It is somewhat paradoxical that I should write a sad letter about Suleiman Abubaker; a person who despite being persecuted and risking death at home, enduring discrimination in other countries where he stayed prior to his voyage to Europe, and suffering further harassment, violence and ultimately death on our island, was always smiling, upbeat and positive. These qualities were evident the first time I met him.

I had taken a group of 18-year-old friends whom I used to teach to Marsa, to show them that the area around the open-centre is not the violent, no-go area portrayed in local media and to convince them that immigrants are not leading cushy existences in five-star hotels, as some of them believed. Suddenly, this smiling guy approached us, invited us to have tea with him and started telling us about his ordeals. His narratives and hospitality, together with what they could see around them, made a greater impact on the students (one of whom used to attend Norman Lowell meetings) than all the debates I used to stage in class.

Suleiman told us about the war in Sudan, about his flight and about the suffering and discrimination he endured in Libya. He told us about his voyage and his captivity in local detention camps. He narrated the incident when he was beaten up by local police; how it all started when a Libyan customer started harassing him and boasting that though he was the aggressor, the Sudanese would bear the blame because of the colour of his skin. The aggressor banked on our racism. His was a safe bet.

What amazed me throughout all this was Suleiman's serenity and joie de vivre. His narratives were not characterised by sadness or gloom, but by joy, forgiveness and the conviction that, despite these experiences, events and people will change. He loved Malta and the Maltese, and believed that regardless of what he endured, locals were not fundamentally perverse. He believed in democracy and human rights and all other lies we tell ourselves and others, and did his best to integrate in our society. His tragic end proved that he was terribly mistaken.

I am not interested in who is to blame for the death. However, I do believe that if there is a person who is responsible that person did not act alone. Each time we refused to consider the serious reasons that induce immigrants to leave their lands and undertake their deadly journey, we were arming this person's fist. Each time we made racist comments or pretended not to listen when others made them, we were arming this person's fist. Each time we used the words "burden' and "immigrant" in the same sentence, we were arming this person's fist.

Each time we hailed our politicians for their intransigence, we were arming this person's fist. Each time we failed to preach the sin of racism from our pulpits, we were arming this person's fist. Each time we taught our students abstract trivialities, we were arming this person's fist. Each time we wrote about frivolous subjects like the Opera House site, and failed to discuss the racist monster that exists in our midst, we were arming this person's fist.

The anger I feel on hearing the news of his death tempts me to pray for all kinds of curses to befall our hypocritical island. But on second thoughts, I know that is not what Suleiman would have wanted. May God forgive us our sins and grant him eternal rest.