Earlier this month, I attended a conference organised by Moviment Graffitti entitled ‘Malti ta’ Malta’. The event sought to give a platform to children and young people who have lived here all their lives.

While you may not know them by name, you do know them. They go to school with our children, perhaps you watched them on stage in a Christmas nativity. They are friends of our children. They form part of our kids’ football teams and, together with the rest of Maltese youth, they’ve compared homework on the back of the school bus and continue to share endless videos on TikTok.

These children have lived in Malta all their lives, they speak Maltese and they feel Maltese. Malta is their home, and it is the only home they know. They are Maltese in every way, bar one: on paper.

Of all the events I have attended over the past 20 years (and there have been many) this conference was, without a doubt, the most heart-wrenching of all. Whilst no precise statistics exist (by virtue of their legal status), we know that there are a significant number of children who were brought up in Malta who have not been granted legal permission to remain and have no feasible route to regularisation and citizenship.

For the vast majority of Maltese youth, the transition to adulthood brings increased rights, freedoms and responsibilities, a shift that allows them the opportunity to contribute to personal and social growth and to participate fully in society.

For Miriam* and David*, and others like them, the transition to adulthood brings a painful clarity; childhood innocence and the excitement of youth intertwines with the stark realisation of societal injustices and a deep, deep sense of insecurity. They have hope and dreams that cannot be realised due to their legal status – no promise of education, employment, even travelling with their friends is off limits.

I appreciate that many will not fully grasp the challenges these young people face. Thankfully, for the majority of us, access to citizenship was granted at birth, shaping lifelong access to rights and opportunities by virtue of... well, just breathing. It is easy to overlook or underestimate the resilience and perseverance required to navigate such uncertainty and the denial of basic rights.

One conference participant described how a young footballer was not able to travel abroad with his friends to play football. They described how parents of the other team members tried to rally around to help, assuming that the challenge was economic and their sense of confusion and shock to learn that the barrier was legal.

They described their frustration on learning that there was nothing that they could do – given the child’s legal status he was denied access to documentation, ergo, refused the possibility to travel with his team. One can only imagine the sense of disappointment this caused David and the whole team.

As a nation, we have a moral and ethical responsibility to provide a path to regularisation and citizenship that recognises Miriam, David and other children like them. As a nation, we have a duty to acknowledge their right to belong to the society where they have lived all their lives, formed their identities, made friends and – despite everything – are building their dreams for their future.

These children feel Maltese. Malta is their home, and it is the only home they know- Maria Pisani

Miriam is studying and she wants to become a nurse. Her friend, Sarah aspires to be a doctor. David is a footballer. His hope? He knocks his head to the side while sweeping away his fringe, “taf int, xi darba nixtieq li jkolli dar stabbli u familja sabiħa” (you know, one day I’d love to have a stable home and a beautiful family). But the stark reality is this: their current legal status presents significant barriers to accessing higher education and long-term security, making these reasonable aspirations difficult – if not impossible – to achieve.

Through absolutely no fault of their own, these young people face the terrifying prospect of expulsion from the only home they know – to a country they have never visited, to a land they do not know. Denying them a secure legal status can lead to profound emotional distress, causing feelings of rejection, insecurity, and anxiety. It undermines one’s sense of belonging and stability, impacting mental health and overall well-being.

But it doesn’t have to be this way. We can fix this and we should fix this.

Access to citizenship aligns with our commitment to uphold human rights and the values we hold close as a nation, especially when it comes to protecting children. Access to university, playing in a football team and the possibility to travel should not depend on an act of charity that can also be withheld on a whim. Only secure legal status will provide access to the rights the majority of us take for granted, providing these young people with the security and serenity they need to pursue their dreams and with opportunities to contribute more effectively to the economy, to our communities and to our collective future.

Home is our sanctuary and it should be where we feel safe. It is right and it is time to give hope to all our children. Hope is a political act. And, in this case, perhaps more than any other.

All that is needed is political commitment – one act that can provide peace of mind to these children, one act that conveys the message: “We see you; we value you and we will protect you”.

* Names have been changed to protect identity.

Maria Pisani is an academic at the Department of Youth, Community & Migration Studies.