Johnathan Cilia laments a dying lifestyle that sees a love of the land being replaced by more ephemeral pleasures, even as his Uncle Anġlu, one of Malta’s last shepherds, continues minding his flock and making ġbejniet.

I remember the first time I came to Malta, when I was eight years old. At that point, I knew how to count from “wieħed sal-għaxra” and knew what “ejja, ħa nmurru” means. As I set foot on Maltese soil for the very first time, and the Semitic tones and language was properly introduced to my young ears, I realised I was very far from the city of Sydney. I might have also started crying.

Photo: Chris Sant Fournier

We were picked up at the airport by my uncle, whom I had never met before. He didn’t speak much English, but he seemed to be permanently laughing, or smiling, at something; you could see it in the corner of his eyes.

We all got into his pickup truck and started driving towards Dwejra, limits of Rabat. It was pitch black and raining (this was back when it still rained in winter) and we slowly made our way up a long, steep road that I thought had been bombed during World War 2 and had never gotten fixed. This was my introduction to Maltese potholes.

All of a sudden, my uncle braked, hard. I thought maybe the bombing had restarted, or we had come across an insurmountable crater. My uncle calmly got out of the car, walked in the rain to where his headlights were shining, bent over, and returned with a tiny, wet hedgehog in the palm of his hands.

I recoiled. I’d seen porcupines and echidnas in the wild in Australia, and they were not things you lovingly picked up in the rain. But my uncle Anġlu was not of the same mind-set as I was; he actually smiled at the little hedgehog, as the creature curled into a ball. He pet him a bit, as much as you can pet a hedgehog, and finally placed him under the protection of some big rocks on the side of the road.

That night, I slept in a house with a corrugated iron roof for the first time in my life. Each heavy raindrop banged like the imaginary cannons that made the potholes on the road up here. I looked out of the window; it was pitch black outside. Dwejra, which the Victoria Lines runs through, is at a high elevation that provides spectacular views of the surrounding area and seas and, at night, apart from the light from the not-so-distant moon and stars, it is utterly dark. You feel as cut off from society as is possible in Malta.

My father, along with his siblings, was born in a room in Dwejra. He was one of nine children and, of those nine children, there was only one other male. Uncle Anġlu, the second eldest, who today is among the last of a dying breed – the Maltese shepherd. A man who lives off of the land, who grows his own fruits and vegetables and makes his own cheese and milk, and whose friends have names like Paxawnu and Ġumu. In short, he represents everything that Malta was in days gone by.

Between increased regulation, imported dairy, fruit and vegetable products, and changing tastes, it has become unsustainable to attempt to live honestly off of the Maltese land

Uncle Anġlu was always of a very positive temperament, ready to laugh and joke at anything. But, woe behold anyone who somehow manages to anger him, as they would be met with the unyielding rage of centuries past.

Fiercely loyal and supportive of his kin, yet conservative and humble to the point of self-mockery, his work ethic puts most to shame - up at the crack of dawn, return at dusk; wind, rain or hail be damned, the animals must be fed,  crops watered and turned. The idea of taking a day off, be it for sickness, celebration, or indeed the birthday of Baby Jesus, was probably laughable – and a bit nonsensical – to his mind.

As I grew older in Malta and I moved up from primary school to secondary school, I saw the changing face of rural communities in Malta. Agriculture, once all that there was in Malta, was becoming rejected by the middle-aged and younger generations. As we ascended to the EU and groups like students, myself included, greatly benefitted, I saw imported fruit and vegetables decimate my uncle’s fellow farmers. Most of these men, who had grown up tending fields and practicing animal husbandry, soon found themselves working harder and harder all year, for diminishing returns.

Nowadays, few of them actively tend their fields.

My uncle was always more interested in his herd than his fields, though. Don’t misunderstand his sentiment; he still tended the fields daily and worked harder on them than anything I will ever do in my life. I quickly became used to the image of him surrounded by his flock of goats, communicating with them in a mixture of goat noises and the hollers older Maltese men shout at their friends as they drive by them in the piazza – “hoy!”.

He knows all of his herd, their ages, their personalities, their pace, while I just saw a literal ball of fluff

And the goats clearly understood him, following his sounds and directions, himself barely needing the dogs running among them as backup. He knew all of his herd, their ages, their personalities, their pace, while I just saw a literal ball of fluff when looking at the animals.

I sometimes wonder how so many skills can be lost between a single generation; up until my siblings and I were born, my family had been tending to farm animals since time immemorial. Yet, I can barely open a can of cat food without cutting myself.

There are not many shepherds left in Malta and the few that remain have found secondary and tertiary methods of making money. Between increased regulation, imported dairy, fruit and vegetable products, and changing tastes, it has become unsustainable to attempt to live honestly off of the Maltese land. The work is seen as low class, dirty and you will never be able to afford a souped up ride on a shepherd’s pay; you will barely have the time nor energy to drive after a hard day’s work, let alone upgrade the rims.

My contemporaries would balk at this lifestyle, but for my uncle Anġlu, we must be the ones who seem mad. Next Christmas, as with the last Christmas, when all of my extended father’s siblings (and their new families) return to the place where they were born and grew up, the farm with the corrugated iron roof will be full of nieces and nephews and second cousins once again, many glued to their little screens. Each one of them getting very excited about apps, games and TV series.

Some of them talking English, or a form of Maltese that doesn’t really make sense to him; but the little ones seem to understand it, and hearing them giggling is enough. He’ll still laugh and pat them all on the head. He’s just happy to be here, really, whatever show he missed last night.

The story appeared in the last edition of the Sunday Circle.

Every morning he sees the sunlight break over Malta; he’s told me that on very clear days, he can see the outline of Sicily and that it is beautiful. Lao Tzu, the ancient Chinese philosopher, said that a man’s greatest treasures are his patience, compassion, and simplicity. I’ve met people from all walks of life and temperaments, from Maltese politicians to Mexican drug dealers, German students to American rappers.

I’ve seen people work their whole lives, dedicate everything to their passion. Rich people, powerful people, educated people – I have seen them smile. Yet, I have never seen anyone smile like my uncle. Through his connection to the physical world, and not the global, virtual world we are finding ourselves in more increasingly, he has achieved something that many of us will die never having achieved: a sense of peace. And for seeing that alone, I would say it was worth coming to Malta.