Daphne: Personal Recollections of Someone I've Never Met

Actually you could almost say I once met Daphne. One afternoon in May 2009, I was standing next to the door of a packed St. Julian’s parish-church during Salvu Diacono’s funeral mass, when in she walked - quite late - and stood right next to me. Of course I recognised her instantly: I had been an avid follower of her outpourings for two decades. I could not help but steal a couple of surreptitious glances at the famous lady – quite simply the best Maltese writer of English I had ever read.

Those who maintain that she was ugly are wrong: her face was finely-chiselled and free of wrinkles and worry-lines. There was something imposing about her: you sensed you were in the presence of somebody who had had strength in their being. Her bearing was quietly proud and her demeanour confident.

It’s probably because of my love of prose and language, but in the same way I can never forget how I “met’’ P.G. Wodehouse and where I laid hands on my first Flashman, I still recall clearly the circumstances when I came across Daphne Caruana Galizia’s writing for the first time. It was in a doctor’s clinic in Tignè, where, while waiting my turn, I leafed through one of those magazines one is wont to find in such places. An article about – of all things – topless bathing caught my eye and within seconds I was riveted. Even though I happened to disagree with the author’s position, the writing was a revelation:  succinctly word-perfect and flowing, its rhythms in perfect harmony with the thoughts the writer wanted to convey and resonating flawlessly with my own comprehension mechanisms.

The effect was not only aesthetically pleasing – like a scene from nature where you feel you’re in the midst of a harmonious unity – but also almost hypnotically compelling. I had to struggle to remember that my own position was radically different from hers. I looked at the name of the author on top of the article - and would never forget it again.

A couple of years later (I think), I unexpectedly came across that name again: the by-now famous letter to the Sunday Times about the tragedy of the Esmeralda which had claimed the lives of two men off Sardinia, one of whom Daphne Caruana Galizia’s uncle. That letter, once again a paragon of the fusion of clarity of thought and forcefulness of argument expressed in language which compelled you to take in what she was trying to convey, brought her to the attention of the general public. Very soon she had her own column – The Good, the Bad and the Ugly – which, possibly much to Roamer’s chagrin, soon became the flagship page in the Sunday Times. It was certainly the one I turned to and started to read on the way home from the newsagent’s. That column – with its emphasis on the uglier facets of Maltese life, as she saw them - stamped her name on the consciousness of a nation.

Daphne Caruana Galizia’s break with the Times came about when Guido Demarco was chairman of the Strickland Foundation. Demarco had objected to a column criticising his daughter Giannella’s decision to defend the person who allegedly commissioned the murder of the Prime Minister’s assistant in court. This happened when her father was Deputy Prime Minister. Her subsequent (and consequent) move to the Independent, wherein she published that article, testified to her defining human characteristics: determination, adherence to her principles, hard-headedness – and cojones. She never forgave Guido and Giannella Demarco – with whom she feuded bitterly – and they became a more than occasional target of her articles.

Not that I found myself in perpetual agreement with the content of her writing; on the contrary I don’t think I ever disagreed more strongly with any other columnist as I did with her. I found her penchant for gossip quite disgusting (but, I’m ashamed to admit, entertaining at times). She was obviously aware of her formidable intellect and made no bones about her feelings concerning those she felt were less endowed in the brain department (i.e practically the rest of humanity) when their behaviour displeased her. Her classism I found repugnant: the frequent disparaging references to people “from the boondocks’’, "from the sticks’’, “from the other side of the tracks’’ reflected the elitism which formed and informed her world-view. How on earth she managed to integrate that elitism with her other liberal and humanist ideas (which she clearly genuinely believed in) God only knows.

Her hatred of anything remotely Labour was palpable. This was partly explained by her elitist and classist views, but mostly by the treatment she had been subjected to in the 1980s when, like many others, she stood up for fundamental rights. A slip of a girl, she had been arrested and bullied into signing an untrue confession. It’s not the sort of experience one can readily forget; certainly not Daphne. Whenever she wrote about those times one could capture a sense of very understandable hurt and humiliation, but also righteous indignation that the MLP government had crossed the boundaries of civilised behaviour and, indeed, basic human decency so many times in such a crass and cavalier fashion.

For someone with a Labour background who during the 1980s broke with the MLP over the wanton violence and human rights violations, her feelings were perfectly understandable. Her lack of awareness about how those feelings were colouring her analysis of political life were not. Nor how they were being vented on contemporary PL politicians and even common Labourites with no direct political involvement – MPs’ mothers, for goodness sake. Her public celebration of Mintoff’s death was possibly the moral nadir of her career.

