A Fishing Trip

He’s been threatening to do it for weeks and on Wednesday he calls. "Dad, is Saturday OK for you?" he asks, "To go fishing, I mean?" Fishing is one of those pleasures of life I occasionally  indulge in, though I haven’t been for years. Although I love it, my ability to actually fish is in inverse proportion to the fondness I have for the activity.  "Sure," I reply, "As long as it’s in the evening." “Don’t worry. It won’t be before half four." "Right, then.  See you Saturday."

Saturday comes along, and I unwrap the fishing-rod Son gave me for my birthday less than a fortnight ago. It comes complete with a fishing-line, which I duly proceed to hopelessly entangle the minute I try to tie it to the rod. Luckily, there’s a shop catering for fishing aficionados just round the corner and within minutes I am duly supplied with three fishing-lines. I originally intend to acquire only one, but bitter experience has long taught me that the likelihood I’ll mess up in such situations is on the high side – so better play safe.

It is to be me, Son, Daughter-in-Law and Son-in-Law. Daughter is abroad earning the crust – or so she claims.  Son-in-Law kindly gives me a lift to Xgħajra and at just before 5.00pm, after a ten minute walk over stony paths and a rather rocky terrain, I am struggling to set up the rather unwieldy 7-metre fishing rod with the newly-acquired fishing line, which turns out to be a full metre shorter than the rod. Son-in-law is equipped with a smaller, handier rod, while Son - evidently harbouring ambitions of capturing fish bigger than the fry we are likely to catch with our traditional rods - comes armed with a rod complete with reel. Daughter-in-Law is apparently not too impressed with the collective wealth of fishing knowledge displayed by the three males in her company and opts to swim and sun-bathe instead.

I use plain bread for bait, while the other two, hoping to lure the fish which live and feed close to the bottom, opt for white-shelled snails. In a less than nonchalantly elegant gesture, I cast and the two white blobs of bread are quickly surrounded by darting shapes which congregate in a small dark cloud around them. The red and white float remains static, though, as the fish nibble away at the bread and avoid the sharp end of the hook. Even my rather limited knowledge of things piscine is sufficient to enlighten me to the fact that the fishy creatures feasting on my bait are mostly the scissor-tailed ċawl - small-mouthed and notoriously difficult to catch even by seasoned rod-wielders, let alone by the likes of me.

Son-in-Law draws first blood and captures  a green-brown tirda which thrashes  about wildly and wetly on the rocks, until it is freed from the hook and deposited in an inland pool of sea to which it seems to adapt in no time. It is soon joined by a local wrasse and the first of a series of ċawl Son-in-Law takes. Son is engaging in scrape after scrape with a rather unkind sea-bed which ensnares his hook and line and which he manages to free only when Daughter-in-Law and Son-in Law swim out to pull it free from the bottom.

My first catch proves to be pretty elusive, but after an hour’s fishing - when I have all but resigned myself to another catch-less fishing trip - the float unexpectedly bobs down beneath the surface and a quick(ish) jerk of the rod reveals a small brown ċawla ensnared the way it should be, through its mouth, and not ‘misruqa’, that is hooked accidentally from some other part of its body.

In between catches – not that there are many - I look out at the pristine sea, blue and turquoise, the surface just ruffled by a very slight current, the suspicion of a breeze helping to keep the temperature acceptably cool on this early evening. Besides my family there is not a soul in sight.  At one point a strange sensation steals over me, envelopes me, then takes me in its grip. It’s almost sickly sweet, maudlin. Images of past fishing trips with the children, from two decades ago, flash from somewhere deep inside. Mistra... two happy faces looking intently at a green and white float ... little arms awkwardly wielding a rod which is evidently too big and heavy for them ... eyes sparkling when a fish is lifted and grimy hands eagerly reaching out for it. The arguments on the way back ... who actually caught the first fish with Papà’s new rod, if you count the one which slipped away while it was being de-hooked? ... The eager run to Nanna’s house to brag all about the vopi and the griewel bagged, and to make sure that their fishes end up in the aljotta pot.

