“I asked him about politics,” a little girl piped up when interviewed on the news. She couldn’t have been more than eight years old and she should have been playing with her Barbie instead.

The “him” in question was the President, Dr Eddie Fenech Adami, who decided it would be a great photo opportunity to meet some kiddies.

Can we make up our mind people? One minute we are aghast at the thought of 16-year-olds voting and the next it seems to be perfectly OK to “use” children to make the President of the Republic look... what? Trendy? Cool? In touch with the next generation?

And why does the President, a purely symbolic role if there ever was one, need this kind of PR anyway?

This blatant use of children was carried on in the next news item, where the new Parliamentary Secretary for Health, Dr Joe Cassar, took a group of youngsters to the supermarket to teach them about the value of good nutrition. It was telling that the flashing light bulbs of the photographers were focused on the politician rather than on the children, who were much cuter.

Politics and kids should not mix, but in Malta they do. All those who are yapping away that lowering the voting age will “rob” young teenagers of their childhood, clearly have amnesia. Why, just last March what did I see at all those mass meetings but hordes of clearly younger-than-18-teens, bopping away to techno music and screaming hysterically for their party of choice? During the campaign, front pages of newspapers see nothing wrong in carrying a picture of a toddler wearing a party flag as a bandanna. Occasionally, they have the words “PN” or “MLP” painted on their chubby cheeks. Oh, but that’s Ok.

As long as it wins us votes.

Babies are there to be kissed, youngsters are there to have their heads patted, and the general indoctrination of young minds is par for the course. “Repeat after me children: Gonzi, good, Labour is jaqq.”

The only way not to be brainwashed as a child by politics is to be lucky enough to be born into a family that only discusses politics (if at all) when it the time comes to vote. Talk at the dinner table for the rest of the four years and 11 months, should, ideally, be kept as politics-free as possible.

But who am I kidding? If that were to happen then how would an eager, pimply-faced 18-year-old with his spanking new voting document know what to do in that little cubicle? How will he decide who to vote for unless he has heard all the stories and yarns and legends and tales of “when I was your age” and “you don’t realise how good you have it” and “oh, how we suffered during those dark, dismal years with no chocolate and toothpaste, and only one type of mortadella in all the land, sob, sob.”

Meanwhile, on the other side of the tracks, the constant yammering at teenagers continues. “Mintoff saved the working classes from poverty”, and “he introduced social benefits” and “we might not have had Cadbury, but at least everyone had money in their pockets”.

Ah, decisions, decisions.

What to do?

Who to believe?

But more importantly, can someone explain to me why we are so stuck in the past?

Ladies night

Every time an African immigrant so much as touches a Maltese woman, there is an uproar. It’s as if to say, “if there is going to be any rape around here, it will be done by Maltese men, got that?”

The two camps have taken up their positions and will not budge.

In that corner are those who believe that it is only natural that among those who are washed up on our shores, there will be criminals as well. We have to accept it and deal with it. Cue helpless shrug.

And in this corner, waving the national flag while singing the Maltese anthem, are the “Malta is for the Maltese” crowd. They reason that we have enough home grown deviants as it is, and we don’t need more imported ones.

Meanwhile, Maltese women look on bemused as their men folk fight this courageous fight on behalf of their virtue. Sometimes I think I’m back in medieval times when men used to fight back enemy soldiers as they came swooping down on horses, determined to rape and pillage “their” women.

And what do the women have to say?

I can only speak for myself. Generally speaking, men are men, no matter their nationality. Put too many of them together in one place with nothing much to do and someone is bound to go bonkers.

Certainly, Maltese men, coming as they do from the Mediterranean school of “ogle every female that passes by and pass comments about her figure” think it is perfectly normal to harass women in this way. In fact, to them it is not harassment at all. Anzi, she should be flattered, and giggle coyly in their direction when they describe the size of her patata …“x’s*** ghandek hi!” (just in case she never noticed it herself in the mirror).

And that low, wolfish whistle or animal grunt emitted by hairy, sweaty men wearing a string vest and shorts hanging from under their pot belly should not give you the creeps, dear lady. Instead, you should welcome it as a sign of your still enduring attractiveness. Heck, why not invite the guy over for dinner to meet your parents? But you might suggest he have a shower first.

I have passed by countless immigrants walking along the street, and not once have I ever been verbally harassed in this way. I’m not saying they’re all angels; I’m just pointing this out as an observation. But try passing by a gaggle of Maltese men drinking beer outside a kazin… apart from the comments, you feel like they are raping you with their eyes.

Obviously, I’m not trying to justify the cases of rape by an African immigrant which made the news recently… that would be absurd. Violent assaults on women (even if they were prostitutes, as some have implied) can never be excused.

But the angry “don’t you dare touch our women” reaction would be taken more seriously and carry more weight, if we were a nation in which men truly respected women. Instead, too many men still treat “their” women as a possession, as an appendage that is revered by day (as long as she does her housewifely duties) and treated like a sex object by night.

Of course, there are often deeper psychological reasons at play to explain why men treat women like they do.

A reader recently pointed out to me the prevalent Madonna/whore complex among some men. This is when “il-mara” is put on such a pedestal (especially if she is the mother of his children) that a man finds physical intimacy difficult. Men like this tend to marry “good” women who remind them of their mother (as opposed to the wild, “bad” girl) …but will then end up seeking sexual pleasure outside the marital bed, possibly even with a prostitute.

Which explains why, with or without African immigrants, there will always be red light districts.

But even outside the bedroom, the expectations some Maltese husbands have and the demands they make on their wives sound like a 1950s issue of Good Housekeeping. If she dares to have a life outside the kinder, kuche, kirche mould, then a woman will find disgrace heaped on her head. “Tsk, tsk, her house is probably filthy and I bet her kids will fail their exams.”

I’ve seen men toot their horns outside their garage door and wifely comes scurrying out to open it for them (why should they get out of the car each time to open it themselves?)

In some families, Christmas lunch always ends with the female members of the family washing a mountain of dishes while the men sprawl comfortably in their armchairs.

And the children are, of course, the woman’s responsibility because Daddy is the one earning the money, so he can choose to come home late, when the kids have been fed, washed and put to bed and he doesn’t have to hear their whining.

The way I see it, respect towards women comes in many forms. When I hear men talk disparagingly about their wives and girlfriends I sometimes wonder why they even bother to have a relationship with women when they clearly don’t even like women that very much.

When I was much younger, sexual innuendos about women at work used to upset me much more than they do now (I think I’ve given up). But I still do occasionally flare up when I hear a derogatory comment or an obscene double entendre – I find the most effective remark is: “how would you like other men to talk to your girlfriend or wife that way at work?”

Even worse is when I bring in their sister or (God forbid!) their mother. The thought of someone using dirty language in front of their mother is enough to make most men shut up and turn very pale.

I guess there is some truth in the Madonna/whore syndrome after all.

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