There were many high points though. To my mind, the unstinting and unflinching struggle against the lack of moral and ethical standards in public life gained her the admiration of all those who wish to live in a society where honesty is truly valued. The revelations related to the Panama Papers and their aftermath probably marked the zenith of her life’s work. It was certainly fortuitous – she herself admitted it – that she was to  get to know about their contents prior to their publication. Actually the timing of her revelations,  with hindsight, may have been questionable for it could have allowed the Minister concerned to include the “investments’’ in the Ministerial declaration, although none but the most blinded PL supporters were taken in. Be that as it may, her abilities in spotting connections and digging up information based on educated guesses and intelligent analysis following on from the Panama papers – and in other instances – were outstanding. They were certainly unparalleled in the Maltese journalistic scene. In common with the rest of the nation, I lapped up every word.

While her references to her “international network of spies’’ may have been made half in jest, in reality dozens of people contributed to the stream of scoops (and gossipy bits) she came up with. The reasons these individuals chose to pass on information and images probably ranged from genuine concern about malfeasance to rabid anti-PL sentiment to self-interest. With some there was a clear symbiotic relationship: people who had been criticised and derided in her blogs gritted their teeth and passed on information about their enemies. The information  about  two of the juiciest stories published in her Running Commentary - Alfred Mifsud’s alleged acceptance of a huge bribe from Ronnie Demajo as well as Adrian Delia’s alleged professional involvement in the Soho prostitution scene – was obtained in this manner. Her informers in the two cases both knew where to go if immediate impact on a national scale was what they were after.

Her stories about Egrant’s supposed ownership by the PM’s wife also fell into this category. The Russian informer wanted to get back at the Bank and strengthen her claims against it. Daphne had the scoop of a lifetime, one which fitted perfectly with the available evidence and confirmed her assessment of Muscat, the PL Government, the PL itself and the essence of Labour - as she saw it. Moreover, the story had the potential to spell the end of the hated PL government. Daphne Caruana Galizia obviously believed the story was genuine, and, in my judgement, the informer exuded credibility when she was interviewed by Pierre Portelli. The PM’s denials about ownership of Egrant were equally convincing. Daphne maintained that it was not she who precipitated the election. I think she underestimated the effect of that particular allegation on the PL grandees and the PM himself.

One facet of her writing which always intrigued me, perhaps because of the contrast with the hard-hitting, sometimes vicious prose she reserved for her preferred, mostly political, targets, was the tenderness and sensitivity she displayed when writing about family affairs. I don’t just mean her own family, but her take about many aspects of family dynamics, particularly mother and child relationships. Her insights into that aspect of family relations were impressively profound. They often provoked a smile in me.

On Monday 16th October, I had a few minutes to kill and wandered into a local band-club – a rather unusual occurrence for me. The place was practically empty, save for half a dozen apparently regular patrons who were laughing and joking while I sat on my own sipping tea and watching snooker on TV. At one point the barman turned to one of the other customers he had been exchanging banter with.

“Look, they’ve killed Daphne Caruana Galizia with a bomb’’, I thought I heard him say.

I didn’t react.

Then a few seconds later I heard myself say, “You’re joking, right?”.

“No”, he said, ''Look’’, and he held up his mobile phone.
I didn’t have to look at it. His expression was clear enough.

I literally felt myself breaking into a sweat. The shock must have shown on my face.

“Was she a relative of yours?’’, the barman asked.

“No’’.

“I’m asking because of the way you reacted’’.

Daphne Caruana Galizia – dead? Daphne Caruana Galizia, whose page I consulted several times daily, with whom I had had a couple of minor run-ins on the newspaper comments boards or perhaps her own blog, whose offerings I found to be always stimulating – sometimes to the point of near-apoplexy – blown up? It was as if I had been informed that I had lost the use of my left arm because of somebody’s deliberate decision to inflict permanent damage.

I don’t remember walking out of the club. I’m still not sure whether I paid the barman his 40 cents...

I don’t remember getting on the bus, but at 5.45pm I was in Floriana for a meeting I have attended every Monday, practically without fail, for many years.

Somebody said, “I’m not saying she deserved it, but the way she wrote it was almost to be expected’’. I grasped my right arm with my left behind my back, and bit my tongue.

From where I stand, she was not an amiable woman - but she was a great one. Not flawless, not by a long chalk, but one who left her mark. No saint, says this great sinner, but a fighter for proper standards in public life  - despite the fact that she herself sometimes violated other standards.