The memories aren’t many. There could, damn it, there should have been more of them had not work and projects and books and useless, petty squabbles not hijacked precedence over what was manifestly more important. If only I could have seen it then!

Still, I should be thankful for what there was - and there is still.

It’s 7.00pm and it’s time to pack up. The half-score or so fish we have bagged are taken from the inland pool and re-consigned to the open sea. The evening is pleasant and we walk back to the car in silence. It’s almost as if my strange mood has permeated the air and affected all of them. At one point Son looks over and asks, "You ok?"  I can’t really answer, so I just walk over and give him a big hug. He responds – as he always does.

Maybe those fishing trips from 20 years ago – even if few and far between -  did have an effect, after all.

Playing Judge, Jury, Executioner – and God

Mamadou Kamara’s tragic death has understandably shocked us to the core. Everybody seems to be clamouring for justice – a natural enough reaction – but public opinion seems to have polarised around two very different notions of exactly what would constitute justice in this case.

If justice is truly to be done we should, first of all, establish the facts.  However, most of us appear to know exactly what happened according to our own positions on the thorny question of illegal immigration. Illegal immigration is a very emotionally-laden issue and positions emanating from our feelings on the subject are hardly likely to be paragons of the sort of enlightened detachment necessary for the objective appraisal of situations of the sort.

Those who are “against” illegal immigration have apparently decided that what happened was nothing more than legitimate self-defence on the part of the accused soldiers whose very life was being threatened by a raving maniac of an immigrant. Some particularly bright exponents of this position have gone on record as demanding that the case against the three soldiers be dropped forthwith. If you don’t believe me have a look at that endless reservoir of insightful, intelligent and objective contributions aka The Times online comments board or else the various FB groups which have sprouted up over the past week in defence of the accused soldiers.

The opposite position is in a sense even more worrying because it is held by individuals who, generally speaking, are better-educated, and thus in a position to influence official attitudes more effectively than those manning the opposite barricade. The minute the news of Mr. Kamara’s terrible demise started spreading, it became apparent to those who, for want of a better phrase, can be called pro-immigrant, that this horrible accident was in fact yet another confirmation of how the monster of racism had seized hold of our collective soul and was now directing our behavior and attitudes towards those immigrants unfortunate enough to land on our shores. The possibility that any such accident can have had its own dynamics quite independently of the racist attitudes which are undoubtedly polluting public discourse on immigration seems not to have even been allowed to cross the frontiers of their minds.

In this context, it was heartening to read Maltatoday’s interview with Dr. Katrine Camilleri from the Jesuit Refugee Services         http://www.maltatoday.com.mt/en/newsdetails/news/interview/Human-rights-vs-populism-Katrine-Camilleri-20120707 . One would have thought that with her background, Dr Camilleri might have given in to the temptation of singing the “pro-immigration’’ tune and blaming the accident fairly and squarely on the racism many believe permeates the Army ranks. Instead she gave a very sober appraisal of the situation in detention and showed that she is fully empathetic not only with the plight of the migrants held in forced detention, but also with the grave difficulties the soldiers assigned on guard duties are facing. Many of those on the same side of the lines have not been equally fair and just.

It is almost banal to point out that pre-conceived notions of the significance and dynamics of the accident militate strongly against the later perception of justice in the judicial process. The persons who allegedly committed the offence must be judged on the actual merits of their actions irrespective of the political or ideological meanings we attach to immigration, and must be presumed innocent until proven guilty – if they are proven guilty, that is.

The point is that unless we descend from the lofty thrones of ideology and prejudice, and allow the Courts to concentrate first and foremost on the mechanics of the human situation as it unfolded, we would not be even in an intellectual and emotional position to appreciate what justice should be meted out. It is a question of strong and dearly-held emotions pitted against trust in our institutions: a situation where the virtue of humility should be exercised. Let the Courts exercise the function of appraising and judging – which is what our society agrees they are there for. To think we are above the Courts, and that our pre-fabricated judgments are superior to their workings, is dangerously suggestive of the sort of pride which can undermine that respect for our institutions that lies at the core of social cohesion.

