Malta & Palestine: Why Recognition Still Matters on the Island That Knows Occupation

**Who recognises the State of Palestine, who doesn’t, and why does it matter?**

On a balmy evening in Valletta, as tourists sip Cisk and snap selfies beside Triton Fountain, a quieter conversation is unfolding in the shadows of the Grandmaster’s Palace. Inside a small book-lined office, three Maltese activists are folding A4 sheets into envelopes addressed to MPs, urging Malta to follow Spain, Ireland and Norway in formally recognising the State of Palestine. The scene feels quintessentially Maltese: historic limestone walls, the scent of pastizzi drifting in from a nearby kiosk, and a handful of citizens determined to punch above their island weight.

Malta recognised Palestine in 1988—one of the first EU member states to do so—yet the gesture still confuses many locals. “We already did it, right? So why are people still protesting?” asks 24-year-old Kim from Sliema, echoing a sentiment overheard in university corridors and village band clubs alike. The answer lies in the difference between diplomatic recognition and what diplomats call “bilateral recognition”: the former is a nod, the latter a handshake. Malta’s 1988 move was collective, taken within the Non-Aligned Movement; today’s campaigners want a fresh, standalone decree that upgrades Palestinian representation in Malta from “delegation” to full embassy status.

Globally, 139 of the UN’s 193 members recognise Palestine, stretching from Nigeria to North Korea. The hold-outs cluster in Western Europe and North America, where the issue is routinely framed through security rather than sovereignty. The United States argues recognition should emerge from bilateral negotiations, not unilateral declarations. Germany, mindful of historical responsibility towards Israel, fears recognition could undermine a two-state solution. Britain calls itself “a friend of both peoples” yet keeps Palestine in diplomatic limbo, a stance that frustrates Labour MPs in London and Labour activists in Malta alike.

For Maltese policymakers, the dilemma is both moral and geopolitical. On one side sits a domestic constituency steeped in Mediterranean solidarity: pensioners who remember refugee boats from Gaza docking in Grand Harbour in 1948, scouts who learn Palestinian dabke dancing at Għaqda Żgħażagħ Ħaddiema Nsara summer camps, and farmers in Qormi who donate olive harvests to Catholic relief convoys. On the other side looms the EU’s Common Foreign Policy, which still predicates full recognition on “final status negotiations,” diplomatic code for waiting until Israelis and Palestinians sort it out themselves.

Foreign Minister Ian Borg has walked a tightrope, telling the UN General Assembly that “Malta remains committed to the two-state solution with Jerusalem as a shared capital,” while stopping short of upgrading relations. Critics call the position outdated. “We wave the Palestinian flag at every football qualifier but refuse them a brass plaque on Republic Street,” quips MEP candidate Arnold Cassola, who plans to cycle from Malta to Brussels draped in the keffiyeh pattern if elected.

Why does it matter? Because recognition carries tangible perks: diplomatic immunity for envoys, access to Maltese courts to enforce commercial contracts, and eligibility for EU-funded twinning programmes that could funnel expertise to Ramallah’s tech start-ups. In return, Malta would gain leverage to push for the release of 14 Maltese-Palestinian dual nationals reportedly trapped in Gaza since October. “It’s not symbolic, it’s strategic,” argues Dr Maria Grech, lecturer in International Law at the University of Malta. “Recognition is the difference between sending humanitarian aid and having a seat at the reconstruction table when the bombs stop.”

The debate also reverberates through Malta’s multicultural parishes. In Ħamrun, Fr Jimmy Bonnici fields weekly questions from Filipino parishioners who see Palestine through the prism of Christian holy sites, and from Libyan bakers who recall Palestinian teachers in 1970s Tripoli. “Our catechism classes now include a module on Catholic social teaching and the occupation,” he says. “Younger parishioners ask why we pray for Ukraine’s borders but stay vague on Palestine’s.”

Back in Valletta, the envelope-stuffing session winds down. Activist Sarah Ebeid, whose grandparents fled Jaffa in 1948, slips the last letter into the post box outside the law courts. “Malta is small, but our voice carries in Europe,” she smiles. “When we speak, people listen—because we’ve been colonised too.” Whether Malta chooses to raise that voice again remains an open question, one that stretches from the olive groves of Bethlehem to the bastions of a fortress island that knows too well what it feels like to fight for recognition.