Her life was taken before its time. Savagely, brutally, in an inhumane manner. A family was plunged into grief. Save for the very few troglodytes who rejoiced at her death, a nation is mourning her passing and searching its soul for answers to questions which it never believed it would have to ask – and which it may never be able to answer. But which it should ask anyway.

I wonder how she herself would have answered them.

Catholic and Latin: What Does it Mean?

On the Granaries last Wednesday, Dr. Delia was mainly concerned with flaunting his Nationalist credentials and consolidating his position among the core of the party supporters. Considering the way the MPs are carrying on in his regard - it beggars belief that, even now that the members have spoken, a way to ensure his becoming Leader of the Opposition has not been found - one cannot blame him. Hence the references to traditional Nationalist symbols and elements of historical identity, to the halcyon days of thirty years ago strongly associated - not to say identified - with the hallowed name of Eddie Fenech Adami. Hence also the emotive presence and support of George Borg Olivier's son. The message was clear: I am the natural successor, the organic continuation of these icons; if real Nationalists respect them they should respect me.

On another level, however, the speech was also the verbal outline of the fundamentals of his creed, prominent among which is the defence of traditional human values, particularly human life. Delia laid down the gauntlet: his PN will be the bulwark against the onslaught of materialistic liberalism threatening to destroy the fabric of Maltese society as we know it. The liberal tsunami, Delia’s message was, is spearheaded by Muscat's political force masquerading as a coalition of Progressivi and Moderati, which in reality represents the views and interests of a collection of latter-day liberal Vandals bent on destroying the city and installing their own nefarious way of life in which drugs are freely available and the female (and male) body is commodified, and where life itself may be put under threat. The neo-Vandals have deviously manipulated their guileless moderate allies into supporting their heathen agenda by dazzling them into a state of quasi-blindness through the creation of an apparently prosperous society. However, this seeming affluence - so Delia seems to be saying -  masks serious fissures in the societal monolith as represented by considerable pockets of people who are not receiving their share of the wealth being generated and are suffering as a result.

Delia is hinting at the alternative he has to offer: a society where real Maltese, true-blood descendants of the proud Kattoliċi and Latini of the 1930s live in a “genuinely’’ Maltese society based on the traditional values. As one would expect, the vision comes with hints of all the perks: a pristine environment, top-notch traffic management, and most importantly of all, social justice: no more low-paid workers in unstable employment, no more pensioners and single-parent families struggling to make ends meet. He only very briefly mentioned Maltese citizenship, but it is strongly believed that he is quite vehemently opposed to its sale – it dovetails perfectly with what he hinted his vision for Malta is.

Not bad, actually, for a vision, but the insistence on the Kattoliċi/Latini element – in so far as it really represents his views – provokes reflections and raises questions. Is it truly a harking back to a time when Malta was homogeneously Catholic and Latin? Catholic, Latin Malta does not mean simply a population with determined ethnic characteristics; it is practically a metaphor for a society where there was order, family cohesion was the norm, serious crime was uncommon (or, at least, certainly less than it is now) and suicide was practically unknown. All to the good. 

However, it also evokes images of an era where men ruled the roost, where not to conform meant to be ostracised, where difference amounted to God-ordained inferiority, where the lower classes stood in line, where the notion of rights was alien to most, where poverty prevailed. Present-day Malta with its 40% Sunday mass attendance, its tens of thousands of immigrants, its hundreds of Maltese–born women married to Muslims and walking openly in Muslim garb, its 27% of births occurring out of wedlock, its recognised homosexual couples mingling more or less unselfconsciously in the crowd and melting in the background is so far removed from the Catholic and Latin Malta of the 1930s - when il-Gross penned the lyrics of the Innu tal-Partit Nazzjonalista where the phrase is featured - that to call it Catholic and Latin seems to be  deliberately and bizarrely eccentric.

Perhaps Dr. Delia only plucked the phrase from the Nationalist anthem because he knew it was bound to resonate with the party rank and file whose loyalty he needs to consolidate his shaky position, and did not mean much by it. Alternatively, he perhaps does hanker after a time when everything seems so much less complicated and God and predictability made for a stress-free life – unless you happened to be one of the many dirt-poor citizens worried about where the next meal was coming from. Those who are weighing him up and have to decide whether he is worth investing their vote in need to know more about his political beliefs and vision. Does he believe in a return the values which ruled decades ago? Party leaders may blather about listening to the people and translating their needs and concerns into policies, but the truth is the leader’s own views are an essential element in the party’s vision and proposals and - as the experience of the past four years has forcefully shown us – in what will actually be implemented when power is attained. 

