For the first time in 42 years, the Democratic Republic of Congo is attempting to count itself — a nation of an estimated 112 million souls, millions of whom have never once been recorded by the state that governs them. Since the country was still called Zaire in 1984, generations have been born, lived, and labored in an administrative silence, their existence unconfirmed by any official document. This census is not merely a logistical exercise; it is an act of recognition long withheld, arriving now amid armed conflict, mass displacement, and the gathering pressures of a 2028 election cycle.
DR Congo's First Census in 42 Years Offers Millions a Chance at Official Identity
Millions of Congolese remain unregistered and lack official identity documents; armed conflict and displacement in eastern regions threaten census participation and state service access.
Being registered and having my identity card will make me very happy
Mark
Why does a census matter so much to someone like Ramazani, who has lived his whole life without being counted?
Mimi
Because being uncounted means being invisible to the state. Without official recognition, you can't vote reliably, access certain services, or prove you belong. It's not just bureaucracy—it's citizenship itself.
Mark
But the DRC has had 42 years to do this. Why now?
Mimi
The previous census was in 1984, before decades of conflict and collapse. The state simply didn't have the capacity. Now there's political will and digital tools that make it theoretically possible. But the timing is complicated—elections are coming in 2028.
Mark
Is there real concern that the census could be manipulated for political gain?
Mimi
Yes. Opposition figures worry that population figures could be contested or used to redraw representation. The government says it's purely administrative, but in a fragile state heading toward elections, numbers become power.
Mark
What's the biggest practical obstacle?
Mimi
Eastern DRC. Armed groups are active, communities are displaced, roads are terrible. You can't count people who are fleeing violence or hiding. The census might miss exactly the people who need it most.
Mark
So what happens if they can't reach everyone?
Mimi
The data becomes incomplete and potentially skewed. You lose the people most affected by conflict—and you lose the chance to help them, because planning is based on the numbers you collect.
Mark
What would success actually look like?
Mimi
A complete count that leads to real identity documents and better public services. But also—and this matters—it would mean the state finally acknowledging millions of people it has ignored for decades.
El Pulso
- Millions of Congolese citizens have lived their entire lives without a single official document confirming they exist — a crisis of recognition decades in the making.
- Armed conflict and mass displacement in eastern provinces threaten to exclude the most vulnerable communities from the very count designed to serve them.
- Census teams will deploy digital mapping tools across 2.3 million square kilometers of difficult terrain, attempting to locate every inhabited place before a single household interview begins.
- Opposition figures and civil society groups warn that population data could be politically weaponized ahead of the 2028 elections, casting a shadow of suspicion over the exercise.
- The government frames the census as essential infrastructure planning — a way to direct schools, hospitals, and services to where people actually live.
- For ordinary Congolese like Heritier Ramazani and Gedeon Katembo, the census carries a weight no statistic can capture: the chance to be officially recognized as a citizen of their own country.
For the first time in 42 years, the Democratic Republic of Congo is attempting to count itself — a nation of an estimated 112 million souls, millions of whom have never once been recorded by the state that governs them. Since the country was still called Zaire in 1984, generations have been born, lived, and labored in an administrative silence, their existence unconfirmed by any official document. This census is not merely a logistical exercise; it is an act of recognition long withheld, arriving now amid armed conflict, mass displacement, and the gathering pressures of a 2028 election cycle.
Heritier Ramazani is 28 years old and has never been counted. In Bunia, in the northeastern DRC, no census taker has ever knocked on his door, no form has asked his name. For him, the country's first national census since 1984 — when the nation was still called Zaire — is not a bureaucratic formality. It is a chance to be seen.
The World Bank estimates the DRC's population at roughly 112 million, growing at 3.2 percent annually. Yet millions of those people exist in an administrative void, never officially recorded. The absence of identity documents is the legacy of political upheaval, armed conflict, and the erosion of state institutions. For many Congolese, voter registration cards have served as the only accepted form of identification — a makeshift fix for a structural failure.
The census will begin with a digital mapping phase, deploying teams with tablets and smartphones to geolocate every inhabited community across 2.3 million square kilometers before household interviews begin. But in the east, where armed groups remain active and displacement is ongoing, the logistics may prove insurmountable. Civic activist Muyisa Hangi Christophe put it plainly: state authority is not effectively established across the whole territory, and people cannot be interviewed in communities they have been forced to flee.
