Kathmandu, Naples

Refugees fleeing Somalia were tricked into coming to Nepal. Now, they can't leave.

At over six feet tall, with his dark skin, dressed in a full-length white tunic topped by a skull cap, 'Abdi' stands out on the streets of Kathmandu. You might think him an unlikely tourist, or perhaps a visiting imam at the local masjid. But Abdi is neither. He is a refugee. It is six in the evening, and Abdi (refugee names throughout have been changed) sits on the edge of his bed, smoking, while his seven children line up their prayer mats to face Mecca. His wife, Nadifa, sits behind him, massaging her forehead, as Abdi explains why he and his family fled Somalia.

"It was 1992 when I was shot," he says. "My family had a delivery van I used to drive. One day I was stopped by some members of the majority Hawiyé clan, and they made me give them everything I had. When I got home, my father was furious, so he reported it to the Islamic Courts, who were ruling the country at the time. They went and found the men who robbed me, and they punished them – they might have even killed one of them." Abdi takes a breath, and continues: "But the clan didn't forget what happened. A few weeks later, they came to the house and shot my father in front of me. Then they killed my brother and kidnapped my sister. They tried to kill me, but I got away. Look, I still have pieces of the bullets inside of me." Abdi calls to one of his sons to fetch an x-ray, which clearly shows a large piece of metal in the chest. He holds out his arm, and I run my hand over the raised bumps where more shrapnel is lodged.

As horrifying as Abdi's story is, it is not out of the ordinary for Somali refugees around the world. And the same holds true for those in Kathmandu: Amina's mother and brother were murdered; Dalmar's father was killed and his sister kidnapped; and both of Nadif's parents were assassinated. Everyone I speak to has an equally terrible story to tell. Among others from Pakistan, Burma, Iraq and Iran, there are today 72 Somalis among the more than 300 'urban refugees' currently living in Kathmandu. This last is an official term used to describe asylum seekers living outside of designated refugee camps. As Nepal is not a signatory to the 1951 UN convention on refugees, almost everyone other than the roughly 107,000 Bhutanese refugees who have been living in UN-overseen camps in the southeast of the country would be considered an illegal immigrant.

The tragic irony of the situation is that not only do none of the Somalis want to remain in Kathmandu; none wanted to come to Nepal in the first place. Indeed, some say they were told they were going to Naples, and then found themselves deboarding a plane in Nepal. One refugee, Taban, stares out of the window from his wheelchair as he recounts how he came to the country. "The Hawiyé came to my house and raped my sister in front of me," he says. "I ran out the door, but they shot me in the back and hit my spine. The bullet's still in there." Taban pauses and notices his catheter tubing sticking out of the bottom of jeans; embarrassed, he tucks the yellow tube back out of sight. "My mother sold our house and paid a smuggler to take me to Europe," he continues. "We flew from Mogadishu to Dubai and then to Delhi, where we lived for three months. Then we flew to Kathmandu. We got a hotel room while we waited for the next flight, but the smuggler disappeared the same day. I didn't want to come to Nepal. I was supposed to continue on to Europe. That was three years ago."

By all accounts, Taban should be feeling fairly happy today; in February, he was accepted for resettlement to the US. At least for the time being, however, he still cannot leave Nepal. This is not because of paperwork or health checks, but rather because he has been classified as an illegal immigrant, and thus is subject to Nepali immigration legislation requiring anyone who has overstayed a visa to pay penalty of USD 6 per day. As things stand, Taban would need to pay USD 6570 – a sum near impossible to find for a man who lives on UNHCR subsistence handouts of NPR 4250 (about USD 55) per month.

Due to their status as illegal immigrants, none of the refugees are allowed to work in Nepal, either. But this has not stopped some of the refugees from becoming minor celebrities in their own right. Fifteen of the Somalis were recently cast as 'bodyguards' in a soon-to-be-released Nepali action movie (see pics). The black, African features of the Somalis have been used by the Nepali producers for exotica value, and they stand around toting toy guns (and fulfilling stereotypes) looking a little bemused. Indeed, these asylum seekers are groundbreakers in other ways, as well, given that the character they 'protected' in the film will be the first transgender badgal to star in a Nepali movie.

Can't stay or go
Off the movie set, however, the reality is grim for the refugees. "This is the worst life I've ever had," sighs Taban, refolding the acceptance letter from the US embassy. "I'd rather go back to Somalia than stay here. Better to suffer in my own country than wait here." But even returning home is impossible for Taban, as his passport, supplied by the smuggler, has turned out to be a fake. Repatriation is also out because, as Daisy Dell, the UNHCR representative in Nepal, explains. "It's against our mandate to repatriate anyone to Mogadishu. Somaliland, yes; but Mogadishu, no. It's too dangerous."

According to Navin Kumar Ghimire, the state-appointed National Coordinator for Refugee Affairs, the Kathmandu government is unwilling to waive the fees for the refugees because it is worried that Nepal could become known as an easy transit point for other refugees. "If we give refugee status to the 300 urban refugees who are here, another 300 will come," Ghimire says. Such a stance, however, ignores the long-term ramifications of such a policy. Of the 300 urban refugees currently in Kathmandu, over 40 have been accepted to other countries through resettlement programmes. None of them, however, can pay the exit fine.

The danger in such a situation is as foreign embassies inevitably begin to take notice of the number of refugees that are unable to leave Nepal. Because resettlement countries work through quota allocations, only an exact number of refugees are accepted from Nepal every year. Over time, a country can get a reputation for making it difficult for refugees to accept their resettlement, and host countries move to decrease their quota allowances, deeming it wasteful to give resettlement spots to refugees they know cannot fill them.

Ghimire is quick to point out that for certain "vulnerable" cases, such as that of Taban, the government may occasionally agree to waive the fee. Such a procedure is long and bureaucratic, however, involving an application bouncing between the Home Ministry, the Finance Ministry and the Council of Ministers. "At present, there's no plan to change the policy towards urban refugees," he says. When pressed further on what would happen to those who cannot leave, he answers cryptically: "It's up to them."

Back at Abdi's house, the children are ready for sleep. Load-shedding has begun, so Abdi leads them all to their room with a flashlight. After making sure they are all accounted for, he turns and goes to back to his room, where he sits at the foot of his bed. He lights a cigarette, and begins to talk about smuggling his family into India and then trying to head back to Somalia. They have been in Kathmandu for three years, he says, and this option is beginning to seem like the only way they will be able to leave without paying the visa fee. He tries calculating what it would cost for nine people who have overstayed their visas for three years, but gives up. It is about USD 60,000. I ask Abdi if it is not too dangerous to take his family back to Mogadishu. He looks up. "Will things change tomorrow, or will we be here for the next 15 years?" he asks. "In Somalia, either you live or you die. Here it's nothing".

~ Sebastian Meyer is a freelance photographer based in Kathmandu.