Quizzing on Facebook

There’s no accounting for human tastes. Some people like blasting birds out of the sky. Some like collecting coins, stamps or even pencils. Some people like answering questions.

Yes, questions. Questions about geography, history, sports, art and religion. Current Affairs. Music and films. Language and literature. Cars and science.

Most of us have watched the peerless Gerry Scotti conduct “Chi Vuol Essere Milionario?” and wondered whether we would be good enough to do well in such a contest and win a stack of euros. However, many find quizzing exciting even when nothing more is at stake than the pleasure of a contest among like-minded individuals.

Many a time, even quizzing alone - pitting yourself against the question, digging deep into the memory, looking for connections between facts, putting things into context and hitting on the correct answer or attempting an educated guess which turns out to be right - allows you to experience a certain kind of thrill, an intellectual kick like no other. Get it wrong, and quite often your reaction is, “Damn, I should have known that one ... and next time I will know it’’ before the information is filed away into your mental cabinets, hopefully to be retrieved when that particular question comes up again.

Facebook has enabled quizzers to band together and conduct quizzing contests with great ease. Facebook pages dedicated to quizzes abound – and there is also a Malta-based quizzing page. It’s called Kwizzijiet and it started off some four years ago with the idea of providing Maltese quizzers with information about quizzes and a forum for discussion. Nobody took the blindest bit of interest.

Then, some three months ago, the founder of the page posted a 10-question quiz. Instantly, Kwizzijiet came alive and several peole turned up to take up the challenge. Now two or three quizzes a week are put up, and the number of members has surpassed ninety.

A development we never really expected was the interest the page aroused overseas. About one third of our members hail from places as diverse as Great Britain, the USA, Finland, the Philippines and Singapore. Some regularly take part in quizzing competitions, but most are simply ordinary folk who just love to take on the challenge of the general knowledge question, to rack their brains and rummage in the nooks and crannies of their memories.

There is one basic rule: no googling. Only very few are ridiculous enough to look up the answers before they post them. When they are found out the quizzing fraternity treats them like the pariahs they are.

If you would like to join, you are very welcome. Just click here , https://www.facebook.com/groups/108556435849901/?fref=ts  we’ll make you a member and you are free to answer the questions – or even post your own quizzes if you like.

In the meantime, here is a ten-question quiz gleaned from the quizzes posted on Kwizzijiet. Answers will be posted on this blog in a few days’ time.

    1. Which American singer had a big hit in 2014 with “Happy”?

    2. What symbol appears on the Swiss flag?

    3. Which is the national flower of India?

    4.  What is acrophobia?

    5. What is the capital of Bosnia-Herzegovina?

    6. How many books are there in the New Testament?

    7.  In which year did man first walk on the moon?

    8.  Who won the Wimbledon Men’s Singles Title in 2014?

    9. Three of Henry the Eighth’s six wives shared which name?

    10. Which organ is affected by hepatitis?

Answers:
1. Pharrell Williams
2. White cross (on red background)
3. Lotus
4. Fear of Heights
5. Sarajevo
6. 27
7. 1969
8. Novak Djokovic
9. Catherine (Catherine of Aragon, Catherine Howard, Catherine Parr)
10. Liver

Who’s Abusing Whom?

The news of the arraignment in court of a well-known and highly-respected educator and senior member of the MUSEUM, who has been charged with the heinous crime of child sexual abuse, has shocked a nation. Not in the usual way, however: while people normally tend to react to news of this kind by calling down divine retribution in the form of fire and brimstone upon the alleged miscreant, at whom bagfuls of choice epithets are hurled with abandon, this time the online newspapers’ comments boards were replete with forceful expressions of solidarity with the accused man.

The reasons for the outcry are known: the person concerned is, by all accounts, a paragon of integrity and has dedicated his entire life to the education of the young in both the professional and voluntary sector. The prosecution’s case rests solely on the account of the ‘’victim’’– a ten year-old boy. The alleged incident happened in a public setting, in the full view of several other people. The mechanics of the incident, as described by the supposed victim himself, lend themselves very readily to the conclusion that nothing more sinister than an accidental contact occurred. In the view of most of those who put fingers to keyboard, the arraignment of this gentleman was unseemly, unwise and utterly unjust. Until a few hours ago, five full days after his arraignment, he was still languishing in prison.

