And so it was that St Paul, on his way to be executed in Rome in AD 60, shipwrecked on an island called Melita. Now this could have been the Melita which became our very own Malta or else the other Melita, close to Dubrovnik in the Adriatic Sea, now called Meleda, where they also celebrate in style the feast of St Paul.
Bible experts, historians, and marine archaeologists mostly base their conclusion – that it was our Malta – on the wind direction during this voyage from the Levant to Rome.
But we don’t need the weather to know for certain that he came here. The proof lies in the psychological behaviour of the islanders.
Let’s take the first part of the biblical narration. When Paul and his men landed on the island, all wet and straggly from the shipwreck, the people of Melita gave him a warm welcome. “He must be special; he survived the terrible storm” was their line of thought.
We don’t need the weather to know that he came here. The proof lies in the psychological behaviour of the islanders
Fast forward to the scene of the fire, which the men were kindling to dry up. When Paul threw a bundle of brushwood in the fire, a viper came out and bit his hand.
Hark! A sudden change in the islanders’ tune: “For sure, the man must be a murderer! He’s been spared the sea but he’s still not allowed to live,” they gasped.
So they all shrank as far away from him as possible and looked the other way, mumbling to themselves that they never really liked him anyway.
But then the oddest thing happens. The poison does not affect Paul. They wait and wait. He does not swell up, he does not writhe in agony, he does not die.
So what do they do? They change their minds again, they rally around him and carry him shoulder high, exclaim he is a god, and loudly: “Ma tagħmlu xejn ma’ Pawlu tagħna”.
Indeed, the Act of the Apostles confirms that Paul landed here, the land of switchers. St Paul himself was a switcher, so the islanders could easily identify with him.
One of my most favourite of Caravaggio’s paintings is the Conversion on the Way to Damascus at the beautiful Basilica of Santa Maria del Popolo in Rome. In depicts in stark chiaro scuro Paul’s dramatic switch: from one of the most ardent persecutor of Christians to one of the most fervent supporters.
But there is further proof that the biblical account refers to us. When Paul got dry, the islanders excitedly took him to Publius, their tribe leader. Now, it so happened that Publius’ father was sick and Paul healed him (thereafter earning himself the first waiting list of sick people wanting to see him). This momentous occasion was crucial Malta’s anthropological history . It was the birth of the Two Factions.
There was the gang who exclaimed: “Wow! Paul is great!”; but there were those who made some quick calculations. “Hang on,” they said, “This Paul chap will soon be leaving back to Rome, we better hedge our bets on Publius – he’s the one who can give us a job.” So they turned on to the fans of Paul and said to them: “Hoy, Publius is the best!”
The two factions argued till they were red and green in the face and then decided to settle it once and for all by setting up two bands made up of horn blowers and stick-on-rock bangers – and seeing who performed best.
There is no documentation of this, but it is what probably made Paul – not the most jolly of sorts – eager to leave the island, even though he faced sure death.
This is why I love the feast of St Paul: it is us to a tee. It is why I keep saying that February 10 should be our one and only national day. It embodies the very essence of Malteseness.
Moreover the feast at St Paul’s church in Strada San Paolo is replete in age-old traditions. Last Tuesday, I met the mazzier (axe holder), whose task is to hold an elaborately decorated silver axe throughout all the feast ceremonies, all the while wearing a fancy curly wig. “I’ve been doing it for 50 years now,” he told me. It looks heavy, I said. “Dażgur (of course),” he said with a tinge of pride.
Then there’s Maria l-Magnus: a woman whose powerful voice rings all around the magnificently decorated church as she shouts “Viva l-Magus” at every pause in the ceremony. It’s her role, year in, year out, and everyone elbows each other right before she bellows: “Ismagħha ’l Maria issa”.
It is one of the few feasts that does not have burger kiosk generators as background noise. Because it all happens on one long road, there is little space for stalls selling greasy chips and making everywhere stink of fried oil.
The feast is all about meeting people, of all ages, having fun together, downing a drink or three and honouring age-old traditions.
On February 10, everyone is behind St Paul – and for one day a year no one is a switcher.
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