During a break from his shift as a restaurant waiter, Pau Mung1 was stopped by the police.
The officers asked to see his documents. He had no passport, Malaysian immigration documents, or UNHCR card. All he could show them were two community identification cards issued by local Zomi organizations.
The officers told him the cards were not valid. Then, according to Pau Mung, they searched his pockets and asked him for money.
He had no cash.
Eventually, they let him go.
When Pau Mung recounted the incident to our research team, he considered himself fortunate. Yet the encounter showed how quickly an ordinary moment could end in detention. The life he was building in Malaysia depended on being able to work, move through the city, and return home safely. A single police stop could put all of it at risk.
Pau Mung resisted leaving Myanmar for as long as he could. He had built a professional life there, but the military takeover in 2021 made that life increasingly difficult to sustain. Political repression deepened, and the announcement of mandatory military service narrowed his options further. Eventually, he concluded that staying could endanger both himself and the people around him.
Pau Mung’s journey belonged to a newer chapter in a much longer history.
The Zomi are an ethnic group connected across an upland region now divided among Myanmar, India, and neighboring areas. The name carries cultural, historical, and, for many people, political meaning. It overlaps with related terms such as Zo and Chin, though those terms are not automatically interchangeable.
Zomi people had been building lives in Malaysia for over two decades. Earlier groups left Myanmar during other periods of junta rule, violence, and repression. After the 2021 military coup, worsening conflict, political pressure, arbitrary arrest, conscription, and the loss of livelihoods pushed more people from their homes. Some moved within Myanmar or crossed into northeastern India. Others continued to Malaysia or joined relatives already living abroad.
In our research, we saw how Zomi refugees and people seeking asylum assembled daily life in Malaysian cities rather than within a national camp system. This meant that work, school, medical care, worship, and other necessities required movement through public spaces.
That daily movement took place under a basic legal constraint. Malaysia has no national asylum system. UNHCR can register people and issue documents under its mandate, but those documents do not grant Malaysian immigration status or authorization to work.
Even this limited documentation was uncommon. Only one in three survey participants reported having UNHCR-related documentation.
For those who had it, the documentation could still make a difference. Participants said the documents could be accepted during police checks, reduce hospital charges, or help UNHCR or community representatives respond after detention. These forms of assistance mattered, but they could not guarantee how the next police encounter would end.
Across the survey, most participants reported high fear of being stopped or checked by police or immigration. That fear also shaped daily life, often leading people to change their normal routines.
Earning a Living Without Legal Security
Pau Mung feared being stopped, but he still had to earn a living. His restaurant job provided his wages, housing, and meals.
Finding that work had not been straightforward. Pau Mung had worked in professional and office settings in Myanmar. In Malaysia, he applied for jobs online, but employers asked for a passport or legal documents he did not have. His applications went no further.
The opportunities that followed came through people he knew.
“My first job in Malaysia was through my uncle, who had already been living here. My second job came through a friend who invited me to work at his restaurant. When that restaurant closed, my employer referred me to another restaurant, where I currently work.”
Other participants described finding work in similar ways. Relatives, friends, church members, community leaders, and former employers told people about openings, introduced them to managers, or passed their names along. These relationships could open a door when an application ended with a request for documents.
Employment was common among participants, but having a job did not guarantee reliable pay or safe conditions. In the study, seven in ten participants were working. Nearly half reported at least one recent concern involving late or missing pay, unsafe conditions, or the risk of injury.
Some employers provided housing, meals, transportation, or help with medical expenses. Pau Mung’s employer provided housing and meals. The accommodation was crowded, but it helped reduce his daily expenses.
Without recognized documentation, Pau Mung could earn money but could not open a bank account in which to keep it. Carrying cash felt unsafe because he feared the police might take it during a stop. He therefore sometimes lent his savings to trusted friends, who repaid him later. His friends became his bank, an account built not on documents but on trust.
His lack of status followed him from the job application to the police stop and even into the question of where to keep the money he earned. Relatives and friends helped him find work. His employer helped with food and housing. Each form of assistance mattered, but none changed the fact that he lacked authorization to work.