So, who or what is to blame for the mess this almost certainly innocent man finds himself in? The investigating police inspector, according to some. But which police officer, operating within a culture very highly sensitised to the dangers of the sexual abuse of youngsters, would be brave enough to resist the pressure to prosecute when incensed parents press for action? This, especially, when officers who fail to prosecute place themselves in danger of being very severely sanctioned? Moreover, what would those who are now condemning the police inspector as being high-handed for arraigning the MUSEUM catechist have said had the police had been informed of a case of sexual abuse and had decided not to prosecute? Would not the ensuing reaction have been a cacophony of protestations alleging a cover-up, a collusion, a dastardly plot against the vulnerable, involving gross incompetence and crass irresponsibility? 

Almost incredibly some have pointed a finger at the boy himself. He’s 10 years old for God’s sake! Enough said, I think. 

The parents? Why would two adults knowingly and deliberately put pressure on their 10-year old son to come up with or distort a series of events just to crucify an innocent man of blameless reputation, knowing that the boy would have to go through the harrowing experience of being interrogated by the police and testifying in court? The parents must actually believe that the abuse did take place, which by no means can be taken to signify that it actually did occur.

Why have we come to this, many commentators asked. The answer possibly lies in the effect of past incidents of the sexual abuse of minors, particularly those perpetrated by the MSSP religious and which have impressed themselves so forcefully upon the collective consciousness. The mental images associated with a perverse, unbridled lust thrusting against trusting innocence have provoked aggressive reactions on our part against persons and objects associated with the malefactors - like other religious, the Church hierarchy or even the Christian belief itself – and also as  a deep fear which only a sense of shocking betrayal can bring about. It is like a sweeping away of the ground from under our feet, the collapse of hitherto rock-solid edifices we could never have envisaged breaking down. 

The effect would be something in the order of a widespread Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder which afflicts those who feel particularly vulnerable, that is parents with young children. The adults, doubtlessly with the intention of protecting their offspring, imbue them with a sense of danger which turns the children into hyper-vigilant beings ever on the alert for marauding wolves in sheep’s clothing - or in clerical garb. For all we know, they could even be sporting a ”Verbum Dei” on their left jacket-lapel.  In these circumstances of heightened alertness to possible danger, the slightest incident can be magnified and transmogrified into a malevolent sexual attack.

In hindsight, what we experienced as a result of the sexual abuse incidents of the recent past was a sort of moral panic which has negatively affected our perception of many aspects of the relationship between children and non-family adults, particularly priests, monks and their fellow-travellers. Parents are (understandably) afraid and they transmit their anxieties onto their children who, at times, cannot handle their fear of an impending attack and may misinterpret innocuous incidents. In true moral panic mode, pressures are brought to bear on the authorities (for which, in this case, read the police) to act. 


Ultimately, all individuals – the parents, the police inspector, the newspaper editors who chose to splash the accused person’s name despite knowing full well that his good name would be tarnished- are responsible for their own actions and answerable to God and to their own consciences for whatever they have chosen to do. But none of us is immune to the effects of the pressures emanating from that conglomeration of priorities, prejudices and patterned behaviour called culture that we live in. When the pressures feeding on our deepest fears and anxieties are particularly strong, our decisions are never as free as we fondly imagine them to be. Conditioning is a fact of social life.

We, as members of the public who talk, gossip and judge, the journalists who report and prioritise fact, those commentators who analyse and opine, the public officials who take policy decisions and all individuals who succumb to perverse sexual temptation to the detriment of vulnerable others are responsible for the creation of the atmosphere around us which conditions our behaviour. When we come to realize that something is wrong on that level – and something manifestly is if a man who is almost certainly innocent has had to sleep in a prison cell for five nights – then we are duty-bound to bring about changes.

