There’s something incredibly reassuring about street hawkers. I’m not sure whether it’s the throwback to one’s childhood and the fact that many of us grew up accustomed to hearing the sounds of different horns, depending on whether it was the bread-man, fishmonger, ice-cream or paraffin man who had come a-visiting.

Hawkers are invariably found guilty by the same magistrate, who is understandably infuriated by their recidivism. And yet, nobody stops to question the absolute madness of it all- Michela Spiteri

Or whether it’s the routine aspect of it all – the everydayness which is strangely feel-good. There’s comfort in knowing that whatever happens to you, the grocery store owned by the sole trader you’ve known since you were six, the vegetable hawkers, all parked in their familiar corners they’ve practically beaten a hole in, will be there, day after day.

Yes, there’s definitely a security that comes with knowing there are certain people you can count on to just be there. And, although I am perfectly capable of passing each of them by, never stopping to actually buy anything, the day they are mysteriously closed or not there, I am immediately overcome by a sense of dread and disappointment.

When I lived bang next to two vegetable hawkers in Dingli Circus, my biggest dilemma was trying to divide my fruit and vegetable list in an attempt to support both hawkers’ livelihoods. Initially, I’d take all sorts of detours to try to escape being seen holding a kilo of suspicious looking tomatoes evidently not purchased from one or the other. But eventually I gave up and patronised both randomly.

I don’t miss living there, but I do miss them. And I recently discovered that their world, a world we take completely for granted and feel a great of sense entitlement towards, is actually plagued and riddled with an inordinate amount of grief. Apart from having to contend with the tiresome business of Trading Licences, the system is excessively and uselessly over-regulated.

After having trawled the numerous regulations and legal notices, I am now in a position to relay the long list of things a hawker can’t do. The biggest shocker is the discovery that hawkers are not permitted to park within 50 metres from any commercial premises or hawkers.

Which means that a hawker who trades within 50 metres of another hawker, stationery, butcher, pharmacy, pastizzeria, hair salon, supermarket, or any other commercial outlet, is breaking the law. Meaning – every single vegetable truck I can think of, is operating illegally.

The situation is beyond ridiculous, so much so, that I was certain I had misconstrued the legal notice. Most lawyers struggle with the shoddy and convoluted way laws are churned out most of the time, and not just with grammar and syntax. When the rent laws were reformed in 2009, I remember the country’s supposed legal gurus calling up their colleagues incessantly, to try to make sense of the legislative minefield.

So I did my homework and, sure enough, I had it right. Apparently the ratio legis, if indeed you can call it that, seeks to protect shop entrances from the possible invasion of hordes of people.

While I can readily appreciate giving shop owners all the protection they need (after all hawkers occupy a space which is rent and electricity free and don’t incur the same sort of overheads), unfortunately regulations like these rarely exist for the right reasons.

They create situations, where select hawkers who mind their own businesses and pose absolutely no nuisance to neighbouring outlets, are systematically harassed and eventually prosecuted.

My Dingli Circus mates are regular targets. Every so often, Mr Plod pays them a visit and packs them off to court. They are invariably found guilty by the same magistrate, who, because of the frequency, is understandably infuriated by their recidivism. And yet, nobody stops to question the absolute madness of it all. The resources, manpower, time and money that are being wasted while other areas screaming out for legislation, like ‘karrozzini’, remain completely unregulated.

I found myself wondering whether all hawkers are subjected to the same harassment and where – in this tiny country of ours, jam packed solid with shops – might a hawker possibly trade successfully, short of setting up truck in Ta‘ Qali. But even then, I fear the glass blowers or pottery makers might be up in arms.

Recently I visited my grandmother, who incidentally lives in Qui-si-Sana where another hawker is wont to park on Sundays. I was staring out of her balcony and at his truck, thinking of my recent obsession with hawkers and, out of nowhere, three policemen were on top of the poor man desperately trying to get him into their police car.

They had somehow managed to pin him onto the tarmac and as he struggled and shouted for help, I could hear him appealing to their sense of humanity, reminding them he had a family to support.

I’d be lying if I told you that I know what exactly went on. But I very much doubt he was selling kilos of cocaine in lieu of carrots. I’d put money on it being a case of ‘too close for comfort’ and his proximity to the ‘pastizzeria’. Whatever it is, it’s three against one and very disturbing. It stinks of a police state.

It’s high time laws reflect today’s realities. Police Commissioner, kindly take note.

michelaspiteri@gmail.com