When the river runs backward: The unfolding story of asylum seekers in a world of walls
By Dr Francis Chishala
IT WAS a humid Tuesday in early March when the first of the new arrivals stepped off the battered minibus at the edge of Lusaka’s Kunda Nkwazi settlement. The sun had already begun to bleed orange across the sky, casting long shadows over the makeshift tents that would become home to more than a 100 men, women, and children.
Among them was Amina, a 28-year-old mother from the Democratic Republic of Congo, clutching a faded photograph of her two children, eyes fixed on the dusty road that had led her here.
Amina’s story is not a headline; it is a whisper carried on the wind, a single thread in a tapestry woven from desperation, law, and the ancient call to hospitality that threads through the Bible, the Quran, and the customs of the Bemba, the Lozi, and the Ngoni alike.
A river that doesn’t flow forward
In the last five years, the number of people forced to flee their homes has surged past 100 million, a figure that makes the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) describe the current era as “the age of displacement.”
The reasons are as varied as they are grim: conflict in Syria and Yemen, climate-induced drought in the Sahel, and the resurgence of authoritarianism in parts of Eastern Europe. Yet each story begins the same way: with a knock on a door, a hurried packing of a bag, a final glance at a home that will never be the same.
For Amina, the knock came in the form of a militia raid on her village near Goma. “They burned our house,” she says, voice trembling, “and they took my husband.” She walked for three days, crossing the border into Zambia with only the clothes on her back and the photograph that now rests against her chest. The journey was a river that ran backwards, away from safety, toward an uncertain shore.
The law as a map, not a barrier
Internationally, the 1951 Refugee Convention and its 1967 Protocol form the cornerstone of asylum law. They enshrine the principle of “non-refoulement”: no one may be returned to a country where they face persecution. In practice, however, the map is riddled with obstacles. The European Union’s Dublin Regulation, for instance, often leaves asylum seekers stranded in the first EU country they reach, a policy that has sparked protests from Greece to Spain.
Closer to home, Zambia’s own Refugee Act of 2015, amended in 2022 to include climate-induced displacement, offers a more progressive framework. The law grants refugees the right to work, access primary education, and receive health care. Yet, as Amina discovers, the promise of the law is only as strong as its implementation.
“On paper, we have rights,” says Samuel Mumba, a legal aid officer with the Zambia Law Society. “In reality, many refugees are denied permits to work because local officials fear competition for jobs. The bureaucracy can be a labyrinth, and the fear of being labelled ‘illegal’ keeps many from seeking the protection they are entitled to.”
The market of hope
The Kunda Nkwazi market, a bustling hub of stalls selling second-hand clothes, fresh produce, and homemade peanut butter, is where the law meets the lived experience of refugees. Here, Amina sells small bundles of chapatis to passing commuters. Her stall, a wooden plank propped against a rusted metal barrel, is a micro economy built on resilience.
“I wake before dawn,” she explains, “to knead the dough, to pray that someone will buy. The money buys medicine for my children back home, and a little extra for school fees.” The market is more than commerce; it is a place of silent solidarity. A Zambian vendor, Mr. Banda, offers Amina a discount on his tomatoes, saying, “We are all children of the same soil. You are welcome here.”
Such gestures echo a tradition that stretches back centuries. In the Bemba proverb, “Umuntu mutima wa mukulu,” meaning “A person is the heart of the elder,” hospitality is not an option but a moral imperative.
Scripture and the call to welcome the stranger:
The moral compass that guides many Zambians also finds resonance in sacred texts. The Bible, in Leviticus 19:34, commands, “The stranger who resides with you shall be to you as the native among you; you shall love the stranger as yourself.” Similarly, the Quran, in Surah Al‑Baqarah 2:177, reminds believers, “Righteousness is not that you turn your faces toward the east or the west; but righteous is the one who… gives shelter to the orphan and the needy, and speaks kindly to the people.”
These verses have been invoked by church leaders and imams across Zambia to advocate for refugee rights. Pastor Elijah Chikwanda of the United Church of Zambia (UCZ) recently told his congregation, “When we turn away a refugee, we turn away the very face of God.” In the same breath, Imam Abdul Rahman of the Lusaka Mosque echoed, “Our faith teaches us to feed the hungry, to clothe the naked, and to give refuge to those who seek it.”
The global stage: A patchwork of policies
While Zambia strives to balance humanitarian ideals with economic constraints, other nations grapple with their own contradictions. The United States (US), under its latest asylum reforms, has introduced a “transit rule” that bars migrants who passed through a third country from applying for asylum; a policy that human rights groups argue violates international law.
Australia’s offshore processing centres on Nauru and Manus Island have been condemned for their harsh conditions, prompting a United Nations (UN) inquiry into possible breaches of the Convention Against Torture.
In contrast, Germany’s 2023 “Skilled Worker Immigration Act” seeks to attract refugees with vocational training, recognising that migration can be a boon to an aging economy. Yet, even in Germany, the rise of far‑right parties has reignited debates over national identity and the limits of hospitality.
The human cost of indecision
Back at Kunda Nkwazi, the evening call to prayer drifts over the settlement, mingling with the distant hum of traffic. A young boy, no older than 10, runs past Amina’s stall, his laughter a brief antidote to the weight of the world. He is a reminder that behind every statistic is a life yearning for normalcy.
The UN estimates that only 30 % of refugees worldwide have access to formal education. In Zambia, the Ministry of Education has pledged to integrate refugee children into public schools, but shortages of classrooms and teachers mean many children sit under trees, their lessons interrupted by the rustle of wind through the thatch.
“It is not just a matter of law,” says Dr Fatima Nkhoma, a lecturer in International Law at the University of Zambia. “It is a matter of conscience. When we see a child like that, we must ask ourselves: what kind of world are we building?”
A call to the global community
The story of Amina and the countless others who arrive at the edges of societies with nothing but hope is a test of humanity’s capacity to remember its own fragility. International law provides the scaffolding; national legislation can either reinforce or erode it. Yet, the true architecture of refuge is built brick by brick through everyday acts of kindness; a vendor’s discount, a neighbour’s smile, a congregation’s prayer.
As the sun sets over Lusaka, casting a golden glow on the tents of Kunda Nkwazi, the river that once ran backwards begins to find its forward flow. It does so not because the world has changed its laws overnight, but because people, ordinary people, have chosen to open their doors, their hearts, and their hands.
In the words of the Psalmist, “The Lord is near to the broken-hearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” In the silence of the night, when the world seems to turn its back, it is that proximity of law; of faith, of hospitality, that offers the first glimpse of a new dawn.
The author is a literary narrative journalist, international affairs expert, communication management consultant, and humanitarian actor lobbying and advocating for environmental justice and social justice. Currently reading law and politics (Unicaf University) and development economics (ARU).
