D

Il-messaġġ li qatt ma xtaqt naqra – imma fl-istess ħin kważi ridtu jintbagħat  għax kont naf li kienet qiegħda tbati hi u anke ta’ madwarha – wasal dalgħodu.  D, li sirt nafha iktar minn 20 sena ilu, ħadet l-aħħar nifs matul il-lejl.

Kienet ilha kwart ta’ seklu tikkumbatti max-xorb. Tieqaf, terġa’ tibda, tisparixxi għal ftit, terġa’ titfaċċa determinata li did-darba se tagħmel li hemm bżonn u se jirnexxilha. Għal ftit taż-żmien tibqa’ soda, kważi kulħadd jaħsel jemmen li issa ġabitha żewġ, u wara ftit xhur – u darba minnhom wara tliet snin u fuqhom - nerġgħu koppi.

Imbagħad, erba’ snin ilu, reġgħet ippruvat. U minn dakinhar ma missitx qatra ma’ xufftejha.

Ma kinitx xi konverżjoni bħal ta’ San Pawl fi triqtu lejn Damasku. Ma rat l-ebda raġġ ta’ dawl li għammxilha għajnejha u biddlilha l-mod kif taħseb ħabta u sabta. Għal darb’oħra kienet xebgħet tgħix maħkuma mix-xorb, u riedet terġa’ dduq il-libertà. Ippruvat. Forsi kien id-dehen li jiġi mill-munzell esperjenzi li għaddiet minnhom li wrieha li jkun aħjar jekk tibqa’ għaddejja soda, li żmien l-iskużi għadda u li kienet fid-dmir li turi rispett xieraq lejha nnifisha. U bil-mod saret bidla fiha – bidla ta’ veru.

Il-ħajja ta’ D ma kinitx xorb biss. Għaddiet minn stejjer sbieħ u koroh. Forsi bħal kulħadd, għax kollha kemm aħna kultant nifirħu u kultant nibku, kultant inġibuha żewġ u kultant ngħaxxquha. Imma din il-mara ma kinitx mara kwalunkwe. Għax wildet 3 subien, imma bħalissa hemm ħamest itfal jibkuha.

Kien hemm żmien meta ħuha – ġenitur waħdu – għal snin sħaħ ma setax ikompli jieħu ħsieb iż-żewġ uliedu bniet. D ħadet ir-responsabbiltà tat-trobbija tagħhom hi. Min-naħa tagħna konna ppruvajna nappoġġjawha kif stajna, imma affarijiet żgħar stajna nagħmlu. Kollox fuq spallejha kien. U min jaf lil dawn it-tfal (illum nisa), jaf x’biċċa xogħol għamlet. 

U ma kinitx l-unika darba f’ħajjitha li b’dedikazzjoni u mħabba ħadet ħsieb lil min kellu bżonn. Il-ġurnata minn filgħodu turi: ta’ età żgħira kienet tieħu ħsieb b’dedikazzjoni kbira membru tal-familja li kellu diżabilità serja. Anke tawha premju minħabba f’hekk. Imma għal D l-aqwa premju kien li tħaffef it-toqol ta’ min kien qed ibati.

Fil-gruppi tagħna kien hemm żmien meta kienet tiffrustrana: konna nħossu li kienet kapaċi tieqaf tixrob u ttejjeb ħajjitha, imma għal żmien twil, bħal donnu b’inkejja lilha nnifisha, kienet tara xi skuża se tivvinta biex terġa’ tibda tlegleg . Meta imbagħad kienet tkun wieqfa u għaddejja minn żmien tajjeb, kien ikun fiha għaxqa tismagħha titkellem fuqha nnifisiha b’onestà kbira u tappoġġja lill-oħrajn. Kienet kapaċi tħares ġewwa fiha nnifisħa u toħroġ b’għerf li jgħaġġbek. Bla ma taf għenet ħafna nies, l-aktar għax uriethom li, anke jekk taqa’ elf darba, jekk tibqa’ tipprova fl-aħħar jirnexxilek issib tarf tal-problema u ssewwi ħajtek.

