Between a Scholarship and a Closed Door: A Somali Student’s Long Wait for a Yes
The calls stopped first. Then the messages. For 12 days, a Somali student who had won a coveted Erasmus Mundus scholarship waited for a residence permit to study in Denmark—only to learn, as so many young people with dreams find out, that the hardest borders are often the invisible ones.
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Ali Musa, a scholar who had secured full funding to study at the University of Copenhagen, found his plans stalled when Danish authorities denied his residence permit. His case, shared publicly and reported by The Copenhagen Post, drew attention not only because it upended a carefully earned opportunity, but because of what followed. “It wasn’t Denmark’s rejection that broke me,” he said of the experience. “It’s the silence from my own home.”
That silence, he argues, speaks to something larger than one application file in an immigration office. It touches on the obligations of states to their citizens abroad, the particular vulnerabilities of students from fragile countries, and the widening distance between the youthful ambition in the Horn of Africa and the institutions meant to nurture it.
The Promise of Mobility Meets the Politics of Gatekeeping
Erasmus Mundus is one of the European Union’s flagship grants, a program that has moved tens of thousands of students across borders for joint master’s degrees. It’s a symbol of openness and academic exchange; a bright thread sewn into Europe’s narrative of opportunity. But even a promising acceptance letter cannot bypass the quiet power of a refused permit.
In recent years, international students from Africa and South Asia have reported longer waits and stricter checks for study visas in parts of Europe. Several countries have tightened rules in the name of oversight, labor balance, or political pressure at home. Those changes often leave scholars from the global south—and especially those from countries without robust consular support—on the fault line between aspiration and policy.
Global mobility numbers tell a broader story. UNESCO estimates that more than six million students now study outside their home countries. The talent pipeline has shifted from a rarity to a routine. But the spoils of that mobility are unevenly shared. Passports still matter, and some passports matter far more than others.
‘They Told Me They Would Help’
Back in Mogadishu, Musa says, the phones lit up after his case became public. “I was contacted by the Office of the Prime Minister, and the Director General of the Immigration Office himself,” he recalls. He was told the government was aware, that a solution was being sought. He chose to wait—out of respect, out of hope. But days slid by. The promises evaporated.
For Musa, the sting came not only from a European decision, but from the quiet at home. “I was left alone, forgotten not by strangers, but by those who had given me their word,” he said. In his account, the institutional indifference felt like a national shrug, a message that even the most determined young Somalis are largely on their own once they step into the thicket of bureaucracy.
The Human Cost of a Paper Barrier
The barriers here aren’t only legal or administrative. They are emotional and social. When a student wins a place on one of the world’s most competitive scholarships, families mobilize, communities celebrate, and a new arc of possibility comes into view. A refusal unspools that arc in one stroke. For students from conflict-scarred or economically strained countries, that refusal compounds another reality: the knowledge that a functioning state—even at a distance—can make all the difference between “Try again next year” and “We’ll fix this.”
Other governments have learned that lesson. Some maintain rapid-response consular teams for students and workers abroad. Others publish detailed handbooks, legal toolkits, and hotlines for visa crises. These aren’t luxuries; they are necessities in a world where mobility is currency. Somalia, like many nations rebuilding their institutions, faces resource constraints and urgent domestic priorities. But the diaspora and the youth pipeline represent national lifelines—human capital that already remits more than a billion dollars back home annually and could bring home skills, research, and networks if given half a chance.
A Generation’s Ask: Competence Over Clan
There is a political layer to Musa’s appeal, and he doesn’t hide it. “Let us stop believing in division and clan-based politics,” he says, addressing Somali youth directly. It is a call that lands with the weight of history. Clan has long been Somalia’s organizing logic and its breaking point. Today’s generation—raised on smartphones and schooled on scholarship essays—often finds that logic too small for the size of their ambitions.
