I always knew Aphanius fasciatus was destined for glory. The Mediterranean killifish, known in Maltese as bużaqq (‘pot-bellied’), may only be an inch or so long. It is also frankly unspectacular and looks a bit like a Grant Wood guppy. And yet whenever I saw some, usually at the bird reserve at Għadira, there was always a religio et patria glint in their eyes.

Which is just as well, because the bużaqq is set to become Malta’s national fish. Part of me is inclined to ROFLMAO and to say you couldn’t make it up. Still, we have a national flag, day(s), anthem, language, poet, bird, tree and plant. We also have a national inte­rest which is said to trump all other conside­rations. So why not give our great nation gills and let it breathe underwater?

Let me first deal with the competition. The idea of national animals probably goes back to heraldry and to the deployment of all kinds of creatures in that department. Thankfully, given that the list includes dra­gons and griffins, not all of these actually exist. The more recent choices, however, tend to be rooted in reality. The best known are probably Australia’s emu and kangaroo.

Eurovision seagulls apart, there are, as far as I know, three non-human national heroes in Malta. They are the Blue rock thrush (merill), the Maltese rock centaury (widnet il-baħar), and the Sandarac gum tree (għargħar).

The first inhabits large parts of Europe and Asia. It was chosen as the national bird in the early 1970s, probably on account of its coastal habitat and the fact that it was the only flying thing that was larger than a sparrow that held popular appeal and was spared by hunters. It also happens to be beautiful and sings like an angel. With the merill, you can have your siren and not be dashed to pieces on the rocks.

Widnet il-baħar is a masterclass of language use. The coupling of construct state and evocative metaphor would be enough to qualify it as the global, let alone national, plant. It is also found only in Malta and produces the most splendid purple flowers.

The għargħar is a tree that practically no one knows exists. Most Maltese people think the national tree is the carob, and I can see why. There is nothing the matter with Sandarac gum, it’s just a tad anorak. To our bużaqq, that can only be good news.

Still, there are at least three reasons why calling a fish ‘national’ was always going to be tricky. First, fish tend to like to swim around in the sea. The sea does not lend itself to clear boundaries. Smugglers and fishermen and submarine captains will know exactly where Maltese territorial waters begin and end. For fish, however, and indeed for most of us, it’s waves all the way to Sicily, or to Libya.

Which means it is far from straightforward to call a fish homegrown, let alone national. Fish do not appear to respect national boundaries. On the contrary, they swim across them with streamlined ease. A tuna may be Maltese one minute, Italian the next.

The idea of national animals probably goes back to heraldry and to the deployment of all kinds of creatures in that department

The second reason is that fish are not usually thought to be particularly big on charm and charisma. There are a few people who probably have too much spare time on their hands, who think they are. I know, because I’m one of them. For the majority, however, fish are dull and as good as dead.

That explains why people whose senses would cool to hear a kitten shriek, seem perfectly happy to spend their Sunday mornings at Marsaxlokk taking in the gene­ral gore and disembowelment. Exactly how such underrated creatures could ever capture the hearts of the nation is a moot point.

Third, fish are widely eaten, sometimes even by people who call themselves vegetarian. The association between sea and menu is so strong and seamless that it doesn’t even call for a linguistic sleight. A fish is called that whether it’s in the sea, on a fishmonger’s slab or on a plate. It’s a bit like calling pork ‘pig’, or beef ‘cow’.

Which makes the enthronement of fish as national icons particularly knotty. It would, I suppose, be rather odd to lift the lid off the pan and find the national darling sizzling away. Would one think of frying Dun Karm, or the Kantilena? I should hope not.

This is exactly where the bużaqq comes into its own. First, it lives in brackish water on land rather than in salt water in the sea. The bużaqq is as well-travelled as a carob tree. Which means it can happily be called local, and, given a bit of fiddling about, national. That fiddling about involves genetics. We’re told that Maltese bużaqq share their DNA with none of their foreign siblings. Splendid.

Second, I’m quite sure that, given the right publicity, the bużaqq could be made to look as charismatic as Nemo. It’s not particularly ugly, and its endearing Maltese name brings to mind a certain rotund jolliness. I don’t know how a pot-bellied national icon might affect the national war on obesity or whatever it’s called, but never mind. The point is that the bużaqq has cuteness potential.

The third reason why the bużaqq is a wise choice is that it is not seen as about-to-arrive food. It’s a tiny fish and not particularly easy to find or catch. In any case, one would need dozens of fish to make a single whitebait fritter.

The lampuka (dorado) got close to national fish status when it found itself on the old 10-cents coin. But lampuki are put in pies, which would have been rather like tearing up a copy of the Constitution in the President’s face. No such problems with the bużaqq.

But let me try to put nastiness aside for a second. The first reason why nations feel the need to elect animals and plants has to with nationalism itself. Massimo d’Azeglio’s quip following the unification of Italy (“we have made Italy, now we must make Italians”) is well known. Only it seems it was sent to multiple addresses. Certainly the merill and the widnet il-baħar each got a copy.

The second reason is conservation. Environmentalists believe, and they may be right, that electing a species to national glory will render it sacred and iconic, and therefore more likely to be protected. Trouble is, you only get one stab at it. The honour of multiple nationals in the same class is limited to days, it seems.

Someone told me the other day that the bużaqq was the wrong choice as the Maltese national fish, and that the mazzun (goby) would have been a wiser one. Then again, gobies have been known to swallow the proverbial fishing gear, and that wouldn’t do.

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