Għandi 1,000 memorja tagħha – il-biċċa l-kbira minnhom ma nistax nirrakkontahom. Imma hemm waħda li ma ninsiha qatt, meta b’leħinha miksur u għajnejha jixegħlu qaltli li kient saret nanna għall-ewwel darba. Għax, anke meta kient tixrob il-familja kienet importanti ħafna għaliha. U tathom kulma setgħet.

Imma li tathom tawhulha lura. Meta mardet daru qaqoċċa magħha u qatt ma kienet nieqsa mill-attenzjoni. Tlett ijiem ilu kont bilqiegħda d-dar tagħha ħdejn sodditha ma’ ħutha u neputija u l-għaqda u s-solidarjetà li rajt hennietli qalbi. Ħin minnhom ġiet f’tagħha, ratni u tbissmitli u, wara,  bdiet tiċċajta ma’ tal-familja. La krib, la qrid, la dwejjaq –avolja kulħadd kien jaf li t-tmiem kien fil-qrib. Kienu jafu x’kellha bżonn dak il-ħin u taw każ tal-bżonnijiet tagħha , mhux li jisfugaw l-ansjetà tagħhom. Ħriġt minn darha b’sens ta’ għaġeb – u gratitudni li assistejt għal xena li ma ninsiha qatt.

Bħalma qatt mhu se ninsa lil D. Mhux biss minħabba t-tlieta u għoxrin sena li ħdimt magħha u mhux biss għax fl-aħħar irnexxielha tieqaf tixrob u tieħu lura f’idejha r-riedni ta’ ħajjitha. Imma għax kelli l-privileġġ li nsir naf mill-qrib mara li batiet u kienet taf tħobb lil kulħadd. U mara li, wara snin twal, irnexxielha tifhem misteru milll-iktar profond: li jekk trid tgħix sew jeħtieġ l-ewwel u qabel kollox titgħallem tħobb lilek innifsek kif xieraq u kif suppost.

7305

Għoxrin sena ilu bħal-lum, raġel twil mar id-Detox Outpatients ifittex tabib. Kien għad kellu fuqu r-riħa tax-xorb taċ-ċelebrazzjonijiet tal-Millennju. Mhux għax qatt kellu bżonn xi skuża ta' xi festa jew oħra biex ilegleg il-whisky: kien jibda minn filgħodu kmieni u jibqa' sejjer sakemm jidħol id-dar filgħaxija. Ix-xogħol baqa' jmur u dmiru jagħmlu kif suppost, imma l-ħajja tal-familja kienet saret rovina. Il-mara xebgħet bit-toqol fuqha biss u tatu ultimatum: jew tieqaf, jew ninfirdu.

M irrealizza x'kien qed jiġri u wasal żmien li kuljum beda jwiegħed lilu nnifsu li l-għada ma jixrobx. Imma minħabba l-lublieba dik il-wegħda seta' jħożżha fil-whisky.

Kien fittex l-għajnuna ta' sedqa, imma għall-bidu kien kollu ta' xejn. Beda jaqta' qalbu: fuq kollox kien ilu jixrob iktar milli kellu żmien. Meta, iktar minn 66 sena ilu, ommu kienet tqila bih, marret għand it-tabib għax it-tarbija ta' ġo fiha ma kinitx tiċċaqlaq. It-tabib taha parir li tibda tixrob ftit alkoħol...

Trabba mdawwar bix-xorb u għall-alkoħol kien mikrum bil-kbir - minn dejjem. Ta' età ċkejkna kien diġà jixrob spiss. Anke ħuh intrikeb mill-marda.

Darbtejn ipprova jiġi għal-laqgħat li kont immexxi jien. Id-darbtejn kien taħt l-influwenza tax-xorb u d-darbtejn, kif daħal, tfajtu 'l barra.

Fit-2 ta' Jannar tal-2000, it-tabib li ra qallu li għandu bżonn ikun diżintossikat. Kull sena Dar l-Impenn, fejn issir id-diżintossikazzjoni, tkun magħluqa sat-3 ta' Jannar minħabba l-waqfa tal-Milied, imma minħabba s-Sur M dik is-sena reġgħet fetħet ġurnata qabel.

Ma kienx jemmen li xi darba għad jieqaf għalkollox. Jgħid sal-lum li l-ħsieb tiegħu kien li jieqaf għal ftit kemm isodd ħalq il-mara, u wara jerġa’ jibda .

