The bully is king

I am writing this in the foulest of moods. I’ve just spent half the night mopping water everywhere: the result of a burst water pipe, apparently due to a sudden increase in water pressure at night-time (does this happen to you, or is it just our street?). The house was flooded by the time the kind baker opposite us alerted us that water was seeping from under the door onto the street.

Society has failed these people. Or even more disturbing, we are living in a society that breeds bullies- Kristina Chetcuti

So, yes, as I was saying, I could snap anyone’s head off today. In fact, I think it’s of paramount necessity for me to bark at someone. Nay, maybe it would be even better if I punch someone.

Off the cuff, I can think of a couple of people who really get under my skin, and even the mere sight of them makes me want to hoist them by the neck while yelling in their faces (and swearing) (with spit flying everywhere) “Youtalkingtome? Youtalkingtome?” and then stamp their feet with my high heels (for, did I say? I’d be wearing a black cat suit).

Fine, this could be all the influence of The Godfather, Quentin Tarantino and a touch of Occhi di Gatto – but let’s face it, it would be killing two birds with one stone: A) I’d vent out the all-night-mopping-water frustration, and B) I’d be getting even with someone who vexes me.

And you know what? I am seriously tempted to do it. Because as we’ve learnt last week it will only set me back a mere €60. Even buying a punching bag would cost me more than that.

Which brings me to the point I want to make. Much has been said and written and photoshopped about the Marsaxlokk camp-brawl tragi-comedy, but my question is: if the victim hadn’t forgiven his aggressors in court, how much would they have they been penalised?

It was clear that the victim forgave the attackers because he feared their revenge (he has a new boat, moored close to the camps). Yet the law accepted his forgiveness and dished out a ‘kinder’ sentence.

And that is essentially the point missed by the law: it condoned bullying. This is a prime example of Maltese bullying, of which we see a lot about.

I’ve seen men jump on car roof-tops, bang their fists on car windows, chase people in the street with an iron bar, shatter doors with an axe – and all in the name of getting their own way.

That’s the bully, he grows big and in the process makes you feel small, so small that you give in to his demands, wrong though they are. Unfortunately our society is ridden with men like these.

But to top it all, these bare-chested Marsaxlokk campers are not merely bullies, but stupid bullies. The picture of the men sitting on the steps, with the obese moobie guy sticking out his tongue – prior to being sentenced – captures the very essence of ignorance in the abstract form of the word.

It’s neither arrogance, nor bravery: you have to have a very low IQ to show any sense of respect for the law. It’s worrying because ignorance as sheer as this means that somewhere along the line, society has failed these people. Or perhaps, even more disturbing, we are living in a society that breeds bullies.

Solutions to this aren’t easy. Families bear the chief responsibility for teaching their children to respect others. Plus, it’s more to do with changing the culture than changing the legal codes – but still, it’s shameful that the law condones it.

The cherry on this messy cake was the quote of another Marsaxlokk camper, who was not involved in the brawl, but insisted that people wanted to stop them from camping there, out of “envy”. That’s another Maltese classic.

Don’t you just love it when envy is given as the solution to all ailments? You are breaking the law, but if I tell you, you accuse me of being envious. I still have to grasp how I could ever envy someone who sets up a tent, with a water-tank, a shower and a makeshift toilet, on a patch of fake sand, right next to the power station, with the, um, deluxe view of the Freeport.

But back to me. You may be pleased to note that I did not, in the end, resort to punching anyone.

At 5 a.m., with the water main closed, the mopping over and the floor sparkling clean, I got myself a nice ftira, fresh out of my baker’s old stone oven, fired with wood. I dabbed it with melting butter and homemade jam and then all was well with the world again. I bet you envy that.

krischetcuti@gmail.com