Back in the 1940s, my grandfather fled from Kinmen, Fujian Province during the Second World War and established a life in Brunei. In the Kingdom, he was labelled as a ‘permanent resident’ along with other immigrants. After all, he was set to stay for a long time since Brunei was where he found a stable job and started his family. A few years later, my dad was born in Brunei.

You would think, “Oh, he must be a Bruneian then.”

Unfortunately, he is not a Bruneian, and so am I who was also born in Brunei.

We are just a permanent resident who doesn’t have any nationality. In other words, we are stateless. In Brunei, the national law dictates that citizenship must be inherited from one’s parents rather than through birth within the country’s territory.

Our family grew up with this label without many problems in Brunei and never thought that such status would put us in so much trouble. Sometimes, this ‘in-between’ status worked in favour of us — we get to enjoy some citizenship benefits such as (partially) subsidised education and healthcare.

There are some downsides. When I was studying there, I couldn’t apply for the government scholarships although I was qualified to do so.

One of the biggest downsides is that we can only travel to limited places such as nearby nations like Malaysia and Singapore — the only two places which do not require a travel visa from us, permanent residents from Brunei. I like to put it that they ‘understand’ our situation.

In seventh grade, I went to Singapore for a school exchange trip and studied at a local school for a week. They asked me about where I am from. I said “I am from Brunei” just like my other classmates I came to Singapore with.

There was no doubt in my mind that I am a Bruneian. However, legally, this was not the case.

Later that year, I traveled to Macau for a drama competition. I was suddenly questioned at the check-in counter of the airport and was almost banned from flying. The customs officials said my visa is invalid since they cannot find it in the system. That was the first time I realised that my ‘passport’ is unique. It is mysterious and unknown to the world.

In eleventh grade, I went back to Singapore again. I needed to apply for a student visa once I got there because I was set to study in the city-state for two years. To get a student visa, I needed a ‘valid’ passport. However, I only had what’s called ‘Certificate of Identity,’ the certificate by the Bruneian government that theoretically allows for international travels. However, the holders can be denied entry since many countries are ignorant and skeptical about the validity of this certificate.

Needless to say, my attempt(s) to get a simple student visa in Singapore was terribly challenging. My online application for a student pass came back with a reply stating ‘nationality error’. I went to an immigration department in Singapore, and they probed into my identity.

They asked me, “If you’re not a Bruneian, then where are you from?”

“Brunei,” I said.

“No, I mean, where were you born? Clearly, you must be from somewhere, right?”

“I was born in Brunei.”

Their face was full of confusion.