If my life were a movie, August 28, 2016, would be the day I packed it all in. As the credits were ready to roll, I’d have loaded my Cadillac and would be heading out west on the interstate. But living in Malta doesn’t really permit (keep that word – in its dreaded noun form – in mind) a dramatic, let alone redemptive, exit.
I woke last Sunday to the sound of thumping music. The kind that challenges even the sturdiest double-glazing and probably puts historic buildings at risk; whose decibel levels kill nerve endings and make tinnitus a possibility. Was this actually music, I wondered, vibrating from some infernal region and finding its way into my head and home, threatening my inner sanctum?
I got as far as Tower Road and had a word with a police officer who happened to be standing gormlessly in the shade. What did he think of the daytime rave coming from St Julian’s pitch and could anything be done about it?
The question was, of course, redundant (most people who know Malta know the answer). But it was a chance to explore a hunch, a general sense of unease, regarding a number of officers - the men to whom you look for protection but need protection from.
When your civic sense of what is right and wrong is far removed from the very people recruited by the State to safeguard your interests, you instinctively know that your concerns are going to fall on deaf ears or be met with barely concealed derision.
I was given a dismissive look, the kind which suggests ‘you’re hearing things’.
But when it became clear I wasn’t going to give ground, the young officer shrugged, muttered ‘festa’ and said something about a permit.
There was nothing remotely saintly, religious, spiritual or festive about this. It was a pagan affair – music you might appreciate when high on a cocktail of drugs. Maybe not even then. Perhaps this is something the Archbishop might want to address?
It was no less than 10 solid hours of mind-numbing, anti-social cacophony rendering any kind of communication or thinking wholly impossible
This wasn’t a couple of hours of mid-morning music at an acceptable (non-amplified) volume. It was no less than 10 solid hours of mind-numbing, anti-social cacophony rendering any kind of communication or thinking wholly impossible. But with a permit.
You know, I’m starting to hate that word. It seems to represent everything that is wrong with Malta. Because if something is unacceptable and illegal, it being rubber-stamped by an invisible officialdom makes it a whole lot worse. So how can relentless noise in residential St Julian’s (billed as Malta’s most up-market tourist area) be permitted?
What I’d like to know is who is ultimately responsible for permits and whether those issuing them know what they are permitting? Does a permit licensing daytime (or nighttime) music delve deeply enough into decibel levels? In Malta, I doubt it.
Do the authorities not realise that blaring music until 2am mid-week makes going to work the next day close to impossible?
Noise pollution on a community-wide scale goes way beyond neighbourhood nuisance (and that’s bad enough!). There’s a legal obligation for event organisers and employers to control noise levels in the interest of health and safety. And this includes even those willing to be exposed to the din. Those upon whom such is inflicted willy nilly are the victims of a wholly unacceptable flouting of the law.
And no, this wasn’t a one-off. If it happened just once a year at the St Julian’s feast, I wouldn’t be writing this. The fact is that noise is everywhere, and St Julian’s is notoriously louder than most places. I really do pity the serious restaurateurs who, having invested so much in their product, find every other day appropriated by a festa or festival, or some other excuse for noise (Uefa, World Cup, St Patrick’s Day, Neptunes championship); to say nothing of the amplified noise that is synonymous with many establishments (which I shan’t name here). And remember, this is a potentially world-class location.
The Minister of Tourism needs to understand that this sort of thing has got to be relegated to the past. And the people to whom we routinely turn for help – the police and local councils – should not bristle or fob us off.
From here, I pay tribute to honest councillors like former mayor Karl Gouder, who I recall seriously questioned the wisdom of the large crowds at this year’s St Patrick’s Day, and went on to disassociate himself and the local council from the business of issuing of permits. Fair enough, but not good enough.
St Julian’s deputy mayor, Albert Buttigieg, recently made another strong case: that a town so crucial to Malta’s tourism industry should be given a greater share of the new tourist tax. I’m all for St Julian’s getting a bigger slice of the cake, provided the council is empowered to veto anything that is not in the interest of St Julian’s; and turning it into another Bognor Regis certainly isn’t.
St Julian’s is tacky, shabby and noisy enough as it is. That the council is not directly responsible for issuing permits doesn’t automatically excuse it. Law without strict enforcement is just wishful thinking.
It’s high time our local councils make some noise toward ensuring that they are sovereign and can (and do) veto anything that threatens the residents and pollutes the town they have promised to protect.
michelaspiteri@gmail.com