I am not a journalist and what follows is not in self-defence. Nor do I think journalists need me to defend them. It’s just that two things happened to coincide which made me think about the current state of the art.

The first is that of Magistrate Carol Peralta’s recent press conference in which he took journalists through the vicissitudes of the infamous ‘festa Natalizja fra kollegi’ (Christmas drinks, to plain-speaking mortals). There were three things about it that struck me.

First, no cameras were allowed. In other words, Peralta got to speak to the press very much on his own terms, and to his imagined lop-sided dividend. He pulled it off by holding the conference at his own home, which effectively transformed journalists into guests bound by the usual etiquette required of the type.

The sleight is telling. To dictate to journalists which media they may and may not use is to exercise power over them.

It also replicates the conditions of the courtroom, where the use of cameras is not allowed during sittings. Peralta made himself at home in more than one sense, shall we say.

Second, the theatricals. As described by reporters, they were more a matter of Peralta holding a kind of medieval court than addressing the media in the 21st century. It seems he sat on a sofa smoking cigarettes throughout. The only similar occasion I can remember is that of a press conference held on a terrace at the Hotel Excelsior a couple of years ago.

The main man in that case was none other than a rap musician known at the time as Snoop Dogg (now Snoop Lion). Like Peralta, Dogg-Lion is no stranger to scenes involving journalists, things you smoke, and the police. Also like Peralta, his approach to a hapless reporter from Times of Malta was doggy style through and through.

Which brings me to the third thing that struck me about the conference. Quips about “parassiti tas-socjetà” (social parasites) aside, the way Peralta infantilised Mark Micallef was breathtaking. He addressed him as “bravu” (good boy), “qalbi” (my dear), and heaven knows what else. I know Micallef and he doesn’t look eight. Nor does he, as far as I know, have a crush on Peralta. I imagine Micallef will have felt unbearably patronised, possibly mocked.

Now I would pay a lot of money to see a cocky someone address, say, Jeremy Paxman as “good boy” and “my dear” during an interview. They would be so crushed and humiliated that they would never dare be seen in public again. Not so in the case of Micallef, who, by the way, happens to be the chief reporter at Malta’s leading news organisation. Not only was Peralta not impressed; he got away with it.

Cut to the second example, that of the biggest migration of swallows in recent history. I refer to the systematic ransacking of the One newsroom by a never-ending queue of ministries and parliamentary secretariats. Most of the journalists who worked at One jumped at the occasion and moved, in many cases to take up posts as communications officers.

I don’t really blame them. It’s an open secret that journalists, especially those who work at party stations, are paid peanuts. They work long hours and have to toe the line, to some extent or other, at all times. Not terribly exciting.

Which is why most of them are here today, gone tomorrow. No matter how passionate they may be about journalism, and how good they are at what they do (and some of them are both – Net TV’s Frank Psaila comes to mind as an outstanding example), any pasture they look at will appear greener and worth the move.

Take Miriam Dalli, until recently head of News at One Television. I was twice a guest on TX, her flagship programme at the time.

The reason why both occasions were rewarding had nothing to do with her stilettos. Rather, she had researched both topics in depth and came to the programmes armed with a sheaf of notes and a legion of gimlet-eyed questions. Dalli may have been hemmed in by the staple constraints of party stations, but she was no mindless hack.

It’s an open secret that journalists, especially those who work at party stations, are paid peanuts

Which is why I was taken aback when a few days ago someone lowered their voice in awe and told me “dik issa laħqet avukat, ta” (“she has now become a lawyer, no less”). The Maltese verb ‘laħaq’ is appropriate for a priest who becomes a monsignor, a doctor who becomes a surgeon, and such. It is not so for a first-class journalist who becomes a lawyer. Or it shouldn’t be, in my books.

Partly, the malady is endemic to the two party newsrooms. (They have also been used as convenient springboards by a litany of names, truth be told.) Only it doesn’t stop there. I think both the Peralta case and that of the One migration tell us something pretty radical about the plight of journalists – and therefore about the state of jounalism – in Malta.

A generally sorry one it is too, in two ways. First, pay and conditions. Save for the key posts in one or two newsrooms, things are positively sweated. That means that the best people might spend a year or two flirting with, but will never settle down into, the job. Which in turn means overall poor quality of reporting and analysis, and an impoverished public sphere.

The second is related. The prestige of journalism as an occupation is generally low, especially when compared to that of the traditional professions.

Broadly-speaking, linguistic competence and intellectual honesty hold very little value in Malta. That’s why Peralta thinks Micallef is an annoying boy, and why Dalli “laħqet avukat, ta”.

I find it quite astonishing that people should so resent Reno Bugeja’s annual salary. This is a man who came up through the ranks using quality as his credential, and who now deservedly holds the top journalistic post at PBS. If that isn’t worth €50,000 a year, I don’t know what is.

Or maybe we would prefer another Dr R. Bugeja LL.D., and more inanity on our pages and screens.

mafalzon@hotmail.com