In a suburban cream-brick church in Melbourne’s outer west, 5000 kilometres from a homeland facing extinction, the mellifluous voices of a congregation of Tuvaluans rise in song.

The service is mostly in Tuvaluan, a Polynesian language spoken by only 13,000 people worldwide.

This Sunday afternoon service at Melton Baptist Church is a thread that connects the Tuvaluan diaspora in Melbourne to their homeland, a tiny country in the South Pacific Ocean that many see as the canary in the climate change mine.

“Rising seas threaten to drown this island nation – a sign of what’s in store for us all,” UN Secretary-General António Guterres tweeted in 2019.

The existential threat to Tuvalu is profound.

Niuelesolo Boland, who is at the church with his wife Lauina, said his name was inspired by an islet with a lone palm on Nukufetau, an atoll of Tuvalu.

“I was named Niuelesolo, meaning the coconut tree that stands alone.” He has been told the islet has now been engulfed by the ocean.

The Tuvaluan diaspora in Australia is tiny.

In 2022, there were just 250 people who were born in Tuvalu, according to the Australian Bureau of Statistics, although the number is closer to 700 when it includes those who identify as Tuvaluan but were born elsewhere.

But this diaspora is likely to become the vanguard of a new wave of migration to Australia.

Last week Tuvalu and Australia confirmed a landmark climate and security pact, which would allow 280 Tuvaluans to migrate to Australia every year.

The Falepili Union marks the first time Australia has offered resettlement rights due to the threat posed by climate change.

The treaty – which comes as Australia pushes back against China’s growing influence in the Pacific – was first announced last November.

Both countries said it would enter into force as soon as possible this year.

Foreign Minister Penny Wong visited Tuvalu on May 8 to cement the deal, announcing $110 million in development projects, including an extra $19 million for land reclamation and $50 million for Tuvalu’s first undersea telecommunications cable.

“We know Tuvalu didn’t cause the climate crisis, but you are on the front lines of its devastating impact,” Wong said.

Tuvaluans eager to migrate to Australia welcomed the treaty.

Others raised concerns about a brain drain and criticised a controversial clause that would give Australia veto powers over Tuvalu’s security and defence deals with third countries.

“It is, in fact, a power intervention, a bribery, and a military deal against China and others, and against the weak and vulnerable SIDS (Small Island Developing States) like Tuvalu,” former Tuvaluan prime minister Enele Sopoaga wrote in an opinion piece published by Radio New Zealand in November.

Tuvalu – which has a population of just 11,200 – has long battled the spectre of its land being swallowed by the ocean.

Last year it even launched a project to safeguard the nation’s future that sounds straight out of science fiction: replicating its existence in the metaverse.

Prime Minister Feleti Teo said the Falepili Union was entirely an initiative of the Tuvalu government.

“This treaty came about because Tuvalu government requested Australia, not the other way around, as some critics of the treaty attempt to misinform the public,” Teo said.

But the new migration pathway will leave many Tuvaluans facing difficult questions: stay or go? How does the diaspora preserve their culture and language in the face of a disappearing homeland? And what happens to a country without land?

A new island home for climate change migrants

Lisepa Paeniu can’t wait for the treaty to be ratified, so she can apply to migrate to Australia. For the past couple of years, Paeniu has been studying a Masters in Environmental Law and Sustainable Development at UNSW.

She is a lawyer from Tuvalu’s capital, Funafuti, a thin strip of land with the Pacific Ocean on one side and Te Namo Lagoon on the other.

As a child Paeniu used to swim in the Funafuti Airport airstrip every February after the king tides.

“Now every month my seven-year-old can swim in the airstrip. From once a year to once a month. The sad reality is the kids have so much fun. They don’t realise how bad it is.”

Her grandmother’s huge banana plantation has dwindled to less than 30 trees. “The soil is just ridiculously salty,” Paeniu says. “It’s been really terrible.”

The Falepili Union has attracted enormous interest around the world.

In Tuvalu, the reaction was mixed.

“I feel that the youth – especially people without formal qualifications – were very happy to have this option of migrating to Australia,” Paeniu says. “They’re so used to the small wages back home, they would take any job that they get in Australia.”

The older generation had misgivings. “They wanted to know why they weren’t consulted. How does this work?”

Tuvalu is among only 11 countries that has formal diplomatic relations with Taiwan. Australia is aware this could change quickly, after Nauru switched alliances to China in January.

But Prime Minister Feleti Teo has ruled out a shift and Paeniu is pragmatic about Australia having veto powers over security agreements with other countries.

“There’s no such thing as a free lunch right? Obviously, Australia has more power in this relationship. I think the question people need to ask is ‘who would come to help Tuvalu if not Australia?’”

The two countries moved to hose down criticisms of the Falepili Union when Wong visited Tuvalu earlier this month.