The Ghoul in the Machine

The minute she opens her eyes and focuses, the image of the machine with its lights winking mischievously pushes its way forcefully into her consciousness. She shudders, half with imagined exhilaration, half with fear and slides down from the bed onto the floor, on her knees. “Today, whatever happens, I will not gamble. Please help me God”, she mutters, eyes fixed on the Crucifix above her bed.

She knows she should keep herself occupied and busies herself around the house, wiping tables which already gleam, sweeping floors with not a speck on them, and re-arranging clothes which, since yesterday, have been fastidiously folded in their drawers or hanging in the wardrobe. She tries to concentrate on the work, but the attempts to shut out the image of that mechanical demon with the flickering eyes whirring sweet nothings in her ears take too much effort and she often finds herself, broom in hand, staring vacantly in mid-task.

At times the urge to drop everything and fly to the shop becomes strongly physical, a welling emptiness in her chest, a thumping in her breast and forehead, and a tantalising tingling in her fingers. She strides to the phone instead, and calls Anna, like her a recovering gambler, unlike her able to stay away from the machines for close to four years now. For thirty minutes she pours out her feelings, her anger at herself, at the blasted machine, object of her love and hate, and at the damned bastards who opened the shop round the corner from her house, where nine days before, she had lost the new-found control over her life. 

It had lasted just over three months. When the gambling parlours had been unexpectedly closed down in the summer of 2009, she had at first felt strangely elated at the freedom from the shackles of the compulsion to hit the machines. All of two days later a friend had whispered in her ear about the ‘amusement’ machines in Cottonera.  There, she had gambled whatever she could beg or borrow.

She had stolen too, first raiding her children’s bank-accounts from the few thousands their father had left for them before he moved in with that floosy, loathing herself for doing so more than she hated the peroxide bitch who had wrested Mark away from her. She would of course replace the money one day, she had repeated to herself to mollify her conscience, knowing full well that would never happen. She had then schemed with a friend to steal handbags from churches, but had been arrested quite early on in her new career as thief. It would be her first time ever in court.

The only source of cash left had been Frans, the local loan-shark, who had kindly procured a couple of thousand Euros for her at a specially discounted rate of 10% - per month, of course. She now owed him more than €19,000 and lived in mortal terror of meeting him in the street, or worse still, of finding him on her doorstep to retrieve “his” money. He would doubtlessly have creative suggestions about how she could earn enough to pay him off in a few short months – under his muscularly benevolent protection.

Then in October of last year, a knock did come – but, when she had opened, it was not Frans is-Sellief’s menacing bulk which met her terrified glance, but two rather pleasant faces. They introduced themselves as social workers, and told her quietly and clearly that, unless she sorted herself out, the children would be taken in care since it was obvious from the fact that they were acting out at school and at times turning up without anything to eat, that they were at risk. She realised that all the neighbours knew about her gambling habit – and word had got through to the school which had in turn alerted Appoġġ.

The social workers had suggested Gamblers Anonymous and one evening she made her way to Floriana resigned to spending the next ninety minutes being preached to about the evils of gambling by condescending do-gooders.  Instead she had been greeted with unexpected warmth, and was soon listening with rapt attention to the stories of the other gamblers: familiar tales of deceptive wins and soaring debts, of lies and betrayal of family members, of suicides contemplated and attempted.

There were unfamiliar stories too: of courageous decisions to stop gambling, of the fellowship and camaraderie at Gamblers Anonymous helping members achieve extraordinary victories over the urge to gamble, of solemn promises never to approach the machines any more broken before they were uttered, and of impossibly tangled webs of problems and difficulties gradually unwoven. 

