On Retiring

It's difficult to give expression to the welter of emotions I'm experiencing right now. Trying to tease out all the different feelings is an impossible task. However, prominent among them is a strong sense of gratitude: I have had an excellent working life: when I discovered social work, I realised that was what I wanted to do. Within days of my starting work at All Saints Hospital in Chatham Kent I was offered the possibility of forming part of an alcohol team. I was too insecure to say no. That uncertain ''yes'' would give a definite direction to my life, a steady focus, a clear meaning - and helped graft a professional identity on a fumbling, floundering novice who until then had no clue about where to he should be heading. Within weeks I knew that that was my metier: I felt it in my bones, in every fibre of my body. At that time I could doubt anything, everything - from my own sanity to the existence of God - but not that all I really wanted to to do was work with alcoholics.

Mount Carmel Hospital came next and I was lucky to form part of a truly outstanding social work team. Most of our work there was with clients with mental health issues – the area where all new social workers should cut their teeth - but alcoholism featured quite prominently too. For the first time ever a dedicated ward for alcoholics was set up and the first ever alcohol team in Malta was formed, led by a foreign psychiatrist experienced in addiction work. She taught us the basics of work with alcoholics and we could venture outside the hospital and held meetings for drinkers and their families in the community. The MCH set-up was of itself limiting; we had to fit within hospital structures which did not leave enough room for creative work and did not take too kindly to initiatives which questioned the dominant ethos and challenged power dynamics. The stigma attached to MCH repelled a number of potential clients and after almost a decade, we seemed to be running on the spot.

Then, 23 years ago, sedqa was born and I was given the possibility to work within my preferred field full-time, and develop services.  How can I not consider myself fortunate? I grasped the opportunity with both hands. The early days were a heady mix of dreams and expectations and an exciting exploration of novel possibilities. There were times when my colleagues and I surpassed ourselves and soared but more often than not reality would rudely interfere with our plans and we would brought back down to earth with a thud. The list of failed initiatives grew - but very gradually so did the number of people our services managed to assist, motivate, prod, push and sometimes cajole into treatment - and a better, fuller life.

How can you not be grateful?  You were blessed with colleagues who viewed the world with similar, but never identical eyes, spoke the same language and knew where you wanted to go. They had your back, and because you could trust them you could take risks, knowing that they would check any erroneous before you could inflict harm. sedqa provided the true specialists, the social workers the doctors, psychiatrists, psychologists and nurses who knew their stuff and who could be relied upon to help clients in as nuanced a manner as possible. Not that it was a paradise – human relations will  always generate problems and a degree of conflict, and bureaucracy and political manoeuvering will hamper even the most determined workers  – but the sensation that one could rise above the negative aspects and collaborate because clients’ welfare so demanded  was stronger than anywhere else I’ve worked in. 

All told, I’ve had 34 years of this. I cannot recall one single instant when I rued the decision to work in the alcohol field. How can I not be thankful? People, hundreds of them, changed: lives were pulled back from the brink, families torn asunder by conflict and anger and pain helped to come back together, despair slowly transformed into hope, helplessness into self-belief. Inevitably in this field, failures outstrip successes, sometimes with spectacular awfulness: the demoralising relapses after years of dryness, the untimely deaths of those who will not or cannot change, the wrenching, devastating blow of the suicide which makes your very being shudder and fill with anguish. But even as you grieve you soldier on; you cannot afford to spend too much time feeling dejected and despondent: too many people require your undivided attention. Somehow, after a while, the wheel turns and an unexpected change for the better occurs and once again you’re energised and its’s all worthwhile. 

It’s over now. Apparently, very soon, the very name of  sedqa  may vanish into oblivion and within a few years will have been forgotten completely. Does anybody remember the SWDP, the first quasi-autonomous social work agency which, for while threatened to revolutionise the way social work was organised and delivered in Malta? Only hoary romantic freaks who harbour this strange notion the history is important and that in order to understand the why and wherefores – and the hows- of current practice you have to see it in historical context. But though the name will be gone, the spirit,  or some of it, will remain in the work. For, though changes will occur, the most fundamental interaction, that between clients and services, will remain. It is moulded by years of practice and reflection informed by theory, honed in supervision and and ingrained in our (actually no, no longer ''our''; I must get used to this) workers through hundreds of interventions with clients. It is not known which structures will remain, but the attitudes, I am convinced, will withstand whatever changes will take place.  

It’s over only in an official, formal sense.  The memories will... no, away with the cliches – I detest them anyway. There’s still plenty to do; exciting stuff, too - and most of it in the same field. So the relationship with the alcohol services is not quite over yet. Our paths will almost certainly cross again. The bond is too strong to be severed completely by something as mundane as retirement. And for that too, I can only say “Thank God’’.

Saħħa!

So in the end you did it. You were determined and there was no stopping you. Nobody could. Well, the Good Lord could have, but He does not interfere in these decisions, apparently. So finally, you had your way – and you’re resting.

We all say it was inevitable; that the signs were writ large and that it was imprinted in your being that you would go before your time. Probably it is truly like that: when the black dog came by, large, dark as the night and all-devouring there was no controlling it. On the contrary it controlled you, conditioned your thinking, distorted your views so much that white became black, day seemed like night, love like indifference and death like liberation.

No human agency could change that false reality. You had the best working for you, racking their brains, pleading with you to let them help you, but that ugly, menacing dog was invincible – and it dragged you with it over the precipice. You had your peers, too, who loved and cared and would have done anything to lift you, but you could only tell them to leave, because the jealous beast which had marked you for its own so ordained. You could not do otherwise.


You went because you felt no love. That was a colossal, gigantic lie.  Your lovely family loved you, but the black hound growled its untruths and you could not but listen. So their love seemed like indifference at best and though they tried once, twice, a hundred times to reach out and touch you, you rebuffed them. I say ‘’you’’, but it wasn’t you; it was that cursed cur that barked the command. You had to comply.  

Saħħa! How hollow that word sounds after we witnessed that black dog drain your brain of its strength until there was none left. Perhaps it should be directed at those left behind, who need the power to soldier on without you.

They will march on, proudly bearing the banner of life and love. The dog scored a victory when Thanatos trumped Eros. But it will lose the war and will ultimately have to withdraw, bowed and beaten.

From your vantage point up there you will witness it all and smile.

.

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.