By Didier Habimana
For refugees living in Kenya, the right to travel hangs on a single elusive document: the Conventional Travel Document. It should open doors to study, work, and reconnect with family. But for myself and other refugees who’ve got one, it feels like an unreliable key.
Imagine having to justify yourself every time you want to leave your city – not only for leisure, but even for work or family obligations. For many refugees, even though they have valid documents, this freedom isn’t always guaranteed.
In 2022, I applied for a travel document for the first time as a Rwandan refugee living in Kenya. My cousin was getting married in Zimbabwe, and I longed to be there, to dance, celebrate, and reconnect with family that I hadn’t seen in over 20 years. I submitted an application for a Conventional Travel Document (CTD), which would allow me to travel legally.
I was warned that attending a wedding would not be considered a valid reason. Though there aren’t clear exclusion criteria on CTD application guidelines, accepted applications are often on the basis of a sponsored invitation to speak at high-level international forums or secured scholarships for higher education abroad – family events a seemingly lesser priority. Despite this, determined to see my family and finding no specific guideline against it, I submitted my paperwork anyway; hearing the music in my head as I imagined dancing with loved ones.
After over six months had passed with no response, I returned to the office to inquire. The officer in charge of CTDs asked my name and hunted through a towering stack of paper on her desk until she found mine. After asking me to explain why I wanted to travel, details I’d had to outline on the application in her hands, she swiftly said, “We don’t accept reasons like weddings or visiting cousins. Besides, the wedding date has already passed.” I rode the bus home, silently vibrating with anger and disappointment. Needless to say, there was no dancing or hugging loved ones.
What is a CTD?
A Conventional Travel Document (CTD) should give recognised refugees the ability to travel internationally. Issued under the 1951 Refugee Convention by the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) via the Department of Refugee Services (DRS), it serves as a substitute passport for refugees. With a CTD, refugees should be able to apply for travel visas, board planes, attend global events, accept job offers, pursue education abroad, or reunite with family.
An employee of the UNHCR stated that they do not have a target quota to fulfill but rather issue CTDs “depended on application numbers” and “availability of booklets”.
Despite the refugee and asylum seeker population in Kenya reaching 854,876 persons, as of June 2025, so far around only 300 CTDs have been issued in the first eight months of 2025. The number of CTDs issued in 2024 was 642, and 232 in 2023.
In 2024, the DRS reported a problem with the CTD printing machine. It has since been fixed, but as of September 2024 they reported a backlog of over 500 CTDs to clear. A source from the DRS confirmed that there is still a backlog in printing at the time of writing.
“Every time I begin the visa process, or even walk into an embassy, my body tenses. My mind fills with fear: Will they see me as less? As a threat? Will they say no again?”
In theory, the CTD is a powerful tool that restores dignity, access, and opportunity. In practice, it is hard to obtain; rare approvals often take months, the eligibility criteria is not clearly outlined in public guidelines, yet approval often required institutional sponsorship or need for urgent medical care. Further, the CTD is not even guaranteed to be respected internationally.
When the Door Finally Opens
A year after my first application attempt, I found a “valid” reason to be granted a CTD. I was selected for a Pan-African fellowship that required me to attend an orientation and participate in a forum on displacement in Ghana.
But as the orientation week commenced in Ghana, my CTD had not yet been issued by the local DRS. Hesitant to feel hopeful this time, I had nearly resigned to another missed opportunity. Then late one evening, a friend called saying; “I think your travel document might be ready but let’s not get our hopes up, go check tomorrow.”
I slept that night with my fingers crossed.
The next morning, the Department of Refugee Services called asking me to collect my CTD. I was thrilled. Fortunately, my fellowship slot was still available and though I had missed a full week of the orientation, I made it for the last two days of orientation and to the forum.
Despite the frustration, the moment I held my CTD in my hands for the first time remains indescribable.
Obtaining the CTD and traveling to Ghana allowed me to contribute to conversations on displacement and inclusion, while also forming connections that I still rely on today. The trip gave me a platform to showcase my creativity and skills in photography and videography, which opened doors to new projects and professional opportunities.
Since then, I have been invited to other forums to share my voice, both as a creative and as a humanitarian worker, and I’ve built a continent-wide network who continue to inspire me and connect me with further opportunities.
That single journey shifted how I see myself. I no longer view my identity solely through my refugee status, but as a global citizen with the ability and responsibility to contribute anywhere in the world. It’s a clear example of how, when refugees are given mobility, they return with skills, networks, and perspectives that uplift their communities and strengthen the societies they live in.