For the next three months she did not set foot in that dingy Paola parlour, attending meetings, reading the literature and talking daily on the phone with her new-found friends instead. The children sensed something was different about her and were becoming less anxious by the day, as food became less scarce and their mother was no longer preoccupied solely with acquiring money to play the machines. There were even suggestions of a new-found self-esteem in their demeanour, as their mother began to care enough to help them with their school-work.

Then, she discovered that the florist’s round the corner had, virtually overnight, been transformed into a gambling parlour with 8 shining monsters, their colourful lights seductively signalling their availability. The knowledge that those machines were there, a mere three minutes’ walk away, pounded incessantly, obsessively into her thinking and, try as she might, she could not shake off the urge this triggered. Within two days, she was gobbling up the machines’ delights, oblivious to all consequences, hitting them with wild abandon and revelling in the exhiliration only they could arouse in her.

Only when she had bet her last eurocent could she drag herself away home to her children agitatedly awaiting her return. The wild euphoria had given way to a desperate emotional trough as she was confronted with her frailty when facing the monster. Waves of self-pity swamped her and horrible thoughts about a final solution to her problems probed her mind. Providence intervened in the shape of a phone-call from Anna, her GA sponsor, which helped her regain enough composure to realise that she owed it to herself and to her children to try again.

This is where she is now: fearful, tearful and jittery, veering between uncertain optimism and a dark foreboding. The struggle within is practically unceasing, the images of the monsters round the corner beckoning with a force which almost physically threatens to propel her through the door into their waiting jaws.  Except when she’s on the phone with Anna or her other GA companions, she suffers alone, wondering whatever  possessed the authorities to subject her and her family to this torture by giving the go-ahead to the resuscitation of those monsters of doom and destruction.

The Invasion of Linguistic Immigrants

An interesting and provocative article in the Times http://www.timesofmalta.com/articles/view/20120125/opinion/The-rise-of-Maltenglish.403787 which recalled Antonio Muscat Fenech, one of the pioneers of Maltese orthography, revived the argument about how English words assimilated into spoken Maltese should be written. The author, like many others, is under the impression that il-Kunsill tal-Malti has already decided the matter. In fact, the question is still under discussion as can be clearly seen on il-Kunsill’s website http://www.kunsilltalmalti.gov.mt/. Among language experts,  authors, and users of the language opinions differ: should we write “microwave”, microwave or majkrowejv? Should we try and come up with another term using Maltese’s own resources, like forn tal-mewġ mikro?  

There are those who believe that the heavy influx of foreign words is mostly due to laziness: people simply cannot be bothered to think of the correct native term and opt for the word which comes to mind first. The process is so rapid that scholars, assuming they were so inclined and actually could draw upon the necessary resources,  do not even have the time to coin an acceptable alternative before the word has embedded itself firmly into linguistic consciousness. 

Even if alternatives to the foreign (mostly English) words exist,  one can only go as far as suggesting which word people should use; ultimately the decision about which one to adopt  is made by the speakers of the language, although that choice would be influenced by linguistic ability, the value given to culture,  and the environment. Some of the environmental factors can be controlled (broadcasting, the way Government communicates through its administrative machinery and, the most crucial of all, the educational system) but the level of control depends on political will and on the availability of resources. The apparent laziness is probably partly the result of pressures exerted on each of us by psycho-social forces, and partly due to our mastery of the foreign language which no longer pushes us towards giving a Maltese form to the foreign word like we used to do in the pre-war days when we turned  delfino into  delfin, and fire into  fajjar.

Once the word enters the language it is difficult to avoid writing it in some context or other; its existence has to be acknowledged as part of the living language. Lovers of language may seethe (not too strong a word to describe the reaction of those for whom the aesthetics of language are important) when a word like baby/bejbi replaces a perfectly adequate word like tarbija, and bajsikil/bicycle begins to supplant rota but linguists cannot not recognise their existence, nor can writers simply refuse to use them, otherwise the dichotomy between the written and the spoken language would reach truly ridiculous proportions.