The timing adds political weight. With general elections expected in 2028, opposition figures question whether population figures could be contested or manipulated in debates over representation. The government insists the exercise is about planning — understanding where to build schools, hospitals, and infrastructure. As one development analyst noted, it makes no sense to build a football stadium where only elderly people live.
For Gedeon Katembo, a 36-year-old father of three, the stakes are more personal. He hopes the census will restore something lost over four decades — not just a document, but a nationality. For him and millions like him, being counted is not about becoming a statistic. It is about becoming, officially, a person.
Heritier Ramazani is 28 years old and has never been counted. In all his years living in Bunia, the capital of Ituri province in the northeastern Democratic Republic of the Congo, no census taker has knocked on his door, no government form has asked his name, no official document has confirmed that he exists as a Congolese citizen. Now, for the first time in 42 years, that may change. The DRC is preparing to conduct a national census—the first since 1984, when the country was still called Zaire—and for millions of Congolese like Ramazani, the exercise means far more than a simple headcount. It is a chance, finally, to be seen by the state.
"I've never been registered in a census since I was born," Ramazani told Al Jazeera. "Being registered and having my identity card will make me very happy." His longing reflects a crisis of recognition that has shadowed the DRC for decades. The World Bank estimates the country's population at roughly 112 million people, growing at about 3.2 percent annually. Yet millions within that population exist in a kind of administrative void—born, living, working, but never officially recorded. The absence of identity documents is not accidental. It is the legacy of political upheaval, armed conflict, and the slow collapse of state institutions across much of the country. For decades, voter registration cards have served as the only widely accepted form of identification for many Congolese, a makeshift solution to a structural problem.
In Bunia and across the eastern provinces, where armed groups have displaced entire communities and state authority remains fragile, the practical challenges are immense. The DRC spans more than 2.3 million square kilometers. Roads are poor. Infrastructure is sparse. Insecurity is real. The census will begin with a digital mapping phase in which teams of cartographers will attempt to identify and geolocate every inhabited place across the country, using tablets and smartphones rather than paper forms. Only then will the actual household data collection begin. Henri Marie Kazadi, the technical coordinator of the Central Census Office at the National Institute of Statistics, explained the strategy: teams would deploy into the field to map communities first, then return to conduct interviews. The Ministry of Planning began recruiting field workers in June for this initial phase.
But in eastern DRC, where armed groups remain active and displacement is ongoing, the logistics may prove impossible. Muyisa Hangi Christophe, an activist with Filimbi, a pro-democracy civic movement, voiced the concern plainly: "We find ourselves almost in a situation where it is impossible to organise the census. State authority is not effectively established across the whole national territory, and there are massive population displacements, as the census requires people to be interviewed in their respective communities." If people cannot be found, or are too afraid to be counted, the census will fail to reach those who need it most.
Yet the census arrives at a politically delicate moment. General elections are expected in 2028, and some opposition figures and civil society groups worry that population figures could become contested—weaponized in debates over representation and constitutional change. Prince Bitaki, an opposition politician, questioned the timing itself: "A census is all well and good, but why carry it out when the country is heading towards a crucial moment when we should instead be preparing for the upcoming elections?" The government insists the exercise is routine, designed to improve planning for schools, hospitals, roads, water systems, and electricity projects. A development analyst, Maneno Kakule Ndavugha, put it plainly: "It makes no sense for the state to build a football stadium in an area where there are only older people." Accurate data could help authorities understand where people live, what they need, and where resources should flow.
For Gedeon Katembo, a 36-year-old father of three, the census represents something deeper than demographic information. He hopes it will create a stronger system for issuing identity documents and strengthen national unity. "Through these cards, we will regain the nationality we lost over 40 years ago," he told Al Jazeera. For him and millions like him, the census is not about being counted as a number. It is about being counted as a person—recognized, documented, and finally official.
Citas Notables
I've never been registered in a census since I was born. Being registered and having my identity card will make me very happy.— Heritier Ramazani, 28, resident of Bunia
Through these cards, we will regain the nationality we lost over 40 years ago.— Gedeon Katembo, 36-year-old father of three
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