I arrived in Poland through Gdańsk. After spending a few days there, I went to Częstochowa, where I met my partner’s family. Those were intense days, full of affection and exchange. From there, we headed to Oświęcim, where I visited the memorial in Oświęcim (Auschwitz), and then continued on to the Wieliczka Salt Mine.
As we left Oświęcim on our way to Prague, already on the bus, I began sketching out this text. My body was still carrying the weight of the images, the words, the silence, and the pain that linger in the air of that place where millions of lives were erased.
One of the phrases I read at the Oświęcim museum mentioned the idea of historical reparation. That expression echoed in me, and without asking permission, it pulled me back to two very personal memories.
The first was the moment I officially received the restitution of my Spanish citizenship. It was a symbolic and political gesture — an attempt to reconnect the descendants of Sephardic Jews with a homeland that, centuries ago, had expelled them. In a way, I felt seen.
The second memory took me back to 2006. At that time, I had just been kicked out of my father’s house by my stepmother. A dear friend took me in — he lived in a 15-square-meter home in a favela in Rio.
We shared everything — space, food, struggles, and many long conversations about life. In one of them, talking about dual citizenship, I said to him:
“Man, why don’t you try to look into your ancestors? Maybe you could have a right to citizenship somewhere too.”
He let out a gentle laugh, without irony but full of truth, and replied:
“Bro, look at my skin. I’m Black and from the favela. I’m not even recognized as a citizen here… imagine in another country that doesn’t even remember my people.”
Even so, because I insisted, we began a small investigation. We wanted to know more about his roots. But right from the start, we hit some obstacles.
On his birth certificate, the father’s field was blank.
We went looking for his mother’s certificate. There, we found something even more painful: the document had been made based on self-declaration. She didn’t know her exact birth date, nor the names of her biological parents.
Someone at the registry office filled it in based on what she vaguely remembered hearing as a child. She had been raised by “someone” on a hill in Rio de Janeiro. That’s where our search ended.
Years later, I read about the decision of Rui Barbosa, then Brazil’s Minister of Justice, who ordered the destruction of all documents related to the period of slavery in the country. In practice, this erased any chance of tracing genealogies, of knowing where people came from, who they were, where the grandparents of the grandparents of so many Black Brazilians had lived.
All of this was running through my mind as the road unfolded between Auschwitz and Prague. And it was in that moment that an idea emerged.
What if…
What if the baptism certificates issued by the Church could serve as the foundation for a global act of historical reparation?
If civil citizenship fails, if records have been erased, if the State turned its back — what if the Church, which for centuries baptized millions of bodies without guaranteeing their dignity, could now at least return a document of belonging?
What if this spiritual document could also become a political one?
Maybe it wouldn’t undo centuries of violence, but it could be the beginning of a conversation, a gesture, a recognition.
Because no one should be condemned to be forgotten.
For centuries, the Catholic Church was the largest civil registry office in the world. Baptisms, marriages, and even funerals were officially recorded by the Church, long before the birth of modern states. And here’s the curious part: even today, several countries still accept baptismal certificates as valid documents for citizenship applications. But what about the Vatican? That tiny state with over a billion “spiritual citizens.” Why has it never officially recognized its own baptized members as legal citizens?
The Vatican is an anomaly in the international system. It is the smallest in territory, yet one of the oldest in transnational legitimacy. Its sovereignty stems from the marriage between the Roman Empire and Christianity, a union of political and symbolic power designed to maintain imperial cohesion and expand influence beyond physical borders into the realm of belief.
The Vatican is not merely the heir of this fusion; it is the reincarnation of the Roman Empire itself. More than a memory, it is a living jurisdiction, maintaining Christian authority and Roman diplomacy as the center of a millennia-old political-religious tradition.
The Roman Empire didn’t end; it transformed. It continues to exist, now wearing the garments of the Vatican, holding diplomatic relations with over 180 countries and maintaining observer status at the United Nations.
Everyone who professes to be Christian, whether Catholic or not, including those who follow a “another gospel” like Protestantism, Evangelicalism, Jehovah’s Witnesses, or Mormonism, is a child of that ancient marriage. They exist because of the Roman Catholic Church and the Vatican. No matter how much they try to distance themselves, deny, or criticize it, all who call themselves Christian carry a Catholic DNA imprinted on their spiritual identity.
All of this speaks to the power of the Vatican, even before the Lateran Treaty of 1929. Catholic churches around the world function like informal consulates of the Vatican. They perform rituals, issue documents (such as birth and marriage records), display diplomatic coats of arms, and in many cases, enjoy a sort of “parliamentary immunity.”
They serve symbolic embassy-like roles, representing the interests of the Holy See, welcoming its “spiritual citizens,” and mediating between individuals and a jurisdiction that transcends the nation-state. This transnational consular network, composed of parishes, dioceses, universities, hospitals, religious orders, and NGOs, forms a true institutional diaspora of the Vatican.
In this light, Vatican citizenship should be understood and extended as a right to all Catholics worldwide. And this leads to a compelling question: should such citizenship also be offered to followers of the “another gospel”? After all, many of them were simply born into that “other” place, like children of immigrants, they did not choose it.
The Church is everywhere. The commandment to “go and preach the gospel” was the ultimate realization of the Roman dream of world domination. And it worked. Every church, Catholic or not, Protestant or Evangelical, Mormon or Jehovah’s Witness, is a living nucleus of Roman thought. They operate as an effective global network, a parallel State built on the hope of a heavenly Kingdom, yet mapped onto lands conquered and colonized by that faith.
And no, this isn’t just about theology or religion. It’s about politics, history, and justice. The Vatican, along with many from the “another gospel,” played an active role in colonization and slavery. So why not consider Vatican citizenship as a form of historical reparation, especially for the descendants of those who were forcibly baptized over the centuries? If countries like Germany, Spain, and Portugal have acknowledged their past by granting citizenship, why can’t the Holy See do the same?
At its core, baptism is more than a beautiful ritual. It is a spiritual and institutional record, one that grants full citizenship within the legal body of the Church (through Canon Law and the Catechism), conceived and legitimized by its founder: Christ. From Him, as the head of the Church, of the institution, and of the Vatican, comes the idea of a common citizenship for all. After all:
“The Christian community is described as the Body of Christ, made up of many united members; a family of God, with all as fellow citizens and members; and a holy people, called to proclaim the light of God.”
(Matthew 12:49–50; 1 Corinthians 12:12–27; Ephesians 2:19; 1 Peter 2:9)
Following this logic, baptism could and perhaps should be understood as a legal act of dual affiliation: both spiritual and institutional. It brings the believer into God’s family through the blood of Christ (jus sanguinis), and into the visible, organized global community of the Catholic Church (jus soli).
It’s all there: faith, identity, belonging, and even official paperwork. Maybe it’s time to rethink what citizenship truly means in the 21st century. Because yes, faith can also be a document. And who knows, maybe even a passport to greater dignity, more rights, and deeper recognition.
Now comes the intriguing part: what would happen if every Catholic received Vatican citizenship? How would that impact the world?
Think about it.
Your baptismal certificate could be your gateway to European citizenship.
Download or Read more here:
BATISTA, D. J. (2025). Vatican Citizenship for Catholics Worldwide: A Social Reparation. Zenodo. https://doi.org/10.5281/zenodo.15875236