While I was able to continue traveling, even with CTD documents, some refugees have still been denied the basic mobility at the visa application level.
An Unreliable Key
Deline Ramiro, a fellow refugee, shared my feelings of elation receiving her CTD. “It had taken time, waiting, and constant follow ups,” she said. “But when I finally got it, I believed I was one step closer to global inclusion as a professional, as a woman, and as a changemaker.”
In 2023, Deline was invited to attend the Global Refugee Forum in Geneva. Her face and story even appeared on posters and social media. She had a CTD, sponsorship, accommodation, and an official invitation. Yet her visa was denied with no explanation beyond a generic rejection letter. There was no opportunity to appeal or try again.
Just a month later, she was invited to COP28 in Dubai. Again, she was denied a visa.
In 2024, she applied for a visa in the U.S. Embassy for another international event. Once again, rejected.
“By this point,” she told me, “the process had started to take a toll on me. Every time I begin the visa process, or even walk into an embassy, my body tenses. My mind fills with fear: Will they see me as less? As a threat? Will they say no again?”
For Deline, this trauma is real. So are the non-refundable visa application fees, transportation, and accommodation costs to visit embassies. Deline makes a strong argument for wider global recognition of CTDs in travel visa applications.
Another refugee living Kenya, Jean Marie recalls how difficult it was just to learn how to even apply for a CTD. “There was no information online,” he said. “I had to go in person to the Department of Refugee Services just to understand the process.”
He eventually received a CTD when the UNHCR intervened as he was invited to a forum in Spain.
“If you’re not backed by a known organization,” he explained, “you’ll probably be denied. Even your reason for traveling matters.”
At airports, immigration officers often question the legitimacy of the document. Some don’t even recognize it. Jean was shocked when Egypt, a fellow African country, refused him entry even after he fulfilled all the requirements. It felt especially painful within Africa, which aspires to be a borderless continent, where we can easily trade and travel.
“Being denied a visa on the grounds of your immigration status makes you feel excluded from the community, yet you are not the problem that made you become a refugee.” Jean describes delays, embarrassment, humiliation, and suspicion.
“Some countries don’t recognize the refugee passport,” he said. “You’re denied simply because you’re a refugee.”
Shouldn’t Feel Like Luck
Friends often tell me, “You’re lucky.” I have a CTD. I’ve travelled. I’ve attended forums. And yes, it feels privileged. But the more I reflect, the more I realize, this shouldn’t feel like luck, it should be a right.
When hopes and dreams are pinned to a single paper booklet – which is complicated and time consuming to obtain – the international community must do better to respect and recognize its legitimacy. Embassies and donor countries could support special lanes to ensure life changing advocacy opportunities, like Deline’s, aren’t missed with a stark slam of a door.
A DRS employee acknowledged current delays are coming from the vetting committee meetings, but also booklet restocks or printing machine break downs which create subsequent backlog. However, the DRS employee could not comment on their ability to ensure the document is respected by other borders or visa applications abroad.
Though governments’ concerns around national security and border control are important, those concerns have become blanket restrictions. They don’t just protect borders, they close doors. They crush dreams. They block growth. Refugees are encouraged to be self reliant, to lead, to innovate, but how can we, when our movement is constantly denied?
Deline puts it best:
“What hurts the most is that the opportunities I missed weren’t just mine. I missed them on behalf of my community. I wasn’t going to GRF or COP28 just as Deline. I was going to speak for thousands of unheard voices. When I was denied, those stories stayed untold.”
Mobility is not a luxury, it’s a right. The ability to move, to connect, to grow, to represent, and to return is part of our shared humanity.
Refugees are not threats. We are thinkers, artists, advocates, businesspeople, and students. We are voices that need to be heard.
This article was written as part of a collaboration between TAP Media and London College of Communication, where young journalists, advocates and content creators living in refugee camps worked alongside a student editorial team to deliver powerful and insightful stories.
The writer is Didier Habimana is a photographer, visual storyteller, and community leader. He founded of Iwacu Creatives, a grassroots creative agency that empowers communities by offering photography and videography training and runs a social enterprise that helps refugee artists and artisans earn from their crafts and exhibit their work. He also serves as a Refugee Youth Coordinator at United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), representing and advocating for the inclusion of refugee youth and refugee-led organizations in national and global conversations.
The editor is Maya Baylis a journalist based in London. Previously a trained social worker with experience in mental health, marginalized communities, addiction, child welfare, and criminal justice, Maya bridges social work and journalism to platform social justice and climate justice issues, prioritizing human narrative based stories.
All images taken by Didier Habimana