On this particular day, I was optimistic about my client’s chances of success at his refugee hearing. His story reflected not only personal hardship but also the systemic failures that often underpin refugee claims based on mental health.
My client suffered from anxiety, depression, and PTSD. In his home country, these conditions did not attract care or compassion—they attracted stigma. He faced widespread discrimination. Landlords refused to rent to him. Employers would not hire him. Members of his own family labelled him as being possessed by witchcraft, a harmful and deeply entrenched cultural misconception in some societies.
His experience within the healthcare system was equally troubling. Confidentiality—one of the most fundamental principles of medical ethics—was routinely violated. His diagnosis was openly discussed in the presence of others. He was rebuked and given unsolicited advice publicly. There was no regard for dignity or privacy. When he turned to law enforcement for protection, he was mocked rather than assisted. Simply put, he was failed by the very institutions meant to protect him.
It is important for young lawyers to understand that refugee law recognizes that persecution can arise not only from direct state action, but also from a state’s inability or unwillingness to provide protection. Discrimination, when it reaches a certain threshold, can amount to persecution—especially when it is persistent, systemic, and affects fundamental aspects of a person’s life such as housing, employment, healthcare, and personal security.
My client’s life had not always been this way. He was educated, employed, and socially connected. However, a history of domestic abuse, combined with the breakdown of his marriage, contributed significantly to his mental health decline. At one point, he attempted to take his own life. Instead of receiving care, he was arrested and threatened with prosecution, as attempted suicide is criminalized in his country. This highlights another important principle: laws that criminalize mental health crises can themselves become instruments of persecution.
Eventually, a friend helped him leave the country to seek protection abroad.
On the day of the hearing, which was conducted remotely, my client was seated with a designated representative. As proceedings were about to begin, I observed the presiding decision-maker struggling with his laptop. In apparent frustration, he muttered words to the effect of: “It appears the ABC witchcraft has caught up with my laptop.”
This was not a harmless remark.
Given that he was from ABC country, and his claim was partly based on being wrongly accused of witchcraft, such a statement raised a serious concern. In law, justice must not only be done—it must be seen to be done. The test for bias is not whether bias actually exists, but whether a reasonable and informed person would perceive a real possibility of bias.
I immediately requested that the panel member recuse himself on the basis of a reasonable apprehension of bias. I was invited to make submissions, which I did. The request was denied, and the hearing proceeded.
That moment—brief and seemingly minor—became the central issue on appeal. The appeal was successful.
The lesson here is clear:
As a young lawyer, never overlook the “small” details. Procedural fairness, natural justice, and the right to an impartial decision-maker are cornerstones of any legal system. A single comment, a gesture, or an attitude can undermine the integrity of an entire proceeding.
Your role is not only to present your client’s case, but to safeguard the fairness of the process itself. Sometimes, justice turns not on the major facts—but on the moments others dismiss.
*Johnson Babalola is a Canadian lawyer and the founder of JBLLC Mentorship Platform
Read part 1 of this piece HERE