Meta kien wasal biex jispiċċa d-diżintosikazzjoni, mar jarah ħaddiem ta’ sedqa, espert ta’ veru. Minn hawn u minn hemm ikkonvinċieh li jekk se jitlaq mingħajr ma jagħmel li kien hemm bżonn, kien sejjer jerġa’ jibda jixrob minnufih. U t-theddida tal-mara kienet għadha mdendla fuq rasu. Pjuttost kontra qalbu daħal jagħmel programm residenzjali. Kienu sħabu tal-programm li mbagħad ikkonvinċewh biex jieħdu bis-serjetà.

Minn dakinhar li M qatagħha li jmur ifittex tabib iktar biex jagħlaq ħalq il-mara milli biex jirranġa ħajtu tassew, għaddew 7305 jum – jekk tgħodd il-ġranet żejda tas-snin biżestili. Imma importanti li tgħoddhom dawk ukoll, għaliex il-mixja sa hawn saret – bħall-mixjiet kollha ta’ min inħeles mill-alkoħoliżmu jew minn xi dipendenza serja oħra – ġurnata b’ġurnata.

M jgħid li ħa deċiżjoni u qatt aktar mhu se jmiss qatra alkoħol ma’ ħalqu. U nifhmuh. Mejjet li rxoxta ma tantx se jersaq bil-ħsieb lejn dak li kien ħasadlu ħajtu. Imma M jaf wkoll kemm l-alkoħol jaf jidħaq bik, jurik id-debba u jqabbiżlek is-serp velenuż tal-ħajja mgħattna u mxajtna ta’ qabel. Għalhekk għadu sal-lum jattendi l-laqgħat: ma jmurx il-melodija li taf issaħħar tgħannilu għanja qarrieqa u ġġiegħlu jaħseb li issa l-problema marret u x-xorb kapaċi jikkontrollah.

Ħajjet M inbidlet bis-sħiħ. Meta jitkellem fuq kif kienet ħajtu u kif inhi llum sħabu jisimgħu b’attenzjoni għax ġarrab u qed jirbaħ. U miegħu ta’ madwaru, li ġarrbu wkoll, qed jirbħu bħalu. Mill-fdalijiet ta' li kien għad baqagħlu għoxrin sena ilu, fassal ħajja ġdida, sabiħa u siewja.

Hu jgħid li tgħallem ħafna mingħandna. Li ma jafx – jew ma japprezzax biżżejjed – hu kemm għallem lilna hu.

Memories of Manuel

Manuel was laid to rest this afternoon. Funerals are strange events, really: a rather surreal juxtaposition of live memories from decades ago and someone you've known all your life unbelievably dead in a box. They are meant to be a celebration of life at a time when physical life has indisputably come to an end.

We knew each other practically from birth. The eldest sons of inseparable twins, both named after our paternal grandfather and born within 6 months of each other and living a five-minute walk away from each other, we inevitably shared many moments of our younger lives.

During Mass, memories flood tsunami-like: 2 boys aged 5 sprinting along the pavement from his grandmother's small green-grocery to Kola's wine-shop. He's somewhat upset because I win: the six-month difference in our ages tells. From the height of my physical and moral superiority I magnanimously let him win the next time round. It must have been the only occasion when my sporting prowess - and moral qualities - outshone his. He was better at football and that was what really counted when you were 14. Of course he went on to become a highly-respected basketball referee and official. My sporting curriculum, on the other hand... Let's move on to other things.

He was better at life too: married till the end to the lovely and sensible Jennifer whom he met at sixth form when all three of us were students there. A devoted husband and doting father and grandfather, he enjoyed a stable family life. He taught regular classes in Primary Schools, then P.E. in a number of educational establishments, and ended his career as a much-loved assistant head of school.

One achievement he must have been very proud of was his induction in the Maltese Olympic Committee Hall of Fame.  Nationally, he made his name as a basketball referee and official famed for uprightness and a gentle firmness. In a way he made mine too: I cannot even begin to estimate the number of times when I was asked if, or it was assumed that, I was the basketball referee; there was even one bizarre occasion when someone insisted that I was the referee because it was me he had seen officiating a match on TV only the other day - and walked off in a huff when I kept explaining it was someone else.

