We don’t want a lot for Christmas, there are just a few things we need. We don’t care about the presents underneath the Christmas tree... Dear Robert, all we want for Christmas is you... doing your job properly.
The Country’s Beauty
Dear Robert, I understand that the Constitution of Malta is probably not your favourite bedtime reading. But, still, there’s that little article 9 which creeping ugliness constantly keeps reminding me of. You don’t mind if I quote it to you, do you?
“The State shall safeguard the landscape and the historical and artistic patrimony of the Nation. The State shall protect and conserve the environment and its resources for the benefit of the present and future generations”.
So, as the guy running the State on our behalf, you are bound (at least) to be inspired by the constitution.
Why not give us all a Christmas present, and, at the very least, introduce regulations that ensure some sort of aesthetics for new buildings?
Instead of all these ugly, soulless boxes mushrooming everywhere, why not define a Maltese architectural grammar and then impose it on new buildings? Would it be such a big deal?
People’s Dignity
Look Bob – may I call you Bob? – your government is faring really badly on this one.
Among the young, some 7 out of every 10 young people are seeing no future in this country and want to pack and leave.
I know. You’re doing your utmost to “modernise” the country. I also understand you want to outdo your predecessor. He dreamt of an LGBTI paradise and he passed laws to make his dream come true. So now you want to outshine him by legislating euthanasia and abortion.
But it seems that your death-inspired vision for the country doesn’t really resonate with the youngsters. You’re intent on defeating what you define as conservative, backward resistance to progress, and the young simply want to leave.
I think you should pause and ask yourself: is your version of “modernity” what the young really want? Or do they want to live (rather than die) with dignity, by having a modern country where one can commute without wasting one’s life stuck in traffic? Are they worried about their education? Do they want green spaces, a less inefficient public service, proper connectivity with the rest of Europe?
You know, those things that are considered normal in the other Member States of the European Union... that allow people to live with dignity.
Next, dignity for the poor. I don’t need to remind you, Bob, that compared to 2021, there’s been a 0.4% increase in the at-risk-poverty or social exclusion rate (AROPE) in Malta. You know, Bob, it’s not just sex and death that should occupy your supposedly-socialist government’s agenda. There are more than 85,000 people in Malta who are at risk of poverty, living on an annual income of less than €9,744. And this despite the much-flaunted economic growth.
Surely, Bob, you do see that there’s something wrong here. The economy keeps growing, but there’s an increase in the number of people living on the verge of poverty. Perhaps, instead of devoting your energies to euthanasia and abortion, your government should ensure that that economic growth you’re so proud of benefits everyone.
And then, Bob, what about our international standing? Are we still paying the price for your predecessor’s mess (Panama Papers, Daphne Caruana Galizia’s assassination, the grey-listing) and your blunder with the Americans (when the Secretary of State came over)?
Could we get things straightened out as a Christmas present?
Life
Last but certainly not least, dear Robert, why don’t you just relent on this abortion crusade of yours? You’ve got no electoral mandate, you’re trying to legalise abortion by stealth, and you’re introducing a culture of death the country isn’t really that keen on. Stop this abortion crusade of yours – that would really be a coherent present for Christmas!
So, dear Robert, these are the three presents we want for Christmas. Beauty, Dignity, Life.
You’re the most powerful man in the country. Will you make our Christmas wishes come true?
Merry Christmas to all readers of The Malta Independent on Sunday!
No Exit
An Inspector Søren Farrugia Story
“In another life,” Inspector Søren Farrugia told Sergeant Laus, “I might have been a teacher of literature, philosophy, and all that. But in this life, I have to follow in my grandfather’s footsteps.”
Sergeant Laus looked at the Inspector almost like Sancho Panza used to look at his own knight. But Panza was patient with Don Quixote because he had been promised the governorship of an island, whereas Sergeant Laus was patient because on the island of Malta, underlings are expected to treat their superiors like the Governors of British Malta.
“Aleks Farrugia has really taken a few liberties,” continued Inspector Farrugia, “but all in all he did a decent job when he wrote my grandfather’s novelised biography. True, Farrugia borrowed the colours for his portrait of Inspector Salvu Camilleri from Andrea Camilleri’s Salvo Montalbano. But I can still see my grandfather in that novel. I need to re-read it, Laus, to unravel my ancestor’s mindset. I need to understand why he did what he did.”