Deciding how to write that word is not always easy. While words derived from Italian normally fit well within Maltese and adapt seamlessly, words of English origin enjoy no such affinity with our language. Therefore, one either accepts apparent monstrosities like majkrowejv or (God help us) fajerenġin. or else one opts for italicised words or words within inverted comma, which would mean whole tracts of a scientific or technical nature written in this awkward way.

The first of these two is the one which raises the hackles of so many people: the Maltese being so familiar with English wince when they see words they know so well written in an alien manner –and they react, probably in knee-jerk fashion, without considering the matter thoroughly. How else could one explain the suggestion put forward by the author of the Times article that conjugated words like niskorja and niffajlja should be written niscoreja and nissaveja, that is to say utilising a hybrid spelling? This in an article decrying the use of Maltenglish!

Perhaps there is still a very slim chance of finding a way out of this quandary, without resorting to solutions the March Hare would probably consider bizarre: the creation of a culture where organic linguistic development – which would involve the creation of new terms by scholars the use of which use would then be fully promoted by official bodies and all the media - can thrive. For this to happen, political and social forces have to unite in a concerted effort to create this environment. The ground is, however, far from fertile.

Were one to pay attention to the cliché-ridden declarations regarding Maltese emanating from the mouths and key-boards of politicians and other prominent people on the island one would be think that the powers-that-be and people who matter are overwhelmed with love and respect for the national language.  Scratch beneath the platitudes, however, and you’ll discover that their words are, well, just that – words, uttered for the sake of being heard to make the right sounds and for no other reason.

Take the Education Department, for instance. You would think that, of all the Government entitities, this one would grant priority to the national language, given, inter alia, that it is the one charged with its formal generational transmission. Have a look at its web-site: at first glance it would appear that Maltese is utilised quite extensively. All the titles of the different pages are in Maltese. Then click on any of these Maltese-entitled links and you will find that, with very few exceptions, the content is in English.

This provides an extremely telling metaphor for many of the institution’s attitudes towards our language:  apparently respectful for appearance’s sake, scornfully dismissive in substance.The media are not much better: if pressed hard they will comply with the directives to write Maltese correctly, but they could not care less about their presenter’s linguistic capability. In this sort of environment we can forget about developing native words for new terms, at least in the short term. Despite the availability of technical expertise in the shape of a few top-notch linguists, the nation lacks the moral, intellectual and institutional wherewithal for such an enterprise to bear fruit.

So, how are we to treat these linguistic immigrants? This is my opinion for what it’s worth: all those foreign words we conjugate like niskorja, tiffajljaw, ibboksja, ikkowċajtu etc - should be written according to Maltese orthographic rules. The same goes for their stem-words - skor, fajl, boksing, kowċ etc. Words which have long entered Maltese, or are by now well-established, like kowt, futbol, friġġ, maws, kompjuter, should be written in the Maltese alphabet. Il-Kunsill might have to update this list every now and then. Complex English words which fit in very awkwardly with the structure of written Maltese, like fire-engine, air-conditioner and birdwatching should be written in English, but italicised.

This would leave the problem of technical (e.g. ICT) publications in Maltese which would contain a great deal of words in italicised form. It is unfortunate but inevitable, in the short term.

In the long-term, there might just be the solution most of us desire: rational and concrete political action which could create the climate where the institutions and the media work together with academics, authors and educationists to foster organic linguistic development. This will only happen when pressure is brought to bear upon those in power. We have to lobby politicians to make them aware that we want action. Given recent political developments, the time is ripe. 

Il-Każ Stramb tal-Poplu Malti u Lsienu

Daqqa t’għajn fuq fuq lejn l-istorja politika tal-ilsien Malti biżżejjed biex turina li r-relazzjoni bejn il-poplu Malti u l-Malti mhix waħda tas-soltu. Forsi hawn min jaħseb li, wara kollox, fejn jidħlu relazzjonijiet intimi – kif suppost huma dawk bejn komunitajiet u l-ilsien li jidentifikahom –  mhix kwistjoni tas-“soltu” għax m’hemmx forma xi ssegwi. Skont dawn,  l-għamla psikoloġika tal-poplu, l-istorja tiegħu, il-pożizzjoni ġeografika,  kif jaqla’ l-ħobża ta’ kuljum, dak li jiġri madwaru (u ġieli ’l bogħod minnu), l-istratifikazzjoni soċjali,  il-bidliet fit-teknoloġija u bosta fatturi oħra kollha kemm huma jħawru l-għaġna tar-relazzjoni – u jsawruha b’mod uniku.