However, paradoxically - almost perversely - the accused gentleman’s ordeal, on top of a couple of other situations where accusations of sexual abuse have already been quashed by the Courts or appear very likely to be eventually dismissed, might spell change. They may prove to be the catalyst, and just the jolt we need, to change the way we collectively regard and deal with allegations of sexual abuse with the people who are charged with having allegedly committed these crimes - at least until the accused have been proved guilty.

Ulied Ulied Ulied in-Nanna Venut fi Brussel

Għall-ħabta tal-1920 in-nannu tiegħi, biex jaħrab l-għaks ta’ wara l-Gwerra, li kien waħda mill-kawżi ewlenin għar-rewwixti tas-Sebgħa ta’ Ġunju,  imbarka lejn l-Amerki.  Bejn wieħed u ieħor fl-istess żmien – forsi ħames, sitt snin wara - Juann Mamo bagħat lil Bertu Armaġużarma u wlied in-Nanna Venut l-oħra fuq dak il-vjaġġ epiku u immortali. In-Nannu Wenz ma tantx saddad għax wara sentejn “il-ħin kollu nibki” reġa’ lura fi ħdan il-familja f’din l-art ħelwa għalkemm kiefra. Il-ftit li naf fuq il-mawra tiegħu fl-Amerka jaqbel mhux ħażin ma’ partijiet mill-avventuri ta’ Ulied in-Nanna Venut, imma mhux li tgħid li jistħoqqlu min jimmortalizzah bl-iswed fuq l-abjad. Biex iwassal il-messaġġ, Mamo ħtieġlu joħloq u jsawwar ħafna ċirkustanzi fittizji mlewna sew għalkemm fuq sfond reali.

Waqt li kont qed naqra What Happens in Brussels Stays in Brussels, ir-raba’ rumanz pop ta’ Ġużè Stagno, irrealizzajt li, bħal Mamo, Stagno qabad qafas reali ħafna – li hu jafu sew - u fuqu bena storja b’karattri u avvenimenti naqra rtukkjati u mlibbsin kuluri jgħajtu. Din tat il-ħajja lil realtà li fil-wiċċ taf tidher bla wisq kulur u li ma jistħoqqilhiex li timmortalizzaha bl-iswed fuq l-abjad. Imma hemm differenza waħda u kbira, forsi frott tat-80 sena li jifirdu ż-żewġ xogħlijiet, jew li jifirdu l-qarrej tal-lum minn Ulied in-Nanna Venut fl-Amerka: Il-karattri u l-istorja tal-ktieb ta’ Stagno jitwemmnu aktar minn dawk ta’ Mamo.

Fuq livell wieħed din hi storja ta’ skoss nies ftit li xejn istruwiti u b’mentalità tipika ta’ gżira żgħira li jsibu ruħhom f’dinja msawra b’mod differenti minn dik li trabbew fiha. Inevitabbilment din id-dinja se tħawwadhom u huma se jitħawdu. U jħawdu.

Fuq livell ieħor it-tema hija iktar serja: Malta, għaxar snin u aktar wara l-Millennju u wara seba’ snin (ir-rumanz ambjentat f’Diċembru tal-2011) fl-UE, għadha Malta Maltija -  kif kien jawspika li tkun Dom Mintoff – jew iddakkret tant mill-“Ewropa” li tagħmel parti minnha li wliedha tilfu l-identità tagħhom? Il-Maltin ta’ Brussel jgħixu ħajja ta’ Maltin, ta’ Ewropej (jeżistu l-Ewropej?) jew ta’ Maltin libsin (imma spiss imneżżgħin) ta’ Ewropej?

Sakemm mhux qed inħalli l-istħajjil jiġri bija, jew m’iniex qed nipproġetta s-sentimenti tiegħi fuq l-istorja, ir-rumanz għandu wkoll dimensjoni politika: ir-relazzjoni tal-MLP/PL mal-UE u dik tal-Laburisti edukati, li għadd minnhom ivvutaw favur is-sħubija u lill-PN fl-2003, mal-partit li darba kien tagħhom.