For many participants, wages supported more than the worker. They paid rent, bought food, covered medical care and debt, and supported relatives abroad. For parents, the same income also had to keep their children in school.
An Uncertain Educational Future for the Next Generation
That was the calculation facing Hau Cing,2 who was raising three children. The family depended mainly on her husband’s income because caring for the children limited how regularly she could work. She took small freelance jobs when she could, but school fees added pressure to the household’s limited budget. Although Hau Cing had a UNHCR card, she also worried when taking her children outside because the journey to school exposed them to possible police or immigration checks.
“Education is very important to us, especially literacy… [for our children]”
What kind of education was available to refugee families?
In the survey, only one in ten participants with children under 18 in their households reported an arrangement categorized as formal. The “formal” label did not by itself establish government recognition or educational quality, but it showed how uncommon such arrangements were among participating households.
For some families, documentation shaped whether a child could be accepted or travel safely to school. But it was only one part of the problem. Fees, distance, transportation, language, disability, household responsibilities, and the need to work also affected whether children could continue learning.
For many families, the available alternative was a church or community program. More than half of survey participants with children reported relying on this form of learning. Two of Hau Cing’s children attended a church-supported school, one in Grade 1 and the other in Grade 2.
These programs filled an essential gap. Parents valued their teachers, volunteers, familiar languages, flexible fees, and trusted relationships. Some families described stable arrangements and children making progress. For many, a church or community program was the most workable option available.
But access to a classroom was not the same as having a secure educational pathway. Community programs could depend on fees, volunteer teachers, available space, transportation, or outside financial support. Some offered only a limited number of grade levels. A child could be learning now while the family remained uncertain about what would happen the following year or after the final available level.
The problem was not necessarily the quality of teaching. It was whether an arrangement could reliably carry a child from one stage of education to the next. That uncertainty was visible in the survey. Half of participants with children disagreed that children could learn safely and consistently.
Hau Cing’s children were learning, but their education depended on a household budget with little room.
Seeking Medical Care Without Safe Access
Hau Cing knew the healthcare system from both sides. Before childcare responsibilities limited how regularly she could work, she had worked as a healthcare interpreter, helping Zomi patients communicate with providers. But when her own family needed care, knowing the system did not make treatment affordable or easy to obtain.
In the survey, nearly nine in ten participants said their usual first response to illness was home care or a pharmacy. For a minor illness, that might be enough. But interviews also described people waiting to see whether their symptoms improved because going to a clinic or hospital required money they did not yet have.
The medical bill was only one expense. A visit could also require transportation, missed work, childcare, medicine, and an interpreter. Some participants said a UNHCR card reduced charges at government hospitals, sometimes by half. The reduction helped, but it did not cover the remaining bill or these other costs.
For some participants, care did not happen even when they believed they needed it. More than one in five reported needing healthcare but not going at least once during the previous three months.
Others reached a hospital but still struggled to understand the care they received. One parent described repeatedly taking a daughter to the hospital without receiving a clear explanation.
“For my daughter we often go to the hospital, I'm not sure what's wrong with her as I'm not able to ask due to language barrier, and the interpreter doesn't give the details either.”
The child had received care, but the parent remained unsure what was wrong.
These experiences help place another survey finding in context: 54 percent of participants disagreed that healthcare felt safe for people like them.
A medical visit could leave less money for food or school fees, while missing work to seek care could mean earning less. Travelling to work, school, or a hospital could also expose someone to a police check. Families had to weigh these costs again and again.
The Mental Toll of Uncertainty
The officers let Pau Mung go, but he still had to leave home each day to work, knowing that he could be stopped again. Hau Cing carried a UNHCR card, yet taking her children to school still meant entering public spaces where police or immigration checks could occur.
This kind of fear was common across the survey. Fifty-four of the 90 participants, or 60 percent, reported feeling afraid that something awful might happen nearly every day.
