The almond eyes behind the shayla

It's hot and it's humid. The ceiling fans hum above, and an occasional laugh echoes through the walls. Silence is broken as an officer takes out a chunky bunch of keys and opens a heavy padlock. The jail door opens, attracting the curious attention of residents at Lyster Barracks.

A woman wearing a colourful print dress peers from the corridor. But as soon as she sees the cameras, she hides her face behind the shayla [long, rectangular scarf], leaving only her piercing, black, almond eyes visible. She quickly disappears.

On Friday, the Maltese government invited the media to visit the detention centres at Safi and Hal Far. It was an opportunity for journalists to see how the migrants, the majority of whom arrived in recent weeks, spend their days in detention until they receive news of whether their asylum request has been approved or rejected.

Most of them were Somalis and Eritreans, and most of them were still young. Since March, a total of 1,079 irregular migrants have made their way to Maltese shores on 14 boats. During the tour of both detention centres, the journalists were told repeatedly they were running close to full capacity. The Head of Detention Services, Brian Gatt, said he "had no idea what would happen if another boat were to come in today".

A different reality exists in these centres. There is not much detainees can do to while away the time: they watch TV, kick a ball around, wash their clothes - if they have any - and sleep.

The atmosphere at Lyster Barracks is, however, different from that at Safi. Safi is like a prison: most of the migrants - all male - are wearing orange or yellow shirts given to them by detention officers. The feeling of apathy is overwhelming. Some are still asleep at 11am; others stare into space; small groups huddle together in the yard, eyes downcast. A couple of younger migrants play volleyball with a worn-out football.

But somehow at Lyster Barracks, the air seems livelier. It is still hot, but the floor is not concrete. There are still bunk beds, but they are situated in different rooms not divided by partitions. There is more light, and even though there are bars on the windows, they are not reminiscent of prison.

And the women. They look at you and smile, greet you warmly and take your hand. There is also a moment of hesitation - apprehensiveness over whether they should respond to journalists' questions or pretend they do not understand English.

The shayla they wear is an automatic defence mechanism; the women raise it to their face the moment they feel uncomfortable. As soon as they relax, they allow their smiles to shine through.

Several women wearing bright print dresses go from one room to another, teasing their roommates. Women and men are separated on different floors. The younger women take a liking to the cameras and pose together for a photo. Then they smile bashfully and hide their faces once again.

Halima is an 18-year-old girl from Somalia, although she looks younger than her age. She fled to Malta from Greece on board an airplane and carrying a fake passport. Upon landing in Malta she was immediately stopped and transferred to Lyster Barracks.

It has now been two months, and she has not yet heard whether her request for asylum has been approved or rejected. She looks at me with an almost rueful smile.

"Do you regret leaving home?" I ask.

"Sometimes I do, sometimes not. I cannot live there until it becomes a good place. I hope to go back home, but not before it becomes safe," she says.

Her journey to Malta was definitely not an easy one: from Somalia to Amman to Syria and, finally, Greece.

"It was difficult travelling alone, and we were treated really badly in Greece. They never looked at us as refugees," Halima says, her eyes welling up as she mentions her mum and siblings left behind in Somalia.

She has managed to keep in contact with her family, and her only wish is to find a job and help her family back home. "They face problems all the time, and all I want to do is help them." She describes her dream of improving her English and working as a translator.

Her eyes are filled with hope that one day she may realise the dream, and as her determination kicks in, a sense of frustration emanates as well: "Why are we being held in here? We are not criminals, and yet we are being kept in this cell. Some of us have been here for over a year; others are sick but they won't take us to the hospital."

The detention officers explain that in every building there's a medical doctor and nurse, and every morning appointments are made at the in-house clinic.

As we are talking, a group of women silently gather around, urging Halima in their native language to speak about their plight. One women, wearing a blue dress and yellow scarf, looks at us with sad eyes. She speaks and Halima translates that the woman's husband and children were killed and she fled the country. In Libya, she finally escaped prison after paying $300 and suffering torture, the scars of which are still evident on her forehead today.

On another floor we meet some of the male migrants.

31-year-old Filmon came to Malta on 4 July - three years after escaping from an Eritrean prison. His crime? Protesting with fellow students against the government in 2001. He was in university, studying history, before he was captured for demanding students' rights.

The prison was on the border of Eritrea, and he managed to escape, cross the border and find work in the fields. He soon moved to Sudan but was captured by "hijackers" who wouldn't allow him to leave before paying $1,000. Filmon didn't have the money, but his friend's sister sent it from Switzerland.

He remembers the exact dates: "Between 22 August 2010 and 3 January 2013, I worked in Khartoum [Sudan's capital city] as a construction worker [among other jobs]."

Leaving Sudan on an eight-day journey, he made it to Libya's Benghazi... where he was immediately captured by the police. After five months, he managed to escape once again.

How? Like in the majority of stories that migrants recount, the officers at the prison accepted around $1,200 and helped him escape.