Pope Francis’ visit to Malta put the spotlight on migration. The Ukraine war created another, albeit different, wave of migration. Sarah Carabott and Claudia Calleja spoke to two women who are living two realities of migration. The challenges may be different but the bottom line is the same: support for migrants - irrespective of where they come from - is more than letting them into a country. It’s about allowing them to live in dignity and with peace of mind for themselves and their children. 

Battling bureaucracy

Emmanuela and Neriah go to school, like to play with their friends, are a bit picky with their food and get scolded every now and then like any other Ħamrun child.

But the two girls, born three and seven years ago to a mother with a University of Malta Master’s degree and a man who has duly paid his taxes and social contributions for over a decade, are “detained” in their country of origin.

The country they were born in does not recognise them as her own after their parents were unable to renew their residency permits. This means they have no freedom of movement and are confined to these 316km².

“And if their father – my husband - who has to renew his work permit every three months, is taken ill and God forbid loses his job, we will have to pay their school fees and also foot the bill for any health services we require the following month, despite having contributed to the economy for all these years,” their mother Doris Doku, explains.

Doris, a teacher by profession, flew to Malta in 2013 on a student visa to complete her post-graduate degree following studies in Norway and Ireland.

She soon fell in love with and married Emanuel, an asylum seeker whom she met in church. Despite being legally married in Malta, she did not inherit her husband’s residency status, forcing her to question whether this meant asylum seekers did not have a right to marry.

She is understandably unwilling to move to Ghana without her husband, who left Ivory Coast over 15 years ago in search of a better future, most especially as this would mean separating the children from one of the parents. But one thing she is willing to do is to take a stand, in the hope that things change for her children’s children.

She recently helped lead demonstrations in Valletta protesting policies that strip migrants and their children, including those born in Malta, of basic rights, pushing them to exploitation.

She knows many of her ‘brothers and sisters’ who are being driven to desperation by institutionalised racism and inequality.

In her case, it is only her own two girls and religious faith that have kept her from giving up.

“As a Christian, I believe it is up to God whether we make it through the night.“As a human being, once I wake up in the morning, I know I have a right to life. But in Malta, the authorities turn that right into a privilege if you are the ‘wrong colour’.

“And if things remain as they are, I’m going to need another 10 Doris Dokus to make people aware of our suffering.

”Doris notes that while out on the streets she is met with hostility and kindness in equal measures, the recent displacement of people in Ukraine has shown that people are capable of being altruistic with each other.

“At the end of the day, we’re all human, so that is how it should be. It should not matter the colour of our skin, where we came from or where we are going. “At the end of the day, we are here, we contribute to the community – socially and economically – so we should all be treated as human beings.”

Becoming displaced

A new reality Alona finds it hard to utter the words: asylum seeker. She struggles to use that term to describe her and her children. Until a few months ago she and family were living a happy life in their home in Kharkiv, Ukraine. She worked in a managerial role, while the children went to school. Life was normal.

Life was perfect.

Then, on February 24, everything changed. The first bombs started falling in her hometown. They had to move. The family packed a few belongings and joined a group of friends who were about to drive towards the Romanian border.

Speaking with the help of an interpreter, she explains that the decision to leave was not easy. She knew she would be leaving her parents behind - and their pet cat. But she also knew she had to do what was best for her son Artem, 6, and daughter Dasha, 10.

“They were very scared. Every time we heard bombing Dasha would close her ears and repeat: ‘I am not hearing anything’. I was worried about the psychological repercussions of all this,” she says.

So, with a heavy heart, the 34-year-old mother and her children got into a car with her best friend and her best friend’s family and joined a group of people driving towards the border. Her husband did not join as he remained behind to settle some relatives.

Five cars followed each other, driving for three days to get to the border. In the evenings they would stop at volunteer camps since it was prohibited to drive after 8pm.

Finally, at the border, Alona met her husband, Dmitrii, who had caught a train there.“We had half a day together. We said goodbye. We tried not to cry because of the children,” she says as tears stream down her face. Her son, sits on her and hugs her.

He utters words I don’t understand but the affection and unified pain in clear. They hug and she wipes her eyes.

She recalls how her husband walked them to the border’s gate. She crossed with the children - not knowing where they would end up.

Eventually, she joined her best friend in Malta, where the best friend has relatives. On arrival, Alona and her family spent two and a half hours dealing with quarantine-related paperwork at the airport.

Then they went to an apartment in Swieqi - provided by Maltese relatives of her best friend - where the family had to spend 14 days in quarantine because Ukraine is a dark red country.

