Recently I was in a conversation with a friend and colleague a couple of years younger than myself.  I was sharing some stories that recapped my teens during the political turmoil that drove Malta of the 80’s to the brink of civil war. 

I lived through the turbulences of the 80s and feel a huge responsibility to ensure that my generation communicates the narratives that such poignant turmoil brought to this country.   We need to be heedful that the media, economic growth and time do not prompt Orwell’s metaphoric ‘memory hole’.

It is true that Malta, since then, has moved on and we are a modern nation; full members in the EU, an improved institutional framework, a sturdy and diversified economy and a welfare platform second to none. 

However, I keep asking myself how come our political discourse did not evolve and progress with equal tempo.

But let me go back in time.

I come from a family that has always implanted in my brother and myself the meaning of social engagement as being one of the noblest of values.  Our behavior was modeled on our parents’ passion and awe for social justice and who believed that uprightness is not simply a commodity you can purchase over the counter but an unvarying struggle in one’s life. 

I bring up this matter because I have forever followed politics and am starting to feel some of the disparaging sensations that accompanied me in my teens being rekindled. 

The 80s, for those who have lived the moments, was much more than political dialectics or disagreement.  At one point we were on the verge of an out-and-out clash. 

As a 16 year old I recall the vivid feeling of fear mingled with patriotism and a strong sense of conscientiousness. I had this desire to make part of the cause and of bringing about righteousness.  The slamming of pieces of wood to the 50 gallon barrels we used as drums, the flags, the costumes, the scarves, were our ‘war paint’ – they represented the ritual that accompanied every mass meeting, rally and political activity. 

For example, I recall very clearly the protest at Tal-Barrani, where after congregating at the Nationalist Party headquarters we travelled on open trucks to Zejtun in one huge convoy - very rarely seen again, all dressed up in the celebrated navy blue, light blue and white colour schemes led by party officials.   

In fact I still get those tinkling feelings every time I drive up the road leading to Zejtun virtually hearing the burst and crackle of pistols being fired from both directions, the blood, the screams, the chaos.  Predictably even the people on the other side of the fence felt that they were in the right. 

I cannot forget the massive turnout at the meeting in Birkirkara when Fenech Adami’s house and his family were attacked. 

I cannot dismiss my throbbing mood when the news spread like wild fire that a young man, Raymond Caruana from Gudja, was killed at a party club in the middle of the night (a keepsake of the untimely death of the young and guiltless Karin Grech).  I still cannot get rid of that picture-spread on the front page of ‘In - Taghna’ with Caruana laying on the ground in a pool of blood.  I remember reading the newspaper and collapsing on the pavement close to the Fleur-de-Lys bus terminus as I struggled to understand what was happening to this country. 

I also recall that infamous Rabat mass meeting, the sound of the riot squad taking out its all on the protesters, the anger, the fear, the reverberation of gas canisters as they hit the ground, the darkness that enveloped us as we sat waiting on the open truck parked close to the Roman Villa waiting for the situation to calm down before we could head back home. 

I cannot forget the youth organization, Tan Numri protesting through theatre, led by Joe Azzopardi amongst others.  Once again a group of young idealists creating street drama, talking about hope and peace and passive resistance and often having to scamper the last part of the event because we got chased by the police as they banged their batons on their shields – a deafening clatter that still rings and echoes in my head. 

But this group of young people believed and were convinced that Malta will get back on track - and so it was to be. 

I cannot overlook the innumerable stories of torture, beatings and brutal police interrogations.

I cannot forget the students we used to host at my parents’ home for ‘covert’ lessons, amidst the fears of being singled-out, because due to strike action schools were shut for weeks on end. 

And I could go on forever. 

For example who could forget Lorry Sant and his thugs in 1987 confronting a police officer in the polling station I was picketing in Birkirkara or the Independence feast celebrations at the Floriana granaries when it almost always ended up in a cloud of teargas or when my father striked and was transferred or the difficulties that had to be endured as a consequence of the famous Imnarja national protest. 

This country at the time was being pulled apart, collapsing like a house of cards. 

But these moments have moulded me in the same way that the Church-MLP in the late 50’s and 60’s struggle casted the generations before me or World War 2 the generation before that. 

And I felt proud at the time and still do that I have made part of the resistance and more so when considering I was just 15 and 16 years old. 

But this is when it becomes serious. 

The dynamic of those events will probably never return, but we need to be careful because this reality can stare us back in the eyes. 

It is true that this country, by and large has got over the physical confrontation but I am starting to sense a rekindling of the spirit of altercation in the atmosphere that swept us at the time. 

We need to realize that serenity, tranquility, calmness and poise are not something we can take for granted. 

The tone we are using in politics is starting to sound very ‘80s’ and people like me who have lived those times know that we can do without these ongoing doldrums. 

The 80s were governed by a situation whereby people felt that the party should preside over their minds, that the leaders knew what was good for them and that they are baptized into a political party and all else is superfluous.  If you are a Tesserat, you are there to obey and to embrace ‘groupthink’ over-shadowing anything else, thinking politics and party day-in and day-out as if nothing else matters. 

The 80s was about having a big brother and the cult of personality, someone higher-up telling you what needs to be done.

The 80s was characterized by feelings of anger, of resentment, of fear towards one’s adversaries. The 80s meant that the institutions were in disarray, that law and order were a la carte, that rules and regulations were only good when serving their leaders.

The 80s meant people were up to their noses seeing land being gifted as if it is a commodity that people have a right to, as long as they surrender to the ‘great’ Minister.
The 80s were the time when the environment was not on the agenda.

In the 80s most minorities were struggling even though benefits and pensions were offered in abundance but the economy was dreary and mind-numbing. ‘Peace, plenty, love and truth’, back to Orwell, seemed to have a completely different meaning from that in dictionaries.

The 80s was a time when the Church and the Government were in collusion from morning till night.

The 80s saw the political class hanging around with the wrong crowd.

And all of this is what we need to be careful of. 

Politics is important and crucial to a community. It’s not a game.  Let’s agree to disagree, let’s try to bring change but not by throwing each other overboard.

I do not have nostalgia for the 80s and I hope our politicians don’t either.  Politics is about making sure that the past has no place in the present. One ‘80’s’ is enough and there shouldn’t be space for a political scene that is in cahoots again.