Imma, minkejja li kull relazzjoni bejn poplu u lsienu taf tkun idjosinkratika,  l-istorja tal-umanità  miżgħuda b’eżempji ta’ kif il-popli ħabirku u ssieltu b’rispett li l-lsien li jagħżilhom jitweġġaħ  kif jixraqlu; forsi għax għarfu s-sehem indispensabbli tiegħu fit-tiswir ta’ pajjiżhom. U llum kburin bih u jagħmlu minn kollox biex jindukrawh, kemm għax jagħrfu li anke f’dinja globalizzata, l-identità nazzjonali għadha essenzjali u kemm għax jafu li r-relazzjonijiet fil-qrib tal-individwi fil-komunità jiddependu wkoll minn ilsien li huma ta’ ġewwa miegħu. Aktarx hemm raġuni oħra: illum hemm rabta qawwija ma’ dak l-ilsien u min iħaddmu kuljum; hemm storja kollettiva li ħalliet it-timbru fil-moħħ u fir-ruħ, hemm letteratura li nfilsat fil-kuxjenza, hemm l-identifikazzjoni mal-ilsien tant li kull daqqa lilu hija daqqa lill-poplu li ġġib id-dehxa tal-uġigħ, hemm il-biża’ mil-luttu tal-firda li kieku l-ilsien kellu jintilef.

U aħna? Fejn f’pajjiżi oħra kien il-poplu li tqabad  mal-ħakkiem - u ġieli miet - għad-dritt li lsienu jkun rikonoxxut uffiċjalment, fil-każ tagħna allaħares ma kinux il-kolonizzaturi li, għall-iskopijiet tagħhom,  imbuttaw il-lingwa Maltija fis-snin ta’ qabel il-gwerra. Is-sezzjoni edukata tal-poplu, maqbuda fi spirtu nazzjonalista stramb u mgħawweġ aktar minn kemxejn, kienet lesta twarrab l-ilsien biex tisħaq fuq is-suppost identità Taljana tal-kultura tagħna.  Il-ħassieba u kittieba li għarfu l-ħtieġa li jibnu l-Malti miktub fuq sisien sodi, u fl-istess ħin jinsistu li jingħaraf, ma kinux iġibuha żewġ li kieku ma kienx il-ħakkiem barrani li, għax qabillu,  rifed it-talbiet tagħhom u  uża setegħtu biex ġabhom fis-seħħ.

Wara l-gwerra kulħadd intebaħ li politikament issa jaqbel li wieħed jisħaq fuq l-identità Maltija kollha kemm hi, sakemm wasalna għall-proposta tal-Integration. Ġużè Aquilina kien qal  li kien kellmu uffiċjal għoli tal-Partit fil-Gvern u kien qallu biex ma joqgħodx jinsisti wisq fuq il-Malti – il-futur ta’ Malta kellu minn hemm ‘il quddiem jintrabat mal-Ingliż. L-Ingliżi, imma,  l-Integration ma riduhiex. Kienu l-kolonizzaturi li għal darb’oħra, did-darba mingħajr lanqas biss irrealizzaw, salvaw lil ilsienna mid-dagħbien ?