“Perhaps he was an idealist, Sir?”
“Indeed he was.”
“So, perhaps, it’s genetic...”
“Who knows, Laus, who knows?”
“Then again, Sir, if it’s genetics, then it’s all beyond your will. And if it’s not your will, it’s not the will of the people we prosecute, either...”
Farrugia was about to answer when the phone rang.
* * * * *
HR had a situation and detailed Farrugia to deal with it. One particular sergeant had transformed the Station he was posted to into a kitchen, cooking baking and frying and then inviting people over to try his cuisine. Unbelievable but true. Two fellow inspectors were also tasked with the case, to avoid accusations of harassment.
Christmas was round the corner, and Inspector Farrugia felt the right thing to do would be to let the wayward sergeant off the hook. But HR were adamant. Charges had to be issued, and Søren had to obey, willy-nilly. He joined the other two colleagues, knowing it would be taxing. The vibes are never good when you’ve got to rein in a colleague, no matter how mischievous they could be.
The incident extinguished any desire he might have had to celebrate. He just wanted to go home and brood.
* * * * *
He removed his boots, poured himself a glass of brandy as he sat down in his favourite armchair, opened Aleks Farrugia’s Camerata!, and skimmed through the book he had read and re-read umpteen times, and knew almost by heart.
Then, a noise caught his attention. He raised his head to listen carefully. He could clearly make out footsteps in the garden. It was pitch dark outside, the moonlight hindered by thick clouds.
He rose from the armchair, opened the top drawer of the desk, grabbed the handgun, and cocked it.
* * * * *
Inspector Farrugia approached the window and scanned the garden.
Nothing.
He waited.
Then the smell of burning rubbers started seeping from under the door.
He grabbed the fire extinguisher and ran out into the garden.
No sign of the arsonist.
Farrugia swiftly put out the flames. Somebody had stacked four tyres one on top of the other by the door and put them on fire.
The stench was nauseating.
* * * * *
Next morning, he was called to HQ as his boss, Mr Zahra, unsurprisingly wanted to discuss what happened.
“Who could have done it, Inspector?”
“We’re probably thinking of the same person, Sir.”
“Same thing had been done to Daphne Caruana Galizia and Salvu Balzan.”
“Some people would say they had it coming, Sir.”
“And what would you say?”
“I say nothing, Sir. I uphold the law.”
“Maybe that’s why they tried to burn you alive...”
“The newspapers haven’t said a word, Sir.”
“We had to pull a few strings...”
“Were there other attempts this night, Sir?”
“You’re the first, Søren. We’ve put the residences of the other two inspectors under surveillance. If it’s who we think, he’ll try again, targeting them.”
“I’ll go now, Sir.”
As Inspector Farrugia was exiting the building, Inspector Inez Estelle Garcia, one of the other two tasked with the chef-manqué sergeant case, called him on his mobile and invited him for a coffee at a café nearby. The third inspector would be there too.
Søren reluctantly accepted and walked to the rendezvous as sharp gusts of cold wintry wind cut his skin like razor blades and made his eyes water.
At the café, the three inspectors sat at a round table and ordered cappuccinos.
“So this is hell?” asked Inspector Garcia. “I’d never have believed it.”
The third inspector exchanged glances with Inspector Farrugia. “Søren, can you tell us exactly what happened?”
“I was reading, smelled burning tyres, ran out into the garden and put out the fire.”
“Did you see anybody?”
“No.”
“Well, we all know who did it,” interjected Garcia.
“We don’t really know, but one needn’t be a genius to guess who,” replied the third inspector.
“What do you think, Søren?”
“I’m not sure the arsonist will try again, if indeed the three of us are the targets.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, if it’s our friend Sergeant Chef, then he’s probably reckoning that we have figured out it’s him. He’s also probably reckoning that your homes are under surveillance. It’s true he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but we would be underestimating him if we think he’ll just fall into a trap as obvious as this... I think he will lie in wait.”
The other two had been listening attentively, digesting Inspector Farrugia’s analysis.
“He won’t act,” Farrugia continued. “He’s thinking that it’s better to let you stew in what he thinks is your own broth... He wants to cook you in anxiety and guilt.”
“Indeed, hell is other people. There is no exit.” Inspector Garcia knew how to wrap things up.
“May Sergeant Chef one day fry in his own grease.”