There are few things more enduring in Maltese media than the tradition of translating papal names. It's one of those quaint but consistent practices that say more about our culture than we perhaps realise. We don't just report the news - we give it a local passport, complete with identity papers in Maltese. And so we've had Ġwanni Pawlu for John Paul, Benedittu for Benedict, and Franġisku for Francis. All very proper, all very familiar.

But then along came Leo.

Or, as outlets who use Maltese as their medium have dubbed him, "Ljun".

Yes, that's right - "Papa Ljun".

Now, to the untrained ear or non-Maltese speaker, this might sound majestic, even regal. A lion, after all, is the king of the jungle, the symbol of courage, nobility, and the odd family crest. But for those of us steeped in the Maltese language and culture, the sound of "Papa Ljun" landing in a headline or broadcast is a bit like hearing that your favourite restaurant has started calling spaghetti "long flour worms". Technically not wrong - but certainly not quite right.

The tradition of translating popes' names

Let's start by acknowledging the historical context. The tradition of rendering popes' names into Maltese has been longstanding. Malta is, after all, a deeply Catholic country. Our linguistic habits around papal names aren't just matters of style; they reflect the close cultural and religious ties that many Maltese feel toward the Holy See.

When Pope John Paul II became the first pontiff to visit Malta in 1990, he was welcomed not as a distant foreign dignitary but as il-Papa Ġwanni Pawlu - a spiritual father who, at least in name, sounded like one of us. He was given the same greeting when he returned in 2001. His successors, Pope Benedict XVI and Pope Francis, were both welcomed as Benedittu, in 2010, and Franġisku, in 2022.

So far, so good. But here's where things begin to wobble.

Unlike Ġwanni (John), Pawlu (Paul), Benedittu (Benedict), or Franġisku (Francis), "Ljun" is not, strictly speaking, a name. It's an animal. A majestic one, yes, but not the sort you'd typically expect to find in a baptismal registry. There are no known cases of Maltese parents lovingly cradling their newborn sons and deciding, "Ah, yes, he looks like a Ljun". You'll find plenty of Leos, Leonards, perhaps even the odd Leonid. But "Ljun"? That's strictly reserved for the safari park, not the seminary.

Just because it's literal doesn't mean it's appropriate

Now, defenders of the practice may point out that in Italian, the pope is called "Leone" - which also translates to "lion". Fair enough. But the comparison doesn't quite hold. In Italy, Leone is a given name with real historical and cultural traction. There are more than 10,000 men whose first name is Leone in the nearby peninsula. It has pedigree. In Malta, the equivalent, "Ljun", is absent.

Moreover, Maltese, while rich and expressive, doesn't operate as a perfect mirror to Italian. We tend to cherry-pick our linguistic influences, depending on context, tradition, and practicality. In daily life, names in particular tend to be left untouched. The Maltese speaking media does not refer to Prime Minister Robert Abela as "Bertu" or to Opposition Leader Bernard Grech as "Nardu". They do not name our own spiritual leader Archbishop Charles Scicluna as "Ċallie" either.

We do, of course, have people who are mostly known by their Maltese equivalent of an English name - Karmenu, Toni and Ġuzi are a few that come to mind. But not Ljun.

Names, in this sense, retain a kind of sacrosanctity. They are an expression of identity, not of vocabulary. And while we have a long, proud and sometimes exaggerated tradition of linguistic adaptation - rawndebawt, fajl and mowbajl are a few mind-numbing examples - names often resist the same treatment.

The problem with 'Papa Ljun'

Which brings us to the linguistic oddity - and aesthetic awkwardness - of "Papa Ljun".

From a purely phonetic standpoint, it doesn't sit well. It's clunky, abrupt, and more reminiscent of a children's cartoon character than a figure of global spiritual authority. One half expects him to leap from the Vatican balcony with a roar rather than a blessing.

There's also the problem of readability. In a sentence, "Papa Ljun XIV" looks odd. It disrupts the flow. It draws attention to itself - not in the way a good headline should, but like a typo that's somehow managed to survive spellcheck and human proofreading. Readers do a double take. It sounds even more awkward when the name is pronounced on TV and on the radio. And that, in journalism, is rarely a good thing.

It's worth noting, too, that Pope Leo isn't exactly an obscure historical figure. With 13 of them predating him, the name carries significant ecclesiastical weight. The name Leo - derived from Latin - has a dignified, scholarly ring to it. "Ljun", for all its animalistic power, simply does not.

A modest proposal: Let Leo be Leo

So what's the solution? It's simple: keep the name as Leo.

Just Leo.

Not Ljun. Not Leone. Just Leo.

It's already how most Maltese would refer to someone named Leo in real life. It aligns with the common usage of names in Malta - where we overwhelmingly favour the original or Anglicised version over the Maltese equivalent. And it spares us the need to explain to every confused reader why we're suddenly referring to a lion in the Vatican.

More importantly, it preserves the dignity of both the name and the office. Pope Leo XIV deserves to have his name rendered in a way that feels natural, respectful, and accessible. "Leo" achieves all three. "Ljun", however well-intentioned, simply does not.

A time to reflect on language - and its limits

This isn't, in the end, a major crisis. It's not going to topple governments or shake the foundations of our society. But it's a revealing little moment in our ongoing negotiation with language - especially as it intersects with tradition, religion, and the media.

It's a reminder that language is not static. It evolves. It reflects our values, our sense of identity, and our relationship to the world. And sometimes, it also reminds us of the fine line between honouring tradition and unintentionally sounding a bit silly.

So, dear colleagues in the Maltese media: this isn't a call for rigid uniformity or linguistic purity. It's simply a plea for pragmatism. For reflection. And maybe, just maybe, for sparing us the image of a roaring pontiff prowling St Peter's Square.

Let Leo be Leo.

Your readers, viewers and listeners - and the lions - will thank you.