Minħabba f’hekk , politikament reġa’ beda jidwi  l-innu ta’ “Viva l-Malti” bejn wieħed u ieħor b’armonija ġenerali – speċjalment jekk is-sens tas-smigħ ma jkunx akut iżżejjed, u ma’ widnejk ma jaħbtux ukoll in-noti stonati ta’ felli  ġmielu mill-klassi l-medja għolja u dawk li medhija jixxabtu lejn qċaċet soċjali ogħla. Fil-kisriet ta’ kull ilsien hemm riflessi wkoll d-differenzi soċjali; aħna, Alla jbierek, biex nemfasizzaw li aħna ‘l fuq mill-merħla, nwetiwtu b’ilsien ieħor. U issa li kulħadd klassi medja – jew hekk hawn min jgħid – inħalltu u nħawdu l-ilsna skont kif ifettlilna. L-iskola n-numri l-ewwel nitgħallmuhom bl-Ingliż , u imbagħad bil-Malti ftit li xejn jintużaw fid-diskors ta’ kuljum. Anke l-ġranet tal-Ġimgħa dalwaqt jgħibu mill-mitkellem. L-Università tagħna m’għadhiex tesiġi konoxxenza ċċertifikata tal-Malti f’ċerti korsijiet – u ma tħallikx tikteb bil-Malti fl-eżamijiet.

Uffiċjalment għandna lsien Nazzjonali, u s-setgħana erħilhom ifaħħruh u jgħollu sebħu mas-seba’ sema – imma imbagħad kważi kull wieħed minnhom jitmeżmeż milli jużah fil-korrispondenzi interni. Wisq nibża’  li  mill-fomm ‘il barra biss li nagħtu l-ġieħ; il-qalb u l-moħħ mixħutin band’oħra.

Imbagħad joħroġ il-kelliem tal-Oppożizzjoni għall-Edukazzjoni u jipproponi li l-ilsien tat-tagħlim fl-iskejjel ikun l-Ingliż, suppost biex tissaħħaħ il-ħakma fuq din il-lingwa. Jekk tinsa l-perjodu abberranti (pjuttost qasir) tal-ħolma tal-Integration, fid-dar politika tal-kelliemi tal-Oppożizzjoni  saltan ir-rispett lejn il-Malti. Fiha għammru individwi li naqqxu isimhom b’ġieħ fl-annali tal-istorja letterarja: Ġużè Bonnici, Karmenu Vassallo, Anton Buttigieg, Lino Spiteri, Alfred Sant. U oħrajn. Kellu jkun hu, il-bravu Kelliem għall-Edukazzjoni, li jipproponi miżura li kieku xi Gvern kellu jattwaha probabbli tagħti d-daqqa tal-mewt lil ilsienna. Tliet ġenerazzjonijiet oħra, u min se jibqa’ jitkellem u jikteb bil-Malti?

Konna nistennew li l-Ministeru tal-Edukazzjoni jaħsad ras din il-proposta minnufih. Minflok ma saħaq ras is-serp, Il-Ministeru  ma kkomettiex ruħu u se jsejjaħ lil-lingwisti u ‘l-edukaturi ħalli jagħtuh parir kif l-aħjar ifassal u jattwa politika lingwistika fl-iskejjel. Jalla joħorġu bi proposti li jsaħħu t-tagħlim tal-Ingliż u ta’ lingwi oħra. Imma li jitneħħa l-Malti minn lingwa ewlenija tat-tagħlim tkun miżura lingwiċida li tnissel  stmerrija dejjiema minn kull min japprezza l-għerf, l-għarfien u l-kultura.

L-ironija hija li din il-miżura suppost se taħji lill-poplu l-aktar li dawk li jbatu fl-Ingliż u żżidilhom l-opportunitajiet għal xogħol u ħajja aħjar. L-Unesco ma taqbilx. Ħafna edukaturi ma jaqblux. Dan il-blogg dalwaqt ixandar artiklu ta’ edukatur Malti prominenti u rrispettat internazzjonalment li se juri li huma proprju t-tfal tal-ħaddiema l-iktar li se jbatu kieku kellha tiddaħħal miżura bħal din. Ta’ min jixtarrha din.

