I’m not sure one can call Manwel Cuschieri an anchorman, since, as far as I can remember, he has always been a one-man show. He’s no longer a One-man show, though, as One Radio decided to discontinue his radio-wave joyride.
There was a time when a top man in the Labour Party used to call Mr Cuschieri’s slot “il-programm ta’ Zolli”, clearly a classist remark which however hit the mark. It understood Mr Cuschieri’s role as intermediary between the powers-that-be and the populace. I wonder, however, whether Mr Cuschieri himself understood this role.
Reading about Mr Cuschieri’s mini-saga reminded me of the lyrics from the 1987 Roger Waters concept album Radio KAOS: “Oh, how he wanted to talk to the people/ He wanted his own show/ Tune in Moscow, Tune in New York/ Listen to the Welsh kid talk/ Communicating like in the good old days”. Replace “Moscow” and “New York” with any two local name-places and “Welsh kid” with “Cusch kier” and you have the picture.
It seems to me that Mr Cuschieri miscalculated when he migrated to Facebook. At least one newspaper has reported that only a fraction of his radio listenership followed him to his new medium. (How this newspaper could reach this conclusion isn’t clear, but let’s assume it’s a correct assessment.) Mr Cuschieri’s miscalculation is important, to my mind, because it reflects something about the Maltese collective mind-set.
Mr Cuschieri wanted to “talk to the people, he wanted his own show”, but the people seemed not to have responded. The reason, I think, is that people weren’t really interested in Mr Cuschieri’s opinions, as instead he seems to believe. People were interested in Mr Cuschieri as mouthpiece for the Party. In other words, Mr Cuschieri’s popularity didn’t depend on his talent (one has to admit that his monotone, monomaniac approach is perfect for radio) but on the fact that he was perceived as somebody who brought to the common man what was being said in the corridors of power.
Why is this important? Because a mature democracy is based on a frank exchange of ideas between intelligent members of the community. This is why democracies – unlike dictatorships and other forms of polities – cherish freedom of expression. This liberty isn’t there (only) to guarantee the free exchange of insults and prejudices. True, these too have a role to play, because the average man is assumed to be able to make deductions from insults and prejudices. For instance, a Dutch court once ruled that paedophiles should be allowed to propagate their views freely because society will know how to deal with them – a perfect example of a mature democracy based on freedom of expression. But freedom of expression is essentially meant to allow free citizens to exchange their views. It is more or less the same mentality on which the free market is based: the more competing products abound on supermarket shelves and the bigger the choice consumers enjoy, the better will the consumer be served. Similarly, the more views are exchanged freely, the better will the citizen be served.
Free and frank exchange of ideas as the basis for democracy is thus predicated on the notion that when people speak they represent their own views. And this is the revelation which must have shocked Mr Cuschieri. Mr Cuschieri must have unconsciously believed that he was participating in the democratic process by sharing his own personal views to the Labour audience. The system, however, works differently – as has now been empirically demonstrated. The audience wasn’t interested in his ideas but in his conveying the Party’s message.
The European ideal of a mature democracy is that of a political space in which people freely exchange ideas (“May the best idea win!”). This ideal was not achieved overnight. It was the result of rivers of blood that soaked European soils, of long years of civil war in European countries, driven by religious affiliation, political ideology, succession to thrones, national aggrandizement, and so on. Democracy and universal suffrage were meant to avoid the bloodshed and the devastation left by wars. Essentially, democracy was understood as the antidote to tribalism.
But Malta isn’t a mature democracy yet. The ideas of the individual are less important than the message of the tribe. Consider former MP Franco Debono’s case. Many of his ideas were eventually implemented, because all said and done they were essentially good ideas. But Dr Debono ended up left out in the cold because in Malta the tribe is still more important than ideas.
Then again, the tide might be turning (to borrow another quotation from Waters’ album). In the 2022 elections, many Maltese decided not to cast their vote. Was that a message that they wanted more ideas and less tribalism?
Letter from an Unknown Woman
An Inspector Søren Farrugia Story
“Good morning, Inspector,” greeted him Sergeant Laus.
“Not so good,” replied Inspector Søren Farrugia. “Have a splitting headache.”
“Late night out, Sir?”
“No. Late night in. At my desk, Laus, working on a couple of files. And then this morning at half seven, a bloody jigger started digging... They’ve torn down another townhouse and they’re digging a hole... 76 cm away from the common wall... not one millimetre less, not one millimetre more!”
“Shall I bring you a strong coffee, Inspector?”
“Yes, please. To make matters worse, Laus, my sister called, sobbing. Her husband of twelve years has suddenly decided he’s a woman. He’s going to work in fancy dresses, high heels, make-up... At work they’re applauding him for his courage. He wants a divorce and she’s distraught...”