They want institutions that answer their emails and defend their rights. They want officials who return calls not because they know a family name, but because that is the job. “We deserve leaders who unite us, not ones who profit from our pain,” Musa says. The line could have been spoken in Lagos, Dhaka, or Caracas. It’s a refrain of a global youth movement that is practical, weary of empty slogans, and hungry for competence.
What a Solution Looks Like
There are no magic fixes here. Immigration decisions in Europe are made under national law, not goodwill. But there are actions that matter:
- Consular backbone: Dedicated student desks at embassies that can liaise quickly with host universities and immigration offices.
- Transparency: Clear timelines, contact points, and follow-up protocols for urgent cases.
- Alliances: Partnerships with European institutions to pre-verify scholarship recipients and reduce friction in processing.
- Accountability: Public reporting on how many student cases are supported, and with what outcomes.
None of these require a revolution; they require a posture that says, “We see you,” to the next generation. And they send a signal to host countries: we stand by our students.
Beyond One Case
Musa’s story is not the first of its kind, and it won’t be the last. But it lands in a moment when migration is a political breeze in some capitals and a hurricane in others. How much talent will be lost to the wind? How many scholarships will turn into missed flights, delayed degrees, and disillusioned graduates who simply give up?
Feature stories usually end with a tidy summation. This one ends with a question for anyone who cares about education, development, and the thickening ties of a global world: What is the responsibility of a state—to nudge, to protect, to pick up the phone—when its youngest citizens take that most precious risk, the first step out into the world?
Musa, for his part, refuses to let bitterness calcify into cynicism. “Never stop dreaming,” he tells Somali youth, “and never let anyone limit the greatness within you.” The message is familiar. The messenger is, too: a scholar, still waiting, still believing that a yes is possible—and that home should be the first place to say it.
By Ali Musa
Axadle Times international–Monitoring.
When The Copenhagen Post published my story about being denied a Danish student residence permit despite being awarded a fully funded Erasmus Mundus scholarship at the University of Copenhagen. I thought maybe this painful experience would open the eyes of those in power.
Soon after, my phone didn’t stop ringing. Journalists from all over international and local wanted interviews, headlines, and stories. But I said no. Not because I was afraid to speak, but because I believed my government had finally heard me.
I was contacted by the Office of the Prime Minister, and the Director General of the Immigration Office himself. They told me personally that the government is aware of my case and that they are working to find a solution. Out of respect and trust, I stayed silent. I wanted to believe and hope that Somalia would stand up for her son.
But days turned into weeks, those 12 days felt endless. Yet, at the end of it all, they did nothing. My calls went unanswered. My messages were ignored. The same people who had promised to help simply disappeared. I was left alone, forgotten not by strangers, but by those who had given me their word.
This pain is not just mine. It is the pain of many Somali youth who work hard, dream big, and represent our nation with pride, yet find no support when they need it most. I never wanted sympathy, I wanted justice, fairness, and recognition for the hard work that brought me this far. It wasn’t Denmark’s rejection that broke me, it’s the silence from my own home. The silence that tells you, you are on your own.
Still, I am not here to spread bitterness. I am here to speak to my fellow Somali brothers and sisters, especially the youth: Let us stop believing in division and clan-based politics. Let us stand together as one nation, one people. If our fathers failed us, let us not fail our children.
Because what has destroyed our country is not a lack of talent or potential, it is the selfishness of our politicians, the endless divisions they create, and their refusal to put the people first. They place their own interests above the future of Somalia. We deserve leaders who unite us, not ones who profit from our pain. We must rise above their divisions and reclaim the hope they have tried to steal from us.
To my Somali youth, I say, never stop dreaming, never stop standing up for what is right, and never let anyone limit the greatness within you. I am still hopeful, and I still believe that change will come but only when we, the youth, decide to be the change.
Before I end, I want to express my deepest gratitude to everyone who showed solidarity, compassion, and support during this journey. Your prayers, kind words, and encouragement gave me strength.
Special thanks to The Copenhagen Post and journalist Romy Tarantino thank you for telling my story with dignity, truth, and respect. You reminded the world that our stories matter.
