Malta’s Hidden Care Force: Abela’s ‘Indian Nurses’ Remark Sparks National Soul-Searching

Prime Minister Robert Abela’s off-the-cuff remark during Sunday’s political rally—“It’s Indian nurses who take care of them”—has set island tongues wagging faster than a festa firework. Speaking about his ageing parents’ home-care arrangements, Abela unwittingly distilled a microcosm of modern Malta: a nation where the traditional “familja” unit now leans on Kolkata and Kerala as much on Kalkara and Kerċem.

Walk into any coastal townhouse from Sliema to Żabbar and the chances are high that the gentle voice coaxing Nanna to take her 11 a.m. pills does not roll Maltese “r”s. Government statistics show 7,300 non-EU carers legally employed in Maltese homes last year, 62 % of them from India. The figure has tripled since 2016, when the first fast-track visa scheme for elder carers was introduced to plug a gap that neither state nor offspring could fill.

“We simply ran out of daughters,” sociologist Dr Maria Camilleri laughs, only half-joking. Malta’s female labour participation jumped from 38 % to 68 % in two decades, while life expectancy soared past 83. The result: a sandwich generation paying mortgages, school fees—and ₹40,000 a month to a live-in carer whose name they initially mispronounced. Abela’s candour, Camilleri argues, “ripped the plaster off a national sore point: we outsource love because we outsourced time.”

Indian nurses, already fluent in English and trained to British NHS standards, arrived with a reputation for patience, punctuality and prayer—attributes that gel with Malta’s Catholic geriatrics. Recruitment agencies in Kochi and Chandigarh now run Maltese-language crash courses heavy on “Kif inti?” and “Ħobż biż-żejt”, plus a warning that June-to-September heat feels like “Mumbai on steroids”. Newcomers touch down to a 24-hour whirlwind of ID cards, biometric tests and a starter pack featuring a pastel rosary and a bottle of Fenkata wine they are politely told not to open in front of employers.

The Prime Minister’s disclosure also refracted the island’s uneasy relationship with migration. Facebook comments ranged from “At least someone looks after our elders” to “Jobs for Maltese first”. The irony: local unemployment is under 3 %, but vacancies for care workers top 1,100. “We advertise for six months; no applications,” says Simon Pace, who runs a Żurrieq elder-care agency. “Then Asha lands from Mumbai, learns Maltese within a year, and Grandpa refuses to eat soup unless she feeds him.”

In the shadows of this booming, if intimate, economy lurk tales of 90-hour weeks, passports confiscated by unlicensed agents, and Whats-aApp messages reading “Mama, they won’t let me leave the house”. NGOs Aditus and Kopin fielded 47 distress calls from Indian carers in 2023, prompting parliamentary questions last March. Government has since rolled out mandatory employment contracts, a 24-hour helpline in Hindi/Malayalam, and spot-checks that saw 22 employers fined for housing workers in box rooms once used for dusty exercise bikes.

Yet the cultural exchange cuts both ways. Indian nurses describe Maltese toddlers calling them “Auntie” and neighbours delivering plates of imqaret at sunset. Some join village festa committees, swapping sari silk for cheap polyester robes in the procession. In Luqa, the Indian Catholic community now hosts a monthly Mass in Konkani—followed by fenek curry that would make any Nanna raise an eyebrow and reach for the pepper.

Economists estimate that live-in carers remit €60 million annually, a figure dwarfed by the €180 million Malta saves in state residential care. “It’s not just a private arrangement; it’s invisible infrastructure,” notes Dr Gordon Cordina, chairman of Economists.mt. “Remove them and the hospital waiting list doubles overnight.”

Abela’s sound-bite, stripped of political varnish, is ultimately a mirror. It reflects a society that produced both record GDP growth and record loneliness; that praises family values yet books carers on WhatsApp; that flies in tenderness because the kids are at a Berlin conference. The Indian nurse rocking our grandparent to sleep is neither villain nor saviour—she is the human hinge of a country negotiating love, labour and longevity in real time. And until Malta decides whether caring is a family duty, a market commodity or a public service, the lullaby drifting from the spare room will keep switching between Maltese lullabies and Hindi bhajans, each chorus asking the same question: “Nanna, kemm tħobbni?”—and who, exactly, will answer tomorrow?