. Work would mean income, but also dignity and routine. It would mean being able to contribute, to stand more firmly in the place she calls home.

She also hopes to travel one day to see her mother and wider family in Montenegro. For now, phone calls help, but they do not replace being together in person.

“It is very hard,” she says.

There is hope in Azra’s story, but it is a cautious hope. She does not speak in grand terms and does not describe the residence card as a new life, only as something that has made life less closed.

Her story is a reminder that legal identity is about far more than a passport or certificate. It is about being able to fulfill some of the most fundamental human responsibilities: visiting a dying father, comforting a sick mother, working, being seen.

It is also a reminder that solutions are possible. With legal aid, institutional cooperation and sustained support, people who have lived for years without recognition can begin to emerge from invisibility and claim their rights.

For Azra, that first step came in the form of a card. It does not yet give her everything. But it says something she has long known in her heart and can now show to others in a legal and tangible way.

She belongs.

*All references to Kosovo should be understood to be in the context of UNSCR 1244 (1999).