When we were still at home, my brothers, sisters and I used to call her ‘ma’ and among ourselves and our cousins, we always referred to her as ‘il-mamma’ … mother.

 

Carmela

She was born and grew up in Gozo, at Ta’ Sannat, a devotee of St Margaret, the patron saint of the village. At school she must have shown very good qualities because the ‘authorities’ used to ask her to teach what she had learnt to a group of her school-mates. She grew up into a very attractive young lady.

She had already lost her father, Ġużeppi, and one of her two brothers when she married my father – also Ġużeppi, from the nearby village of Xewkija, whom she met in Victoria in the early 1940s, during the Second World War. They settled in Ta’ Sannat and by May 1942 – perhaps the worst year in the war for both Malta and Gozo – she gave birth to my sister Lydia and me. Later that year, on Saturday, 10 October, she lost Lydia – who was hit by a shrapnel – but miraculously was able to save five-months-old me from a window sill on a surviving standing wall. She also almost lost my father, who was buried in the rubble and wreckage caused by the explosion of two German bombs that fell on the village at around 10.15am. My father spent 15 days in hospital recovering from the fumes he had inhaled and the wounds he had sustained.

 

Moving house

After the war, my family moved to a modest rented house in Victoria in Sannat Road – today called Triq Nerik Mizzi. My father used to work as an engine driver in the Magna tad-Dawl (a small power station), behind nearby Pompej Church and the Bishop’s Seminary.

In Victoria, our family increased with the birth of two sisters and two brothers. I remember when Giovanni, the youngest of us all, was born, at home, with Ġuza l-Majjistra (an experienced midwife) helping in the delivery, while my sisters, brother and I were sent to stay at our neighbours, the Rapa family.

Although I did not understand what was happening, I vividly remember hearing the crying of a baby in our house where there should have been only my mother and father.

 

San Kerrew

One day, I should have been taking care of baby Giovanni when, all of a sudden, he slipped out of my hands and fell head-first on the floor. Mother panicked: Giovanni was almost dead and he would not utter a sound.

That evening, my worried parents took us to Qala, on to Il-Knisja tal-Kuncizzjoni, and down to the crypt, to present the baby to the tomb of San Kerrew. Giovanni started crying: he would live.

My mother’s love for my father was unconditional – she was so proud of him, and my father loved her just as much. Yet we never saw them even kiss each other in front of us, her children – not even a hug or a tender moment. Still, united as they were, and with all they did to and for us, you could tell that there had a sincere, full love for each other and for us. They were both proud of the family they had.

Yet we never, ever celebrated any birthdays; in our childhood they were special days that we never heard of. We used to receive strina money on New Year’s Day and presents only at Christmas.

 

Home, sweet home

At home, Mother was always doing all the odd jobs she could get her hands on to bring up five children, and to save money by sewing clothes for all of us and making shirts for our father. She used to help my father in all the jobs he did to employ himself with – including radio and clock repairs and taxidermy. She was very good at diligently skinning birds for him to stuff and put up in a ‘natural’ pose as in life.

Mother was the schemer and planner of everything that was done at home, including making and cooking pies with the meat of turtle doves or quails, and we, her children, helped by running errands.

She had a very strong character. She used to organise our school needs, take us to visit our grandparents and other relatives, encourage us to attend religion lessons, and wake us every day for the early morning Mass at Ta’ Pompej, only a few metres away from home. She was very keen on seeing us promoted from one class to the next, and obtaining good results – about which she would boast to our neighbours. She was so proud of our achievements at school.

 

The tragedy

Mother was extremely happy when I passed enough GCEs to be employed as a teacher and she was in seventh heaven when my sister – a second Lydia – obtained good results in her GCEs and was accepted by Mater Admirabilis College for female teachers. She was happy that Lydia had a namrat (boyfriend) too; she was in the prime of her youth: a humble, beautiful young lady, always with a smile on her face. In September 1963She started teaching, in September 1963, at Marsa Primary School. 

Three months later, Lydia would start to complain of severe headaches which gradually became worse and, on 8 May 1964 – my 22^nd birthday – she peacefully passed away. It was tragic for all the family but, above all, for Mother. She fell into a melancholic mood from which she never recovered. The loss of Lydia was abysmal. Mother’s grief abated a little when I introduced my future wife, Irma, to my family, bringing to her face some smiles that I had not seen for so very long.

Even though all of us, her children, had settled with jobs, families and homes, the look on her face still revealed shadows of sadness …Lydia was still missing! Mother never forgot her – never, ever!

 

Happy moments

A spell of happiness surrounded both Mother and Father every time they met our parents-in-law; these were always happy encounters they cherished and treasured.

After various health complications, in April 1994 my father died at the age of 80. At the same time Mother – who had been supporting him without ever complaining, at his side for several years – started to feel sick with ... well, we never found out – melanoma, perhaps? She died ‘like a bird’, 16 months later, when she was 73.

 

Love

We, their children, all loved our parents. When I grew up, Father used to treat me as a brother, and when he died I wept as I had never done before in my life; I felt the world crumbling about me.

Mother must have still treasured the day she saved me in October 1942 and looked upon me as the ‘best’ councillor in the family. When she died, I cried inside but did not shed an actual tear. Of course I loved her, even though I never actually told her so by word of mouth.

Yes, Ma, I loved you, I still do, and I know you will appreciate these words to you on Mother’s Day.