Once the matter of that blessed parliamentary seat is sorted out, we should get another glimpse of the new PN leader’s views. Perhaps it will be on Xarabank, but certainly his response to the Budget Speech should yield important clues about the ideological direction his Party will be following. The 36,000 vote difference notwithstanding, the people need to know what Adrian Delia truly believes in.

In Memory of...

Some 13 years ago a burly man of 52 knocked on the door of our then offices in Lija. He smelt of alcohol, but was perfectly coherent. He said he wanted to stop drinking. We normally take  a dim view of people turning up unannounced practically demanding help there and then since it disturbs work with other clients who attend sessions according to schedule. Luckily one of our workers happened to be free and she assessed him, thus starting the process which, within a few days, would lead to his being dried out.

                        
He had decided to seek help practically on impulse when a friend had pointed out that he really should do something about his drinking and, almost to his surprise, he found himself agreeing. It had been previously suggested to him that he was drinking too much, but he had shrugged off all warnings. He himself could never explain what on earth had prompted him to listen to his friend’s advice that day. He often said that had he not found immediate help, he would have walked out probably never to return. Alcoholic thinking being what it is, he may very well have been right.

For the first five years or so, he (and his wife) attended meetings very regularly. He would swagger in - the picture of rude health - often a few minutes late, look at me apologetically, take his seat and listen to the exchanges with rapt attention. His contributions were simple and to the point. He had few vanities one of which was that he loved to mention the prodigious amounts he used to drink and his body's ability to tolerate alcohol.

Those amounts were what did for him. Despite never having touched another drop, the regular liver tests showed a deteriorating state of affairs. Eight years ago, the symptoms appeared. Soon he had to be admitted to hospital, the first of fifty or so admissions. The doctors did their best, but the cirrhosis could not be arrested. The impressively strong-looking man progressively deteriorated until his body became a shadow of its former self. His attendance at meetings became less regular, but often he would underline that there was only one thing to blame for his woes: the alcohol he had consumed. At times, the untypical anger in his voice seemed telling and it made you wonder whether he was seeking some form of catharsis with the repeated declarations about the cause of his predicament. It was almost as if, while warning his peers, he wanted to get his own back by publicly shaming the ethanol which had brought rack and ruin to his once-mighty frame.

Eventually he had to stop coming to meetings altogether.  We kept in touch through the occasional phone-call. But last Christmas, quite unexpectedly, he turned up for our Christmas dinner in a restaurant in Rabat. Perhaps he had made the effort because he felt that there would not be many more opportunities to meet his friends, who greeted him with great pleasure.

Yesterday morning he was laid to rest. Five or six of us were present at the Mass to pay our last respects and comfort his distraught widow. We successfully accomplished the first objective, but failed rather miserably with regard to the second one.

In the evening we remembered him in our meeting; the relatively new members only knew the weak man who seemed to spend more time in hospital than outside it; the older ones clearly recollected the strong, amiable and kind-hearted family man who for years was a regular and who impressed new group-members with his accounts of his drinking – and the success of his efforts to stop when he decided it was time to give it up. We all had our memories of him. Mine was the fact that in hundreds of conversations he never ever called me by my full name; it was always the shorter ‘’Man’’, rather than ‘’Manuel’’. We pondered the unanswerable question of what would have happened had he stopped drinking a year earlier – whether that would have helped his body avoid the development of the cirrhotic liver which led to his premature death.

Inevitably,  the question of the urgency of policies which help reduce the incidence of the sort of drinking associated with addiction came up. Last year, after decades of waiting, the country seemed to be well on the way towards publishing its first National Alcohol Policy – in November 2016 there was a public consultation – but, perhaps because of premature elections the process was halted. The public document showed that the policy envisaged is not quite what one was hoping for – but it was a start.

It’s time to revive the process – and the duty to prod the authorities into breathing life once again in the project befalls the community of those struggling with drinking problems, their families and those who work with them once the official bodies who should be publicly pushing for the formulation of a National Alcohol  Policy are silent on the matter. The establishment of an NGO which, among other things, would help raise consciousness about alcohol problems and bring pressure to bear on the authorities to act and curtail abuse becomes more urgent with each passing day.

Rational national alcohol policies and all, there will be always be unlucky individuals who will pass on in the same way as our friend. But we owe it to him and to the others who have departed before their time because of alcohol-related problems to do what we can to control this use of the substance which, in various ways, is responsible for the deaths of tens of people in Malta every year,  as well as for hundreds of hospitalisations and untold misery for innumerable drinkers, family members and others.

Once he had stopped drinking our friend was all for helping others; had he been with us he would have gladly lent a hand.

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.