There was only a “narrow set of circumstances” in which Australia might be concerned about Tuvalu engaging with another state on security and defence matters, they stressed in an explanatory memorandum.

“Tuvalu does not need permission from Australia before it starts to talk with other partners.”

Tuvalu would not have to consult Australia over any security arrangements it strikes with other Pacific Island nations.

Sensitive to the complaints over the lack of public consultation, Teo promised an education campaign to ensure “people fully understand the treaty” before it was ratified.

But former prime minister Enele Sopoaga is not appeased.

“It is a daft agreement,” he says. “It has nothing to do with climate change, nothing.”

All China wants, Sopoaga says, is peaceful engagement with Pacific nations.

“Our duty is to help our people not to escalate tension by this type of silly arrangement to scare the people to run away.”

The former prime minister said the migration pathway to Australia would depopulate Tuvalu in 20 years.

“As an Australian do you morally believe that is good for the people of Tuvalu?”

Under the Falepili Union, visas will be allocated to Tuvaluan citizens through a random ballot managed by Australia. The first year up to 280 will be offered; this number could be adjusted in following years.

Applicants will need to be 18 but spouses and dependent children could be included. People with disabilities and chronic health conditions will also be eligible.

Falepili visa holders will also get access to many of the same entitlements as citizens – Medicare, higher education loans and the National Disability Insurance Scheme.

The visas would provide for indefinite permanent residency and the ability to apply for citizenship on the same basis as other permanent residents.

Australia has also promised to provide support for visa holders to find work and assist the growing Tuvaluan diaspora in Australia to maintain their culture.

There is a risk of “brain drain” for Tuvalu, acknowledges Australian National University’s Development Policy Centre director, Stephen Howes. “There’s no doubt that people with skills may leave.”

He says the Falepili Union in addition to existing visas to Australia and New Zealand would equate to 3.8 per cent of the population, which is an “extraordinarily high level” of out-migration in a single year, let alone annually.

But Howes believes migration is necessary for Tuvalu’s future – as it is for any country. It would allow Tuvaluans to study and gain skills in Australia, some of whom would return for work, retirement or family reasons.

“It’s very hard to run a school or hospital system in a very small country.”

There is a risk low-skilled migrants will face poverty in Australia due to the high cost of housing and living, Howes says, but he points out Tuvaluans have a long history of migration to New Zealand.

“We shouldn’t be paternalistic about this.”

The first country to clone itself in the metaverse

The UN has warned 95 per cent of land in Tuvalu could be flooded by routine high tides by 2100 if no action is taken.

“We are sinking,” former foreign minister Simon Kofe told the world in a dramatic pre-recorded speech to a UN climate conference in 2021, standing behind a lectern in the ocean, his suit pants rolled up to his knees.

In 2017, a major land reclamation project was launched, partly funded by Australia, which aims to expand the land mass in Funafuti by 6 per cent. On Nanumea, Tuvalu’s northern atoll, a 170-metre seawall provides a buffer during storms.

But the government is also making plans for the worst-case scenario – an entirely uninhabitable environment. In 2022, it announced plans to become the First Digital Nation.

By archiving its culture online – from bird species to the scores of the national volleyball team – the project explores how Tuvalu can exist as a nation even after its land is no more.

It will digitally recreate its land and a record of Tuvalu’s history and culture as well as moving its governmental functions online.

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“At its most ambitious, the project speculates that the government could join the metaverse and be administered virtually,” Australian Research Council Research Fellow Colette Mortreux wrote in East Asia Forum.

“That a country would even be at the point of considering a virtual existence is shocking for many.”

Tuvalu is exploring a digital ID system, which would use blockchain to connect the diaspora and allow them to participate in Tuvaluan life.

It has completed three-dimensional scans of all 124 islands and islets, which it says will help “redefine its territory in the eyes of international law”.

In September, Tuvalu changed its constitution to say its statehood and maritime zones would remain in perpetuity, even if the impacts of climate change – or anything else – result in the loss of its physical territory.

James Batley served as Australia’s high commissioner to Tuvalu between 2007 and 2009. He describes the digital nation project as unprecedented, but riddled with challenges.

Without a land of their own, Batley says it is unclear whether other nations would recognise Tuvalu’s sovereignty.

“Even if all the population moved somewhere altogether in one place how would they enforce Tuvaluan law if they were living in a different country and jurisdiction?”

Invoking Falepili far from home

Taukiei Kitara was on one of Tuvalu’s outer islands, Vaitupu, when the Falepili Union was announced.

“The questions that were asked by a lot of people on Tuvalu is what is Australia like to live on?”

Kitara, a climate activist, researcher and diaspora leader, told them it was a nice place but warned they would face cultural shocks including a housing crisis and high rental costs.

In Tuvalu, land is owned by families and passed down through generations. “There are a lot of people who don’t have jobs, and they live happily because they have land and go fishing.”

