The passing away of Joe Micallef Stafrace sadly marks the last of a generation of journalists who put the Maltese post-World War II media back on its feet. Certainly not through the daily moody bouts of sensationalism, fake news or the expedition of venom-filled vials of prejudice that we witness today, but by the use of a persuasive pen and a sense of mutual respect and positive restraint.
In the case of Micallef Stafrace, a highly successful lawyer and a resolute politician who never succumbed to the herd mentality, journalism took him to all levels of societal behaviour. His brave editorship of a newspaper during colonial times had him jailed over a cartoon the British governor of the day happened to dislike. What is incredible, as a tailend to this cruel episode, is the fact that Micallef Stafrace never lost his people-to-people attachment to British things and affairs and his stories about his dad’s Royal Navy days and the warm connections to the British royal family were always a joy to read.
He showed the same valiant spirit of reconciliation where the Catholic Church was concerned. His political role during the turbulent days of the politico-religious dispute of the 1960s had him being interdicted by the then Maltese Church hierarchy and even refused a normal church wedding. While many of us, the babyboomers, refused and continue to refuse to forget what our mothers and fathers had to go through at that time, Micallef Stafrace never let that dark chapter weaken his beliefs, though he was always ready to understand and acknowledge those who were unable to be as noble and forgiving as he had been.
Like Anton Cassar, George Sammut (Roamer), Lino Spiteri, Paul Carachi, J. G. Vassallo and several others of his generation, regardless of their political creed or profession, Micallef Stafrace retained his journalistic passion by eventually becoming a popular newspaper columnist right up to just days before his demise. There was indeed something special about that generation. They often suffered, but reacted in gentlemanly ways. They discussed rather than argued. They offered advice with prudence and reverence even when they knew they were 100% right. They had a knack for all that. A trait that was ingrained in the whole pre-WWII generation of journalists. Born mentors most of them.
I can vouch for that because I happened to be one of many grateful aspirants in the small but often combustible environment of the Maltese media. Those of us who had come up posing as self-appointed rebel teenagers and wannabe journalists and columnists were put into our places as calmly and as tenderly as if it were all a question of waiting for maturity and perseverance to eventually emerge.
It worked. I remember my first-ever column entitled, rather bombastically I dare say today, “The 76 Column” on the old Malta News. Yes, you guessed, it was 1976 when I was still in my 20s. To be often taken aside by these gentle giants and asked to discuss with one or the other, what bunkum I had written, was a lesson I cannot ever forget. Micallef Stafrace was one of them, watching me going from one column to another in different newspapers and languages, always welcoming me (usually at the Upper Barrakka gardens where he often pointed at my grandfather’s name on the plaque commemorating the victims of the Moor tragedy during the last war) with a ready smile to comment, to compliment and to advise. I hope it all somehow left its mark. What is certain is the end of that generation of journalists, writers and columnists leaves me, at this moment in time, in a rather precarious situation as arguably the oldest of the present lot.
There is so much more to write about this last gentle giant to go on whatever kind of final voyage we all envisage in our different ways. Micallef Stafrace sadly leaves a Maltese media strangely at odds with itself. Bigger, stronger and much more technologically advanced, but not necessarily wiser, kinder or more credible. It would indeed be a pity if the wholesome and decent legacy of his generation is left to rot away in the name of petty politics and meaningless social disdain.
A poem for every victim
It felt incredible last Wednesday to realise 26 years have already passed since the horrendous tragedy that took place inside the Malta Drydocks when a Libyan tanker, the Um El Faroud, exploded, claiming the lives of nine workers. It was a news story that reverberated across the world.
The nine men – Carmelo Callus, George Aquilina, Simon Pisani, Mario Hales, Angelo Sciberras, George Xuereb, Paul Seguna, Anthony Vassallo and Simon Mifsud – had left home in search of their daily bread but never returned. A common narrative, alas, at one of the most dangerous places of work. Their memory is rightly preserved in a monument built in later years in a Cospicua street overlooking the very place, Dock No. 3, where the tragedy had occurred.
I was more than happy just a few weeks after the tragedy to join a literary initiative aimed at projecting the dangers that dockers had, and still have, to face in earning a livelihood, while paying tribute to the nine victims whose ages varied from 22 to 57. There were nine of us with nine contributions, a poem for every victim of the tragedy. The booklet, entitled Disgħa għal disgħa (Nine for nine), survives proudly in many a personal library.