For Pau Mung, the fear continued at night. He described being unable to sleep as his greatest source of stress. His workday could end, but his worry about a potential arrest remained. Across the survey, 41 participants, or 46 percent, reported difficulty sleeping most days of the week.
Another participant, Dim Nuam3, described distress shaped by illness and isolation. Dim Nuam was a mother living with a chronic leg condition that prevented her from working. She rarely left home except to take her child to school or complete an essential task. She missed visiting relatives, which had once eased her mind.
Seeking medical care brought another difficulty. Because Dim Nuam did not speak the local language, visiting a hospital meant finding someone to accompany her and interpret.
“Even if we were to have the money for it, it's still a lot of stress when you don't know the language and you're sick, needing to consistently find someone to go with you.”
Unable to work and dependent on others to reach medical care, Dim Nuam spoke of regret and a loss of independence. Illness limited where she could go, while the language barrier made even necessary journeys harder to manage.
Our research showed how common symptoms of distress were: 62 percent screened positive for elevated depressive or anxiety symptoms on at least one of two standardized measures. The measures could not explain what caused any individual participant’s symptoms. In interviews, people rarely used clinical terms. Instead, they described pressures that often converged in daily life, including fear of police, insecure work, school fees, medical costs, illness, and separation from relatives.
But distress was not the whole of their lives. Participants also spoke about the people they loved, the responsibilities they carried, and the beliefs that helped them continue. They still had hopes for what life could become.
Strength for Today and Bright Hope for Tomorrow
For Pau Mung, Hau Cing, and Dim Nuam, hope was visible in what they kept doing. Pau Mung continued working and tried to save money. Hau Cing cared for her children, took freelance jobs when she could, and kept two of them in school. Dim Nuam managed a chronic illness, took her child to school, and found ways to reach medical care despite needing someone to accompany and interpret for her.
Their strength came from different places. Thinking about his mother helped Pau Mung continue when he felt discouraged. Church, worship, and time with friends also gave him support. Hau Cing remained focused on her children’s education. Dim Nuam drew strength from her faith and believed that God would make a way forward. She hoped that she could one day help others facing the same language barriers she encountered.
Similar patterns appeared across the interviews. Participants spoke about prayer, family, friendship, work, study, caregiving, and service to others. Children gave some parents a reason to continue. Work provided routine and purpose as well as income. Helping someone translate, find a job, reach a hospital, or respond to detention could restore a sense of usefulness.
The future they wanted was also visible in the priorities they selected. Job protections and safer access to healthcare were each chosen among the top priorities by 53 percent of survey participants, while half selected safe transportation. In interviews, people hoped for legal protection, stable work, health, education, family unity, peace, and the ability to help others.
One participant expressed that hope simply:
“I hope refugees can live with more stability, safety, and opportunities in the future.”
That hope did not come with certainty. Many participants did not know when documents might arrive, whether work would continue, or whether their families would be reunited. Still, they went to work, kept children in school, cared for relatives, saved what they could, and helped one another. They did not wait for uncertainty to end before building lives of their own.
They had already found strength for today. A brighter tomorrow would require institutions to meet their effort with legal recognition, protection, and genuine opportunity.
About the Research
This publication draws on Lives in Limbo, a mixed-methods study conducted in Malaysia in 2026. The study included a survey of 90 Zomi adults and a separately recruited group of 36 people who participated in in-person interviews.
For detailed methodology, findings, sources, limitations, and recommendations, read the full Lives in Limbo report at ZomiCommunityResearch.org.
The study was designed and led by Dr. Suan Lian Tuang, who also conducted the analysis and wrote the report. Mary Cing Lian Siam served as research coordinator. This work was made possible by a dedicated research team that included Cing Mun Dim, Cing Sawm Mang, Dim Sian Nem, L. Kaichinpau, Langh Muan Mung, Lian Cin Thawng, Lun Kop Siam, Mang Ho Sung, Niang Hoih Cing, Niang Sian Nuam, Nuam Sian Sang, Thuam Sian Huai Nging, and Vung Dim Cing. Their patience, care, community knowledge, and commitment were essential to the research and to honoring the experiences participants entrusted to the team.