Fale pili, after which the treaty is named, is a Tuvaluan term, which reflects the mutual responsibility of neighbours to care for each other. The concept is embedded in Tuvaluan culture.

Kitara says the diaspora will automatically invoke fale pili and share their homes and food with the Tuvaluans who come to Australia and help them secure work.

But he worries about whether the Tuvaluan community in Australia can realistically provide the required assistance to up to 280 people a year.

“There is a risk that the overall burden to the Tuvaluan diaspora in Australia will be quite high.”

Te ano is a traditional Tuvaluan sport, described as “a little like volleyball, a little like murderball”.

It is occasionally played among the Tuvaluan diaspora in Brisbane, although there is a shortage of the balls, which are woven from pandanas and filled with old leaves, pieces of coconut shell, and small stones.

“We keep that up for the children to see what we do culturally,” says Keleta Avene, the deputy of the Tuvalu community in Brisbane.

Avene – a former maths and science secondary school teacher – moved to Melbourne in 1986 after marrying an Australian.

He says the diaspora meets regularly to worship, speak Tuvaluan and celebrate everything from baptisms to birthdays.

Every October 1, they commemorate Independence Day, which marks the anniversary of Tuvalu – a former British colony – becoming a sovereign state in 1978.

They feast on traditional food such as Funafuna, a fried donut, and fekei, a sweet pudding made from grated swamp taro.

“It’s a matter of identity,” Avene says. “If you lose knowledge of your culture, then there’s not much else to identify with.”

Magao Maketi Eliu moved to Rooty Hill in western Sydney almost two years ago with her two young children and husband who is studying for his masters at Macquarie University.

Despite the threat to her homeland, Eliu still hopes to raise her children in Tuvalu when her husband completes his studies.

“I really want my kids to grow up in Tuvalu to know and experience our culture, our community,” she says.

In Australia, she sees how cultures can slip away over the generations.

“The kids understand Tuvaluan, but they can’t speak it. That makes me really worried.”

One day Eliu concedes climate change may force them to build another home elsewhere. And she knows preserving her culture will require commitment.

“I’m going to make a rule for my kids: if it’s my house you’re going to speak Tuvaluan.”

Niuelesolo Boland had the kind of childhood Eliu wants for her children.

He lived with his grandparents on the northern island of Niutao. Chores before and after school included gathering fallen breadfruit tree leaves and feeding the pigs and chickens.

“I had the whole island and ocean as my playground,” he says.

Supply ships would come once or twice a month. When cyclones delayed them, the residents of Niutao would share whatever they had – food, matches and even clothes.

“Neighbours, families, friends, you can never go hungry. You never know starvation or homelessness.”

But in 2001 when he turned 10, Boland was sent to Perth to live with his parents – his mother had moved to Australia to study, and his stepfather was also there.

He was overwhelmed with homesickness and isolation.

Even going to bed in his own room was scary for a child accustomed to sleeping on the floor in an open house with extended family.

The changing seasons were jarring and completely unlike the consistently warm weather in Tuvalu where the temperature always seemed to stay between 28 and 32 degrees.

“It took a good few years to adjust.”

In 2016, Boland moved to Melbourne and found work in the construction industry. He now speaks to family in Tuvalu weekly.

“We still send money back home as well. Most islanders do that.”

Boland expects Tuvaluans may experience some homesickness as he did when he arrived in Australia. “But not to the same extent,” he says. “Tuvalu is a lot more modern now with more exposure to the outside world.”

In February, a king tide rose and flooded Funafuti, inundating the island’s main road and many properties. Although king tides and some flooding occurs regularly, the severity of this event underscored the nation’s perilous future.

Losa Sogivalu was distressed by the footage.

“People post on Facebook about the king tides in Tuvalu, and it just makes me emotional because the weather is changing,” she says.

Sogivalu was born in Nauru but identifies as Tuvaluan, the nationality of her own father and the father of her children.

“I was kind of like a fish out of water. I had that feeling I wasn’t whole because something was missing. And then I found it in the Tuvalu people. Even though I have never been, I have this strong connection to it.”

The Tuvaluan language is vital to her identity. “The traditional music is beautiful ... we get emotional,” Sogivalu says.

At Melton Baptist Church she commands the microphone as she leads the band and congregation in melodious Tuvaluan prayer.

Sogivalu closes her eyes and sways as the sumptuous chorus swells through the hall.

Like many in the Tuvaluan diaspora, she is passionate about her children maintaining their connection with the language and culture. “If it’s the last thing I do, that’s what I would like for them.”

Sogivalu’s children have been to Tuvalu with their grandparents. Getting there costs an arm and a leg, she says, but one day, she also dreams of visiting.

“I should go home,” she says. “As humans we have that instinct to connect to a land. If Tuvalu no longer exists, where do we belong? We have got a community here, but it’s not the same.”

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