Ruskin Avenue, Kew (London) must be less than 100 metres long. As one leaves the Underground station 'Kew Gardens', the last but one stop of one of those coloured lines that criss-cross on the London map, there is a sign reading "The National Archives." After walking for about 10 minutes, one finds oneself in Ruskin Avenue, the last bit of street before the gates of The National Archives. The area is residential, no shops, all houses with front gardens - some neat others less so, a house or two with an agent's for sale sign, signposts on not allowing dogs dirty the place (a £1,000 fine)... the typical well-to-do periphery of the metropolis.
Ruskin Avenue is much like the other streets leading to it. However, walking toward the Archives, on the left, one front garden grabbed my attention, as there was a medium sized olive tree that had somehow survived, despite being a few thousand kilometres away from its natural habitat. It did not, for example, have the gnarled trunk of similar trees in Sicily. There the olive tree bears those fruits which yield that liquid gold which makes one's mouth water. In Ruskin Avenue, it is doubtful what type of fruit is produced by that solitary tree. Nevertheless, it is there, testimony to the resilience of the olive tree and, perhaps, the care of the house owner.
The reason why that olive tree caught my attention, however, had to do with what occurred a few metres further on. But let me proceed with caution and order.
Leaving Ruskin Avenue, I entered the grounds of The National Archives. There is an artificial lake with a dozen swans and a score of gulls. Walking past, and then through the revolving doors of the archives themselves, one is welcomed by the warmth of the place, the bustle of the employees (it is not even 8:30 in the morning, and the actual archives are closed).
The cafeteria at ground floor level provides, at the cost of nearly £2, a mug of black coffee (milk free), a table, free Wi-Fi so I had a few minutes to gather my thoughts until the clock struck nine. As soon as that happened I, and a troop of other info-hungry men and women, proceeded to the first or second floor to carry out our research.
It is not the purpose here to relate in detail how the staff at The National Archives made my visit a pleasure. That is true enough, but the principal reason for these few words has been prompted by the olive tree in Ruskin Avenue: the importation of southern flora to a cold street in London.
I cannot avoid the inverted analogy of the olive tree. If London's influence did not destroy it, why could not some endurable influence from next door wend itself to the tiny island on the Mediterranean? Malta was a British colony for a 150 odd years (and hence, necessarily absorbed much from British practices). Maybe, if the Mediterranean could export the olive tree, we could import into our archives practices more conducive to research, as those at The National Archives. Specifically, why are the policies of The National Archives premised on the principle that those visiting are interested in carrying out research and not in harming documents? Researchers should be given every facility to consult them. Policies governing similar local institutions seem to operate on an opposite premise.
At Kew, I saw men and women of all ages who handled (with care) documents at least as old as our own Kantilena, but possibly much older. They were allowed to take photographs of them; actually they were provided with stands for their cameras. In Malta, the policy seems to be reversed: the documents held at reference libraries and archives are there only to be protected; anyone interested in them is tolerated, maybe grudgingly but in any case often made to feel as having been granted a great favour. Protection against the ravages of age and inappropriate use is not only fair but a duty. But should research material also be protected from anyone genuinely interested in research? Why, for example, is a researcher not allowed to take a photograph of a document? I completely agree that safeguards are necessary for the protection of documents. The various attendants at Kew pacing around the halls keep a watchful eye for any infraction in the handling of the documents. Proper care and diligence in turning the pages, placing weights to hold the pages, supporting the document to prevent damage to its spine come naturally where the environment is conducive to helping you carry out your task. Nonetheless, any tiny infraction is promptly pointed out.
There is much more to be said on the subject. But it may be better to stop here lest all this is understood to a negative criticism of archive policy in Malta. In truth, however, this is not the reason for this short note. The sole aim is to point out that there are other practices apart from ours. Those practices are more conducive to opening the past to the present and should be actively pursued. No financial outlay is involved. What is required is just a little more courage, a bit more faith in the genuine researcher who has as much interest in protecting the documents as the authorities have. It is undoubtedly possible, with a little bit of effort and goodwill, with some faith and a lot of confidence (and, of course, safeguards against inappropriate use) to adopt policies similar to those obtaining at Kew. After all, we have learnt a lot from the British, so why not a bit more?
The fortunes of the olive tree at Ruskin Avenue set the example. If it has survived English weather, I cannot see why British practices concerning research cannot be planted in Malta.
Michael Refalo
Victoria