“Not much one can do about such things...”
“Except suffer, Sergeant. Jiggers, jessies, and a bout of the jitters.”
“You’re not being nice, Inspector.”
“Screw you, Laus. Bring me the coffee.”
“You know, Sir. These headaches you keep getting. They might be your unconscious making you pay for your little indiscretions.”
“Really, Laus? Why not divine retribution for my peccadilloes? Screw you, Laus. Bring me that damn coffee.”
* * * * *
Farrugia sat down at his desk, apparently to go over the paperwork needed for two imminent court cases, but in reality to sip his hot, black, sugarless coffee and analyse the situation involving the Magistrate who had to decide those cases.
As the black acidic liquid soothed his throat, he couldn’t help himself thinking that the Magistrate would ultimately burn his fingers.
The Magistrate’s mother-in-law was an old shark that had spent decades swimming the dangerous waters of the judicial ocean. Not only did she know the system inside out. She also knew how to swim in circles around the prey, intimidating them till the moment she attacked and bit chunks of flesh off them. Most important of all, a number of senior ministers were her clients, and she sat as member of the judicial watchdog. Appearing before this Magistrate required tons of courage.
“Courage: the mother of all virtues,” murmured the Inspector to himself. “It guarantees the others.” But it was no mean feat.
Then again, the Magistrate was probably reckless – still young, he probably didn’t think enough. When you’re in the judiciary, you need to ponder, weigh, add and subtract. It drains you.
The Inspector admired the upright members of the judiciary: they buttressed the efforts of upright cops.
This particular Magistrate could eventually end up badly. You can’t build a judicial career on the shaky foundations of politics and your in-laws’ political appointments. The day of reckoning could eventually come, and on that day the sun would turn black and the moon to blood, with no explanations given.
* * * * *
A knock on the door startled the Inspector. It was his old friend Dr Joel Giudice, the up-and-coming advocate defending the Russian person of interest Danila Amfitheatrova.
“My dearest Søren! How are you doing, old chum?”
“Come in, dottore. Not feeling too well. Have a splitting headache.”
* * * * *
Inspector Farrugia didn’t like Joel Giudice’s story. It meant stepping on too many toes. No doubt, somebody from HR at HQ would call to tell him his boss wanted a word, and all that. He wasn’t in the mood. His physical headache was already a pressing issue; he didn’t need metaphorical ones.
“Listen, Joel. We go back a long way, you and I. I’m going to give it straight to you.”
“I should hope so.”
“Forget it.”
Joel was momentarily taken aback.
“Forget what you’re asking me to do for this Amphitheatre lady!”
“Amfitheatrova. She’s got a letter in which she details all the rotten deals the Minister’s involved in...”
“Forget it... She’s an unknown woman. What can I do with a letter from an unknown woman? They’ll pulverise her! They’ll call her “the Russian” and that will seal her fate... They’ll clamour for proof! Where are the proofs?, they will cry at the top of their voices! Forget it! Then this Minister you keep talking about – his lawyer is the Magistrate’s mother-in-law. Joel, you bring me nothing but trouble. Big trouble, Joel, in Small Town. Small Town... that’s what this is. Small-town mentality. Forget it, Joel. And anyway, I already have Zahra breathing down my neck!”
Søren was breathing heavily, and Joel Giudice scanned his face intently.
“And I’ve got this big headache,” added Søren, his eyes like the eyes of a dog beaten into submission.
Joel stood up, picked up his attaché case, and walked toward the door.
“Get well soon, my friend,” he told him, and softly closed the door behind him.
* * * * *
As the days rolled by, Farrugia’s mood got worse.
He got a couple of invitations from his boss, Mr Zahra, and they had coffee and engaged in Corps gossip. Their common boss, the Commissioner, ironed his trousers like he was still in the military. The new anti-money laundering superintendent still wore shirts too tight for his bulging muscles. Mr Zahra’s secretary was still young, fertile, and available for marriage. And other inconsequential topics. That actually added to the Inspector’s headache.
He appeared before the Magistrate, won one case, lost the other, and life went on. Almost without him.
New cases to investigate came in, old ones got forgotten.
Time seemed to wait for nobody and yet it was so slow to pass.
A sense of void enveloped him. He was losing himself along the way, one small piece at a time.
His demeanour with Sergeant Laus had changed. He became increasingly irritated by the accommodating, cunning Sancho-Panza-like subordinate.
“Perhaps I should go back to my windmills,” Farrugia thought to himself, as he walked along San Ġiljan’s Zammit Dimech Promenade.
* * * * *
His sister called. Her husband had asked her to forgive him. Perhaps they weren’t divorcing after all.
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