Beyond young adulthood our paths did not often cross but you could count on him when you needed him. A decade or so ago, my work colleagues and I organised a sports day for sedqa alcohol clients and their families. Right on the eve of the event we were informed that, for some reason I have now forgotten, the equipment required to hold the activities would not, after all, be available. I was at my wits’ end. In desperation I contacted Manuel. Within minutes he provided enough sporting gear for us to utilise the next day. Without his prompt help some 50 people would have been very disappointed indeed.

I last met him some 3 years ago at a family wedding. As we chatted and reminisced he looked the picture of health and seemed very happy and serene.  He was in shape, did not smoke or drink in excess and could look forward to many years’ enjoyment of family and his beloved field, birds and basketball. But the Grim Reaper was devising his own nefarious plans.

I never made it to hospital to see him. I was recovering from a bout of the flu and did not think it proper to visit him and risk making things worse. In hindsight it was rather silly of me: he was very near the end and nothing would have made a difference. Perhaps it was because I was hoping against hope that he would somehow pull through. Or maybe it was all an unconscious stratagem to avoid seeing him at death’s door: a quite irrational and pathetic act of denial of my own mortality.

He’s gone now; at least his physical body lies in a cold coffin deep in the damp soil. But his faith and mine assures us that he’s still very much alive on another plane, minding our places and patiently waiting for us to turn up.

So I hope to see you again, Manuel. We’ll chat and reminisce again. Perhaps we will even have the opportunity to race again along some long, celestial pavement. Only this time you’ll have to sweat blood – or whatever it is they do up there when they’re making super-strenuous efforts – to beat me. Au revoir, cousin, au revoir.

Dom Mintoff – Calumnies, Contradictions and Cult

Any attempt at analysing and judging Dom Mintoff’s contribution would have to contend with the many contradictions his political behaviour reflected. In the late forties Mintoff was the first important Maltese politician who made no bones about the fact that he considered himself to be a Socialist. Simply to state that required a great deal of courage: the decade before the Pope had issued an encyclical, Quadrogesimo Anno, which contained a ringing denunciation of Socialism. Of course, the Socialism Pius XI had in mind was probably the Communist variety holding sway in Russia at the time but that could hardly have cut any ice with local Churchmen and Mintoff’s political enemies.

Mintoff always defined himself as a Socialist, and mixed (mostly) with Socialists - especially at the European level. Socialist themes imbued his utterances and writings and he tried to put into practice measures clearly inspired by the notions of social equality and egalitarianism. So it is against this ideological benchmark that his political actions should be judged.

Democratic Socialism was the creed he espoused. Of central importance were the social legislation and social measures in favour of the poor and the working-class, but worker participation in industry and greater citizen participation in social organisation and administration were also important features of Mintoff’s ideology and praxis. In the context of the geo-political realities of the time and the ideological currents swirling around, all measures, initiatives and changes could only make coherent sense if Malta were to be truly politically and economically emancipated by doing away with the British base whose presence underlined economic dependence and lingering psychological subservience to the erstwhile colonial master.

The rapid social evolution of the poorer sections of the population in the 16 years between 1971 and 1987 is one of Mintoff’s greatest triumphs. Social housing, which afforded comfort and dignity to thousands of individuals who previously resided in quite inhuman conditions in slums, tenement houses and hovels, and a myriad of benefits, which raised the standard of living of ordinary workers, widows, pensioners and the disabled are a dazzling testament to the success of the social soul which drove the Labour Government of the time. Any attempt to minimise the positive social impact of these policies only underlines how tenuous the connection of some commentators with the social reality of the time is.

“Freedom’’ was achieved pretty smoothly on the political and practical level, less so in its economic aspects with only employment in the Labour Corps staving off an unemployment rate of gigantic proportions, partly as result of the closure of the British base. While efforts to attract German and other European investment produced some remarkable successes, the attempt to establish wholly or partly-owned Chinese industries was an unqualified disaster. As a result, the civil service became bloated with unnecessary personnel, often recruited on the basis of party allegiance rather than merit.

