What can a man do in two-and-a-half hours? After five years in prison awaiting trial, Osman Omar was finally granted bail. But his conditions limit him considerably, as Bertrand Borg found out. Here is his brief diary of freedom:
7.32 a.m. Mr Omar arrives at the local police station. According to his strict bail conditions, he must sign the police register between 7.30 and 8 a.m. every day, and must be back at home by 10 a.m.
He straightens his shirt, takes a deep breath and walks in. Outside, the Maltese village is already bustling with life.
7.36 a.m. The police register is signed. Mr Omar is free to roam Malta for the next 174 minutes. But the local photo shop – Mr Omar needs to have passport photos taken – only opens at 8 a.m. So we head back home, waiting for time to pass.
“On my first day out,” he says between sips of coffee, “I went to the police station to sign their register and nobody there knew anything about me or my case.”
He had his work cut out trying to get his life back on track after five years in prison awaiting trial.
Mr Omar stands accused of taking part in a gang rape that year in the precincts of the Marsa Open Centre. He insists he had nothing to do with the crime and has continued to vehemently protest his innocence, against legal advice.
“I was told that if I pleaded guilty I’d be a free man, because I’d have already served my sentence while awaiting trial. But I never did anything wrong. Should I admit to something I didn’t do? Never. Never.”
8.02 a.m. We stand outside the photo studio. It is still closed but we can hear movements inside. Within minutes, the owner opens up and welcomes us in.
8.20 a.m. Passport photos safely in his pocket, Mr Omar whips out a grocery shopping list. The supermarket is a 15-minute walk away. We decide to take the bus.
8.28 a.m. A bus has yet to pass. After another anxious glance at his watch, Mr Omar decides to walk.
8.38 a.m. As we walk to the supermarket, two buses speed past us in quick succession.
Mr Omar laughs.
8.45 a.m. Inside the supermarket, Mr Omar carefully compares the price of two different batches of tomatoes and hunts down eggs. He scoops up some bell peppers. “For Jeremy,” he beams.
“Jeremy” is Jeremy Cope, one half of the British couple who put up Mr Omar’s €4,000 bail guarantee and who have taken him in as he awaits trial.
8.52 a.m. A man ahead of us in the queue recognises Mr Omar. The two hug, exchange greetings and chat animatedly. Once he leaves, Mr Omar turns and whispers to me. “I knew him on the inside. He’s a fantastic guy. Such a good heart.”
8.59 a.m. On the bus back to the village, Mr Omar confides in me. “It would be nice to get a job, get my life back and just live in peace and quiet. But this [the charges] keeps hanging over me.”
9.20 a.m. Mr Omar drops the shopping bags back at the house and picks up another list, this time for the ironmonger’s. He checks his watch – 40 minutes left.
9.33 a.m. At the ironmonger, Mr Omar buys paint, steel brushes and sandpaper, speaking Maltese throughout.
9.51 a.m. We’re at the house once again. “It would be nice to go get a coffee but there just isn’t time,” he sighs.
A letter has arrived, addressed to him. “Dear Mr Omar,” it begins, before summoning him to an interview for a job he had applied for. The interview is scheduled for the following week, at 5 p.m. Mr Omar shrugs. “Perhaps they can reschedule it for the morning and Jeremy could give me a lift. But it’s probably useless anyway. How can I work if I have to be home by 10 a.m.?”
We sit and chat for a while. He speaks about his time in prison and shows the scar of where he had once tried to slit his throat. He laughs bitterly, explaining that his trial has now been scheduled to begin in June.
10.12 a.m. Mr Omar is now confined indoors until tomorrow morning, when at 7.30 a.m. he’ll return to the police station, ready for another 150 minutes of freedom. As I exit, he settles down to watch some television. It is undoubtedly a step up from the Corradino cell he was stuck in just last month. But as the front door slams shut, the difference between the two prisons – one Spartan, the other palatial – fades into obscurity.