My father, Rosario, was a master stonemason. No wonder then that at his death he was deemed to be no obituary, appreciation material. His name was not national property. He passed to the beyond in March 1969, exactly the way he wanted it to be, quietly and in perfect peace and harmony with everyone and everything. His claim to posterity lies in the very things that many today would look askance upon – if not with downright disdain: an ordinary, simple, honest life. Yet, though he was “to fortune and to fame unknown” his name all the same deserves an honourable mention because “large was his bounty; and his soul sincere”.

Father gave shelter to people who had nowhere to go. Throughout his life he had full-time employment in the Works Department with The Admiralty. In the evenings, with family members to keep him company, he built houses on his own. On Sunday mornings, when called, he gave his free time to help in Church-related buildings.

A self-taught man, in an age when illiteracy was the order of the day, he felt very thankful that he could read in Maltese and enjoyed himself going through the pages of Il- Berqa and his favourite paper Leħen is-Sewwa. Though he had no formal instruction in art or design, he crossed the line from craft to art. Besides being a master stonemason he was also a master carver.

Father and his generation lived an entire life under an austere, cruel and often inhumane regime or way of life. In his days, to be able to speak only in Maltese was a stigma and a humiliation. Such people were branded as illiterates, which translates into the great masses at the bottom of the planetary heap, very reminiscent of the 18th century “navvies”.

Spinsters bore the brunt of being called old maids and handicapped persons had their lives made a misery if they ever dared to venture out.

Schoolchildren were called all kinds of derogatory terms by their teachers. Spare the rod and spoil the child came in very conveniently to give a semblance of righteousness to the use of the cane. The different levels of the church floor, separated by the altar rails, made it very clear to all that there was a great divide between the clergy and the congregation.

Father’s life was shadowed by two world wars and the misery that followed the Great Depression of the 1930s. He lived through The Long Weekend that was 1918-1939.

He saw the coming of the dictators; of sinister ideologies that struck at the root of democracy. It was in his lifetime that death was sanctioned and ordered by the state.

Father did not live long enough to enjoy the Peace Dividend that we share today.

He is buried at the Żabbar cemetery. Do not look for a dignified memorial on the grave that he built himself. He has been denied what is his due. His true tombstone is his character and epitaph. That is how he will always be remembered by myself and the ever dwindling number of his acquaintances.

Father did not give a little of what he had – he gave all. The parable of The Widow’s Mite comes to mind: Father had cast most into the treasury; he did not cast in of his abundance; but of his want did cast all that he had, even all his free time.

For a discursive, anecdotal and personal account of his life and times, a master stonemason’s lot in the first half of the 20th century, his social and religious background, the peace dividend, the rich legacy I have from my father, his generosity... kindly visit: www.rosarioellul.com.