Il-protagonista tal-istorja, Gustav Azzopardi, ġurnalist kapaċi imma moralment dgħajjef, huwa Malti żagħżugħ u edukat li jgħix Malta imma mhux barrani għal kollox f’belt bħal Brussel: il-valuri u l-atteġġjamenti tiegħu jippermettulu jidħol (bejn wieħed u ieħor) feles fl-ambjent ta’ belt kożmopolitana.  Ġej mill-klassi tal-ħaddiema imma ma tantx għadu jqis lilu nnifsu bħala wieħed minnhom. U jekk il-PL jilqa’ fih bil-qalb nies rozzi, razzisti, sessisti u fanatiċi bħal dawk li jsawru l-ġgajta li titla’ Brussell b’riħet il-MPE jismu Charlo Pulis, mhux ħaġa kbira li Gustav iħossu aljenat ukoll mill-partit li darba kien jappoġġja. Tant huma razzisti, pereżempju, li kultant tibda tistaqsi lilek innifsek jekk Stagno hux qed joħloq xi karikatura. Imbagħad tiftakar fil-kummenti li nkitbu fuq il-ħajt tal-Facebook ta’ Cecilia Malmstrom ...

Imma l-politika – u anke, sa ċertu punt,  l-imġiba barra minn lokha u imbarazzanti tal-ġgajta Maltija fi Brussel - huma sekondarji, għall-inqas kif fhimt ir-rumanz jien. Li huwa iktar ċentrali huwa l-konflitt bejn il-Malti u l-barrani f’dawk il-kompatrijoti tagħna li rabbew l-għeruq fi Brussel. Anke jekk jidhru kożmopolitani u sofistikati taħt il-qoxra, il-Malti għadu hemm. Jagħmlu għat-Twistees qishom kienu muniti tad-deheb. Is-segretarja tal-MPE Charlo Pulis hi sabiħa, sexy u sofistikata kemm trid, imma meta l-Maltin jibbujjaw x’ħin jgħaddu minn quddiem Dar Malta (għax dik għalihom simbolu tal-imbrolji ta’ GonziPN) tkun hi li saħħnithom. Ktibt ‘saħħnithom’ mhux ‘xewxithom’ għax ma’ din is-segretarja dan il-verb jiġik f’moħħok. Għandha saħna tal-Beati Pawli fuqha. Imma anke l-imġiba bla rażan tagħha forsi hija frott il-konfużjoni ta’ valuri: dak li xorbot ma’ ħalib ommha jitħallat ma’ dak li l-ħajja moderna titlob minnha. Tgħid in-nimfomanija hija l-mod kif irrisolviet il-konflitt li ma setgħetx issib tarfu?

Kien hemm xi ħaġa fir-rumanz li laqtitni fin-nuqqas tagħha. Huwa sinifikattiv li ma hemm  kważi l-ebda referenza (pożittiva jew negattiva) għal Alla, twemmin, reliġjon u Knisja? Lanqas nista’ naħseb f’rumanz ieħor bil-Malti fejn dawn ma jidħlux b’xi mod: inevitabbli li jkunu element fl-istorja ladarba l-kultura tagħna hija (kienet?) dik li hi. Tgħid dan huwa rifless ta’ kultura post-Kristjana li tinfluwixxi fuq il-ħajja ta’ bosta mill-karattri tar-rumanz? Tgħid hemm xi rabta mat-taqlib, l-edoniżmu u t-tfittxija pjuttost sfrenata għall-alkoħol - fi kwantitajiet Alla jberikhom - li jistimula, imbagħad imewwet? M’hemmx reliġjon u twemmin, imma sens ta’ ħtija li jkidd jidher li l-karattri jġarrbuh. Huwa iktar diffiċli ġġorr sens ta’ ħtija minn dnub, għax dan  jinħafer.

