As the world marks World Refugee Day this month, millions of people remain displaced by conflict, persecution and instability.
The United Nations refugee agency (UNHCR) says more than 136 million people worldwide are projected to be forcibly displaced or stateless in 2026.
Of these, about 30.5 million are registered refugees, while millions more are asylum seekers awaiting decisions on their claims or internally displaced within their own countries.
Thailand hosts a small but significant share of this population. Asylum Access Thailand (AAT) says 7,000 asylum seekers from 45 countries live in the kingdom. Yet for many of them, reaching safety is only the beginning of a long struggle.
Unlike countries that are parties to the 1951 Refugee Convention, Thailand does not formally recognise refugee status under domestic law.
While asylum seekers and refugees may hold UNHCR-issued documentation, Thai law largely regards them through the lens of immigration regulations.
The result is a legal grey area that shapes nearly every aspect of daily life.
Many urban refugees entered Thailand on tourist visas or without formal immigration status.
Even after being granted refugee status by UNHCR, they can still be considered to be staying in the country illegally once their visas expire.
Without recognised legal status, they have no formal right to work, limited access to healthcare and education, and remain vulnerable to arrest, detention and deportation.
Although the international principle of non-refoulement protects recognised refugees from being returned to places where their lives or freedom are at risk, it does not resolve the practical realities of life in limbo.
AAT says urban refugees often live largely out of public view, relying on community networks, charities and informal employment to survive. Some asylum seekers, including children, have been detained.
For those who are arrested, release may depend on financial guarantees, resettlement approval or circumstances beyond their control.
Refuge beyond the border
Escaping persecution may bring safety, but for many refugees in Thailand, hardship continues in quieter, less visible ways.
For Sami, a Pakistani mother of three, the uncertainty has lasted nearly a decade. Her family belongs to Pakistan's Ahmadiyya Muslim community, which has long faced discrimination and persecution.
The decision to leave came after threats surrounding her children's safety. "The school called me and said they didn't want my children to come to school and could not promise if someone would hurt them," she recalled.
The family sold everything they owned and travelled to Thailand, hoping it would eventually become a pathway to permanent resettlement elsewhere. Instead, they found themselves waiting.
The family has since received refugee recognition through UNHCR, but that status has not turned into legal work rights.
"There are some people who give you work but pay you half salary because you don't have anything that would allow you to work," she said.
A former teacher in Pakistan, Ms Sami now relies on informal cooking jobs, preparing biryani, curries and samosas whenever orders become available through refugee networks and aid organisations.
She said she appreciates all the customers' orders because it means income to support the family. Yet without a stable income, daily decisions remain difficult calculations.
Healthcare for the family is reduced to over-the-counter remedies, as proper treatment is often unaffordable.
Food is rationed, meals stretched to last another day. "My children sometimes want more curry," she said. "I say sorry, we eat tomorrow, drink some water."
Years of waiting have also affected her children, who have grown up in Thailand and speak Thai fluently.
"Sometimes they say, 'Mama, you promised we would go to another country, but we are still stuck here.'"
Her response remains unchanged.
For Ms Sami, legal access to employment would make the greatest difference.
"If we were allowed to work, waiting would be easier," she said. "We are educated people. We do not want to ask others for help."
The cost of waiting
While Ms Sami's story revolves around waiting, 24-year-old Zom represents another reality for urban refugees: growing up in a country that feels like home while remaining legally invisible.
Ms Zom arrived in Thailand from Vietnam in 2011 after her Hmong family fled what they feared was religious persecution.
She said her family applied for refugee status but was rejected. Her father, however, maintained that coming to Thailand was the right decision. "If we stayed there, we might die," she said, recalling her father's view.
Having spent most of her life in Bangkok, Ms Zom speaks warmly about Thailand and the people around her. "Apart from the issue of documents, everything here is good," she said.
But without documents, nearly every opportunity remains out of reach.
Without legal status, she has worked in informal jobs such as packing goods, selling products and working in restaurants. Access to higher education has remained out of reach, Ms Zom said, because formal identification documents are required for enrolment.
"I tell employers honestly that I have a high school diploma but no documents," she said. "If they understand, I work for them."
Ms Zom says employers sometimes offer lower wages because of her status. "We don't have paperwork. They can just pay us how much they want or not hire us at all."
The risks extend beyond employment. Police checks in her neighbourhood are common, and being unable to produce documents can lead to detention. She knows people who have experienced it. "My friend," she said quietly.
The friend was eventually released after receiving approval for resettlement to another country. "But if there's no opportunity, people just remain in detention for who knows how long."
Unlike many refugees seeking a future elsewhere, Ms Zom hopes to remain in Thailand permanently and is seeking legal documentation through formal channels. "The only thing I hope for is to become Thai," she said.
Despite years of uncertainty, both women say Thailand feels safer and more welcoming than the countries they fled. Ms Sami can practise her faith freely and says her children can move about safely.
While Ms Zom has built her life and identity here. What troubles them most is not the kindness of ordinary people, but a legal system that leaves them suspended between protection and illegality.
Their appeals are simple.
"I would ask for permission to work legally," Ms Sami said.
Ms Zom's request is equally modest.
"If we haven't broken the law, do we really deserve to be arrested?"
Then she paused.
"We're human beings too."