Għaliex huwa minn fostna stess – u minn min għandu jew se jkollu s-setgħa – li joħorġu proposti li jistgħu jagħmlu ħsara kbira lill-Malti? Timmaġinaw lil xi pajjiż ieħor tal-Unjoni Ewrpoea – li ħafna minnhom għandhom livell medju ta' Ingliż aktar baxx minn tagħna – li lest li anke jikkonsidra ħaġa bħal din? Għaliex aħna? M’aħniex xi pajjiż multi-etniku bħal Singapore jew l-Indja, fejn l-Ingliż jagħmilha ta’ lingwa franka.

Forsi l-istorja partikolari tagħna – kien bis-saħħa tal-barrani li lsienna ntrefa’ – ma ppremettietx li l-proċess tal-valorizzazzjoni tal-lingwa jitwaħħad mal-kuxjenza tagħna bħal ma sar f’kull pajjiż li jirrispetta lilu nnifsu? Għandna bżonn perjodu Romantiku ġdid li jsaħħaħ in-nofs emanċipazzjoni li gawdejna minnha? Il-mentalità kolonjali - frott ħakma ħanina - għadha mqabbda mal-għeruq ta’ ruħna?  Biddilna malajr l-altari li ninkinaw quddiemhom: minflok tal-ġirien kolti bħal fis-snin 30, qed noffru s-sagrifiċċju lill-allat tal-globalizzazzjoni – u d-duħħan ta’ ħruq id-debħa qed iċajprilna l-vista?

Hemm popli oħra li, m’ilux wisq,  għaddew minn esperjenzi  bħal dawn u raw l-idjoma tagħhom tiddgħajjef u tinqered minħabba deċiżjonijiet politiċi – jew apatija politika. Wieħed minn dawn huwa l-poplu Sqalli li ra l-prestiġju tad-djalett jaqla’ daqqa wara l-oħra, għax il-politika ma kinitx għaqlija biżżejjed li tħares l-interessi kemm tal-lingwa standard u kemm tal-idjoma lokali. Minn qalb l-Isqallin imweġġgħa ħareġ leħen kiebi li niseġ għanja li r-reżonanzi tagħha jolqtuna. Niftħu għajnejna għax dak li kiteb Buttitta jaf, fi żmien mhux ‘il bogħod, ikun jgħodd għalina.

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LINGUA E DIALETTU

Ignazio Buttitta

(maqluba għall-Malti mill-Prof. Manwel Mifsud)

Poplu

xiddlu l-ktajjen

neżżgħu

soddlu ħalqu,

ikun għadu ħieles.

Ħudlu xogħlu

il-passaport

il-mejda fejn jiekol

is-sodda fejn jorqod,

ikun għadu għani.

Poplu

jitfaqqar u jitjassar

meta jisirqulu l-ilsien

li għaddewlu missirijietu:

jintilef għal dejjem.

Jitfaqqar u jitjassar

meta l-kliem ma jwelldux il-kliem

u jibdew jieklu lil xulxin.

Qed nintebaħ issa

jien u nikkorda l-kitarra tad-djalett

li qed titlef korda kuljum.

Jien u nraqqa’

ix-xoqqa kollha kamla

li nisġu nannietna

bis-suf tan-nagħaġ Sqallin.

U jiena fqir:

għandi l-flus

u ma nistax nonfoqhom;

il-ġawhar
u ma nistax nirregalahom

u l-għanja

ġo gaġġa

bil-ġwienaħ imqasqsa. 

                                                                                                                                                    

Fqir

Li jerda’ s-sider niexef

Tal-omm tar-rispett,

Li ssejjaħlu binha

biex twaqqgħu għaċ-ċajt.                            

                                                                            

Imm’aħna omm kellna,

u serquhielna;

sidirha nixxiegħa ta’ ħalib

u kulħadd kien jixrob minnu,

illum jobżqu fuqu.

Fadlilna biss leħenha,

bil-kisra tiegħu

bin-nota baxxa

fil-ħoss u fit-tnehida:

dawn ma jistgħux joħduhomlna. 

   

Ma jistgħux joħduhomlna,

imma xorta għadna foqra

u xorta ltiema.