They tested negative for the virus. But this did not change anything. Alona points at a corkboard in the kitchen of the Swieqi apartment, where she is living. On it there is a little paper with a quarantine countdown drawn by the children.

Now that quarantine is over she has to start the process to obtain temporary protection status so that she can work. Meanwhile, with the support of friends and her best friend’s Maltese and Ukrainian relatives, the children should be starting school.

There are many obstacles ahead: the language barrier, the paperwork and the bureaucracy don’t help. But Alona is thankful for all the help she has been receiving in Malta and hopeful that things will settle. This is just the beginning of her experience as an asylum seeker - a term she will have to utter out loud. 

Access to basic rights

Specific Residence Authorisation (SRA) was introduced in 2018 allowing rejected asylum seekers who had lived and worked in Malta for at least five years to obtain documentation and enjoy basic rights.

However, revisions to the policy in 2020 have been criticised for not being family-oriented and for ignoring the best interests of children. Both parents now need SRA status to pass it on to their children, resulting in many children - including those born in Malta - remaining or becoming undocumented.To make matters worse, in 2020 applicants were given a one-month ultimatum to file their applications. Those who did not apply in time reverted to an irregular migration status.

Furthermore, this regularisation path has now been discontinued and no new applications are allowed. NGOs have warned that the revisions could lead to arbitrariness in the assessment of applications and migrants have flagged concern about overly complex processes disqualifying applicants for even the slightest mistake - from a different coloured pen used by the landlord and the applicant to a missing photocopy.

Why should we care?

When Russia invaded Ukraine, Europe scrambled to help people get out of the country and provide lodging, health services and jobs. This was amazing. It was how things should be. But it highlighted a difference as many wondered: if we could afford this kind of support with Ukrainian asylum seekers, why not with asylum seekers from Africa or the Middle East? We asked people who work with migrants: Should this matter? Why should we care? 

Regine Psaila - African Media Association Malta

Caring about asylum seekers and refugees is caring about human beings. The deep love that a Maltese mother feels for her child is the same as a migrant mother feels for her son. Humanity is one. Until the day Russia invaded Ukraine, we knew that Malta was "full up".

Then came the Ukrainian refugees and with amazement, we witnessed a fantastic display of solidarity. Almost every citizen offered support that we did not think was possible in Malta. Why such a blatant difference in treatment with other refugees? What do Syrians, Afghans or Sudanese have less than Ukrainians? With amazement, we heard on "reputable" media that they are "white with blue eyes and blond hair", that they "drive the same cars as us", that they "do not come from North Africa or Afghanistan".

The EU should be deeply ashamed of the horrible double standards displayed during this migration crisis. We refuse to think that humanity is a colour. 

Maria Pisani - Integra

When refugees flee their homes, they do so because their country is unwilling, or unable, to protect them. When they get on a boat in search of safety, they do so because they have hope, they believe that they will find protection in Europe – the kind of protections that we have come to take for granted, the protections that are grounded in our fundamental human rights.

These rights are grounded in core values that include respect for every individual, dignity, equality and justice. Ultimately, the degree to which we care about asylum seekers (or not) is a direct reflection of the values and the principles we choose to uphold, as individuals, and as a society.

So for me, the question is not ‘why should we care about asylum seekers?’, but rather, ‘what do you stand for? What do we stand for? What values do you want to uphold and fight for?’. Everything flows from this, including how we respond to, and care for, asylum seekers and refugees. 

Neil Falzon - Aditus foundation

Why are refugee advocates constantly asked why anyone should care about refugees? Why do people and governments demand that refugees present airtight arguments in support of their need to be protected? Why is the right to seek protection, a fundamental human right, always being called into question? In 2022, we no longer question our interest in protecting the elderly, people with disabilities, children, survivors of domestic violence and so many other persons we deem vulnerable or at risk.

Our care for them is not merely personal self-interest, but we have translated our very human sentiments of compassion and solidarity into concrete demands and expectations. The welfare state we are lucky to live in not only takes for granted such an interest in caring but acts upon it out of genuine legal and political commitment. So, when we ask why we should care for refugees, we are doubting the humanity that compels us to care for our elderly, and everyone else.

So, the real questions we need to be asking are: Why do we not care for refugees? Why do we care for some refugee, but not for others? What does it mean, to care for refugees?

This story was first published in Sunday Circle, a Times of Malta publication. You can read the full issue here http://sundaycircle.tom-mag.com/42/index.html#issue/3