Stagno mmatura ħafna mill-kittieb ta’ Inbid ta’ Kuljum, l-ewwel kitba tiegħu li xorta waħda kien biċċa xogħol preġevoli.  Immatura mhux biss teknikament, imma anke bħala bniedem-li-jikteb. Kważi għall-ewwel darba fil-kotba tiegħu ħassejt li hemm ukoll ħjiel ta’ impenn “soċjali”. Ma nafx kinitx għażla konxja jew għax influwenzat mingħajr ma jrid minn Mamo u l-ambivalenza ta’ dan lejn il-popolin li jirredikola u jrid jifdi fl-istess ħin, imma deherli li hemm kumment soċjali ġmielu f’What Happened in Brussels Stays in Brussels. Jekk hu hekk, kitbietu fil-ġejjieni għandhom ikunu saħansitra iktar ta’ min jistenniehom bil-ħerqa.

Dejjaqni naqra - proprjament naqra iktar minn naqra - l-użu estensiv tal-Ingliż fir-rakkont. Nifhem li stil mexxej ta’ kitba fil-kuntest ta’ rumanz pop ifittex li jirriproduċi d-diskors bil-mod li jingħad fil-ħajja ta’ kuljum, imma kien hemm biċċiet fejn assolutament ma kien se jitlef xejn kieku uża espressjoni jew frażi Maltija – u lanqas kien se jaqta’ l-ankri ċerebrali kieku għamel sforz u fittixhom. Ħu pereżempju l-frażi (semmieha hu stess f’xi intervista li ta lil xi ġurnal) “Alfred Sant donnu qiegħed iqanżaħ xi tbissima at gunpoint”. Kieku kiteb b’pistola ppuntata lejh kien se jnaqqas xi ħaġa min-naturalezza tas-sentenza? Kien hemm iktar minn dawn. U wara l-enneżima “enneżima” kelli aptit insabbat il-ktieb mal-ħajt. Imma ma kontx lest li nagħmillu l-ħsara qabel nispiċċah.

Ma nafx kemm-il darba f’dar-rumanz infqajt nidħak. Ma naf qatt li għamilt hekk meta kont qed naqra ktieb bil-Malti (u ftit li xejn bl-Ingliż, minkejja li l-umoriżmu huwa l-ġeneru favorit tiegħi). Imma Stagno għandu ħabta joħroġlok bi frażijiet (iktar milli sitwazzjonijiet, imma l-aqwa umoriżmu huwa verbali) u tixbihat ispirati meta ma tkunx qed tistennihom. Mhux se nsemmihom hawn, għax huma ġawhar li jleqqu iktar fil-kuntest tal-istorja milli f’artiklu bħal dan.

Dak li ġara fi Brussel ma baqax Brussel imma ntiseġ minn Stagno fi storja divertenti u sorprendentement profonda. Biex nuża xbiha li darba uża Peter Serracino-Inglott, il-ktieb qisu roqgħa ilma baħar tant ċara li taħsbu baxx, imma fil-fatt meta tinżel fih issib li ma jlaħħaqlekx. Għoġobni immensament, saħansitra iktar minn Ulied in-Nanna Venut fl-Amerka. U jkolli ngħid li jekk taqta’ dik ix-xena sesswali interminabbli - ma fhimtx l-iskop tagħha - anke lin-Nannu Wenzu tgħidx kemm kien jogħġbu.

Alcohol and Cancer

If we were to randomly pick a number of people off the street and ask for their views about the effects of drinking alcohol, we would almost certainly be told that it is mainly a good thing. Its abuse would be decried but, generally speaking, alcohol is likely to be seen as a fairly pleasant and innocuous substance if consumed “in moderation”, with possible beneficial effects on “the heart” and “blood circulation” – as snippets and articles in the print media frequently point out.  So the final judgment of the man in the street would quite likely be that, on the whole, alcohol in regular amounts tends to have a beneficial effect on health.

But would science agree? What does it really have to say about alcohol and its effect on the human body?

