Know better. Do better.

The policy:

Law No.38 of 2005 on the Acquisition of Qatari Nationality

The impact:

I was born in Qatar. I grew up there and it is the only country I’ve ever known.

But I don’t know if I can stay forever.

In 1995, my parents decided to travel from their home in Sudan to the small Gulf state in what was supposed to be a temporary move. That temporary move turned into almost 30 years during which time they started a family and had two children.

When they arrived, they were a young couple in the prime of their careers, working hard to make their way as medical professionals.

Qatar then was not what it is now. In the years before it became hyper-urbanised, attracting workers from all over the world and hosting the World Cup in 2022, it was a sleepy place. In fact, my mother recalls there being only one mall in the capital Doha in the mid to late 90s.

Now, there are scores, brimming with major chains and brands from all over the world.

Though there are well-documented abuses of migrant workers, for nationals of several countries, from Sudan to Palestine to Pakistan, the Gulf states were (and often still are) among the safest options for migration.

When faced with the gruelling and unstable immigration policies of the UK, the US and EU countries, moving to countries such as Qatar, Bahrain and the United Arab Emirates with the promise of a high-paying, tax-free job sounds like a dream for many professionals.

And for some, these countries are their only hope of escaping dire circumstances of poverty and war in their home countries.

But, for families that settle, there is a problem.

In Qatar, only children born to a Qatari father are granted citizenship and access to all the benefits it affords such as free healthcare and education.

The legislation, Law No.38 on the Acquisition of Qatari Nationality, which was introduced in 2005, does on the surface outline some conditions by which a non-Qatari can obtain nationality. One of those is residing in Qatar for no less than 25 consecutive years without being out of the country for more than two consecutive months during that time.

But the idea of permanent residence is almost a rumour. Nobody seems to know what the process is or where to begin and, the truth is, only a tiny number of people have ever attained it. Before 2005, it had to be personally granted by the Emir.

Zahra Babar of the Georgetown University School of Foreign Service carried out academic research on citizenship in Qatar and told Doha News that no method of applying for citizenship has ever been outlined. She was even unable to find any application process.

When my sister and I were born, the implications of the policy were already apparent.

Despite being born in the country, we live in a state of constant precarity, having to renew our residence permits every two years for as long as we live there. And, for second-generation expats such as me, whether our residence permits are renewed depends entirely on the employment status of our parents.

My mother’s contract was suddenly terminated this year, without notice, when she returned from Sudan after a trip to grieve the death of her sister. She came home to unemployment, a small “end of service benefit,” and good wishes for the future.

My mother also has no pension. That’s another structural inequality foreign families must contend with. Due to a lack of pension schemes for foreign families, many work for decades with nothing to show for it at the end of their careers.

Sudden redundancies and contract terminations suddenly tear legal status away. People have no choice but to quickly pack up their entire lives and leave. One day, my father will stop working too.

I don’t know where I would go then.

While writing this piece, I spoke to several second-generation expats, and many shared their family situations with me. But due to strict censorship laws and the risk of deportation, they asked to remain anonymous.

One, a young Pakistani woman, told me: “My parents knew what they were going into for the most part, I think the potential for a good opportunity in a safe country was worth the risks of not being citizens. I think many people are forced to do this when they’re desperate.”

I am currently outside of Qatar pursuing my studies and many second-generation expats and other migrants are doing the same. The trouble is, they sometimes then get locked out of the one country they call home.

In an extreme case, a Qatar-born Palestinian woman holding refugee status and currently pursuing her studies abroad told me has been unable to visit her family since her residence permit was terminated.

“Qatar denies Palestinian refugees the right to obtain a tourist visa … so I can’t enter Qatar as a resident, child of a resident or even a tourist,” she said.

Even though her parents live in Qatar, her residence permit was terminated because she missed a deadline for renewal after moving away to Canada to study.

“If you don’t re-enter Qatar within a nine-month window you’re no longer qualified as a resident,” she explains.

As many people find out, residency in Qatar is difficult to attain but very easy to lose.

Of course, had she been granted citizenship from birth, there would be no restrictions. She could return to the one place she has called home and visit her family, something taken for granted by international students from other places.

When I left Qatar for university and to pursue my career, I also became effectively nationless.

I have never lived in Sudan, the only country of which I am a citizen. And I now live in the United Kingdom on a temporary, two-year residence permit.

I’ve moved from one precarious situation to another. I hope for stability one day, but I am unlikely to find it in the place I was born and raised.

Any views expressed are those of the author and not of Context or the Thomson Reuters Foundation.