Democratic Socialism also implies a staunch belief in human and individual rights – and the institutions which safeguard them. That Mintoff’s governments were lacking in this regard is a tragic understatement. Tragic not only because the effects of Mintoff-led governments’ cavalier attitudes towards the Constitutional Court and fundamental human rights. It was a tragedy also because the heavy-handedness, autocratic attitudes and intolerance denatured the core of what Democratic Socialism was supposed to be about and turned it into a wretched variant more akin to ideologies it ostensibly was inimical to. The opportunity to influence positively a national ethos, to form the thinking of a whole section of the people into a democracy-friendly mental force was lamentably thrown to the winds.

So what went wrong? How did an intelligent, idealistic, charismatic and capable socialist politician muck things up so badly as to legitimately open himself to the accusation that he was leading a movement at times more reminiscent of the far right than the democratic left? The answer may lie partly in the socio-cultural realities he had to contend with. Post-war Malta, while aspiring for a better standard of living was still mired in a quasi-medieval culture centred on village-life which reflected a parody of the religious worldview which pervaded everyday existence; it was an us and them, “tagħna l-aqwa’’ u   “tagħna t-tajjeb’’, the others-are-devils tribal mentality with elements in the small communities coalescing around the rival feast clubs which provided identity to individuals, extended families and whole neighbourhoods.

The political parties did, to an extent, supplant the feast-clubs as a point of reference (although in some localities party affiliation became an extension of band-club affiliation), but rather than impart to their members and supporters a new set of values drawn from the political ideology they embraced, they assimilated their adherents’ own priorities and attitudes. These were projected onto the arena of national politics. The Labour Party which drew upon the bulk of the working and lower-class people for support tended to attract these cultural elements on a greater scale than the PN.

Besides the cultural idiosyncracies of the time, it is within Mintoff’s own personality that another part of the answer to the question as to why the Mintoff years at times resembles a far-right–dominated era lies. Mintoff himself was bold, narcissistic, irascible, clever, aggressive, foul-mouthed, uncouth, charismatic, patriotic and unable to suffer dissent gladly. His close friends have repeatedly mentioned his inability to lose graciously at boċċi – and his attempts to cheat to ensure a victory. He probably had a suspicious streak – later to develop into fully-fledged paranoia when old age brought with it incipient dementia – and was ruthless enough to exploit a horrible rumour about his Labour arch-enemy Paul Boffa which was doing the rounds, although, in truth, he later expressed regret at how he had treated his former leader.

Many of these personal traits and qualities did not sit comfortably with the political creed he embraced and tried to put into practice.The contradiction between the persona and the ideology goes at least some way to explain the serious conflicts between credo and praxis during his time as PM – and later. Mintoff himself, while intellectually embracing the tenets of Democratic Socialism led the party and the nationon the strength of his personality and charisma rather than the force of ideas.

That, of course, chimed in perfectly with the parochial mind-set of many of his followers who were used to idolising the village saint rather than excogitating on their understanding of the faith – or how that should have an impact on their lives. Anything was acceptable as long as it came from Mintoff; the man was far more important than the ideals – or even the ideas. 

It would, however, be very wrong to consider Mintoff as some sort of closet fascist or right-wing nutter in Socialist clothing. He knew and respected Socialist beliefs, and was intellectually committed to them. Generally speaking did his utmost to turn Malta into a Socialist country which respected the basic democratic institutions. But the personal imprint on those beliefs was conditioned by his personality with its good qualities – and some serious flaws. Hence his decisions to suspend the Constitutional Court for a number of years, the seriously maladroit handling of national broadcasting and the tolerance of the violence he openly condemned but against which he never actually took a strong internal stand, which may have very well stamped it out. One cannot forget also the savage reactions to peaceful dissent which turned adversaries into bitter enemies and shocked a few (too few) MLP-supporting intellectuals into changing allegiance or going into political hibernation, while the massive bulk of his supporters roared their approval.

It is too early to judge his place in history, but one day it will be possible to examine the true impact of this extraordinary man on the the country. Sixteen months ago months the celebration of the centenary  of his birth were somewhat subdued – possibly a sign that the emotional impact of his politics is receding. The tangible effects, though, will remain for decades to come.

To Be and to Have

Now that I’m out of it in so far as paid employment is concerned – and any improvements in status, salaries or conditions will have absolutely no material effect on my situation - I hope that I can view the matter with a degree of detachment. Following the agreement reached between the teaching profession and government, the Maltese Association of Social Workers (MASW) have called for a similar agreement for our profession – or words to that effect - reflecting an appreciation of the importance of the role of social workers in contemporary society and thus sending an important message about the nation’s commitment to helping its most vulnerable citizens. Few people in their right senses would even begin to doubt that this request is reasonable and just.