While the true connection between alcohol and cardiovascular health merits greater in-depth analysis – many studies are now questioning the once-cherished belief that a drink or two a day will reduce the chances of a heart attack or stroke - recent and not-so-recent studies have revealed a sinister link between alcohol and cancer.

That there is a connection between even low levels of alcohol consumption and breast cancer has been known for decades. Even the supposedly ‘safe’ limits enthusiastically promoted for many years by health authorities and agencies all over Europe came with a proviso that they were not valid for women with a family or personal history of breast cancer. Even small amounts say, one drink per day, were known to be linked with a greater chance of contracting breast cancer. Other than that, however, little mention was made of the mounting evidence that alcohol is heavily implicated in several other types of cancer.

Cancer is the second most important cause of death in the EU; some 2.5 million people are diagnosed with this condition in the region each year (http://ec.europa.eu/health/major_chronic_diseases/diseases/cancer/). Amongst people aged 15-64 years living in the EU in 2004, 8% of all male and 6% of all female cancer deaths were attributable to alcohol. (http://ec.europa.eu/health/alcohol/docs/ev_20120418_co07_en.pdf.

 According to the International Agency for Research on Cancer (IARC) of the World Health Organisation (WHO), alcohol is a causal agent for cancers of the mouth, pharynx, larynx, oesophagus, liver, colorectum and breast (http://www.iarc.fr/en/media-centre/pr/2009/pdfs/pr196_E.pdf ). Note the term “causal”: it is not simply a question of a correlation between alcohol consumption and cancer. In a considerable number of cases, cancer is the consequence of the decision to drink alcohol.

There is a dose-response relationship between cancer risk and alcohol consumption, that is to say, the more one drinks the greater the possibility that one will contract the condition. A seminal study carried out by Corrao and his colleagues in 2004 showed that the relative risk for cancer increases according to amount drunk daily. Compared to non-drinkers, those who drink 20 grams of alcohol every day experience a 19% increase in risk for liver cancer, 25% for breast cancer, 39% for oesophageal cancer, 43% for cancer of the larynx and 86% for cancers of the mouth and pharynx (http://www.cancercare.ns.ca/site-cc/media/cancercare/alcohol%20in%20canada.pdf ). If one partakes of four alcoholic drinks (40 grams) a day, one at least doubles the risk in practically every case. If one smokes as well as drinks the chances of contracting some cancers can be said to soar.

Translating the above into more meaningful equivalents, drinks in Malta are assumed to contain 8-10 grams of absolute alcohol. Therefore 20 grams would be roughly equivalent to 2 half-pint bottles of local beer, 2 bar tots of spirits or 2 small glasses of wine.

There does not seem to be a drinking threshold below which one may drink safe in the knowledge that the alcohol consumed will not raise one’s cancer risk. Small amounts will raise the possibilities one will incur cancer. So, in so far as cancer risk is concerned, it appears that the safest advice health authorities can give is to drink no alcohol. This is what, for example, the World Cancer Research Foundation (WCRF) recommends (http://www.wcrf-uk.org/cancer_prevention/recommendations/alcohol_and_cancer.php). 

However, given that it is still unclear whether alcohol has a cardio-protective effect or not, there are those who would still maintain that light drinking will not have a net negative effect on health. According to this line of reasoning, light drinking would, as it were, compensate for the increased cancer risk by decreasing the chances of cardiac problems. The WHO itself believes there is evidence that half a drink (5 grams) a day will indeed protect middle-aged persons against the risk of a heart-attack but, mindful of the other risks the consumption of alcohol can carry, WHO advises that we would be better off stopping smoking, losing weight and exercising rather than drinking even small amounts

(http://www.euro.who.int/__data/assets/pdf_file/0003/160680/e96457.pdf).

It therefore appears that, in terms of cancer prevention, we would be best off not drinking any alcohol at all. If, for some reason, we decide we do wish to drink we should make sure we drink as little and as infrequently as possible. The old slogan used by the WHO - “Less is better’’ - in conjunction with its advice on alcohol use seems to be particularly apt in this context.

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.