In the context of the intra-profession discussion about this, the matter of whether the unions representing social workers would be up to the demands of the situation, and indeed have the fire in their belly necessary to fight the good fight, came up. Inevitably, the question of whether a dedicated union should be set up is also being discussed with a fair degree of animation. Many members seem dissatisfied with the way the unions are approaching collective agreements and the improvements in conditions they have managed to secure. Other colleagues have pointed out that the level of interests displayed by many social workers in negotiations – as evident from the attendance in meetings called by the unions – is pretty low. In other words, according to the latter view, we’re relying too much on the unions as guided by a small number of colleagues doing the work for us and we are not displaying commitment and unity.

There are those who are suggesting that the MASW itself should morph into a Trade Union and conduct negotiations for members itself. Ever since the inception of the MASW, as other founder and original members will recall, this idea has been floating around and is periodically brought down to earth and re-proposed when discussions about salaries and other conditions become particularly inflamed.

When we set up MASW, there was practically a consensus that the new organisation would function purely as a professional association and would aim at enhancing standards and ensuring that social workers would be formally and legally recognised as professionals. Efforts to improve salaries and conditions would be the province of the established unions, which were much better versed in industrial relations than we could ever be and which possessed the expertise and the clout to negotiate with employers.

Over the past quarter of a century since MASW was set up, social work has established itself very solidly within society.  Our professional status was recognized a decade and a half ago, and a sizeable proportion of social workers currently in employment do not remember a time when we there was no Social Work Act and no warrants, and when we could not officially call ourselves professionals. One of MASW’s stated objectives has thus been clearly and unequivocally achieved.

However, many would point out that salaries and other conditions, while having registered substantial improvement over the years, still fall quite significantly short of what we deem to be just and fair. While a professional status is essential for the prestige of social work, many of us are firmly of the view that pay-packets and conditions must be boosted if they are to reflect the importance and objective difficulties of our work, and its contribution to a more just and more inclusive society. The unions are held by some to be unable or unwilling to accord the interests of social workers the energy required to bring about the desired improvements.

Given this situation should other forms of industrial representation be sought? There are arguments both for and against the setting up of a union catering solely for social workers. To go through them would be beyond the scope of this piece.

Is the transformation of the MASW into a union a sensible solution to the problem – as perceived by some – of inadequate industrial representation? A union and a professional association differ in fundamental ways. The core function of a union is collective bargaining: striving to better conditions of its members as a whole. Another fundamentally important role is the protection of individual workers through the provision of advice or representation when difficulties of an industrial nature arise.

A professional association’s function is different. Its raison d’etre is the promotion of professional standards, such as professional ethics. It does not look at the material conditions per se, although it may comment about them in the light of their relationship with the professional status of its members. To an extent, it is concerned with furthering the education of its members and representing the profession (not individual members) when required. It is concerned with the quality of the delivery of social work, its effectiveness, its role in society, relations with clients and relations between workers. Crucially, it articulates the voice of social workers in relation to issues of social justice in the country.

Some argue that it is possible to amalgamate the two functions, and indeed point to entities representing other profession which also maintain a trade union role. I would argue that there is an inherent difference in upholding the highest of professional standards – and then defending member who may have violated those very standards. That other organisations have apparently managed to merge the two roles is testament to a flexibility of principles which I would not like my profession to be capable of. The respect for boundaries, we all know, is crucial for healthy functioning. The boundary between ethics and material benefits is one we would do well to foster.

This is not to denigrate, or even minimise, the importance of strong trade union representation. Only the masochistically naive would fail to recognise that while man does not live by bread alone, its provision is essential for the survival of the individuals who make up the profession in the first place. Let the discussion begin about how best to ensure that what is rightly ours in terms of conditions and status is accorded to us, but do not mess with the MASW’s essential nature. To turn it into a union – which effectively means doing away with the concern for the precedence of professionalism in our work – would be signalling that we too have gone with the flow and  succumbed to the belief in the primacy of the material over the ethical.

I, for one, will have no truck with that. 

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.