“You can call me the late Guido de Marco!” Professor de Marco used to tell us law students out of breath but full of joyfulness, life and smiles each time he used to turn up “fashionably late” for the criminal law lectures.
The Professor’s smile was evergreen and almost contagious and he used to disarm us all with his charm and friendliness. I fondly remember his days as my criminal law tutor. He would refrain from smiling only on two occasions: First while reciting to us a particular section of the criminal code and secondly when a student failed to provide him with a suitable answer to a question of his or when our academic progress was not as good as he thought it should be. When the latter occurred, Prof. de Marco’s temper would explode like a vulcano in the middle of a seismic activity, albeit for a little while. Then, after a couple of minutes, he would become the same optimistic and cheerful Professor as we all knew him.
As a law student, I looked forward immensely to the day of the week when Professor Guido de Marco lectured us. The lectures were held in the early afternoon, after some good sessions of civil law with other lecturers but no one used to bat an eyelid during “Guido-time”. He was such a brilliant lecturer! You could almost see him bring that particular penal code section to life, play with the constitutive legal phrases and joyfully dance with the legal doctrines surrounding a particular piece of legislation. He almost made criminal law appear easy and natural and was an expert in micro-studying the finest legal details. I recall him discussing at length the difference a comma or a semi-colon makes in a particular legal section.
He always requested top professional commitment from us. “You are lawyers,” he used to tell us. “You can’t speak as if you’re in a ħanut tat-te, in a coffee shop.
“You should be learned in your pronunciations, you must think before you speak, you must be a cut above the rest. I want that from you.” Prof. de Marco really believed in the legal profession and always taught us that being a lawyer was a vocation. Being an advocate meant working among people, crying and laughing with them. That reality brings about rights and obligations.
Once, at the end of one of his lectures, I timidly approached him. “Tell me, caro mio,” he said while looking at me straight in the eye. I was, maybe, 19 or 20 at the time and had no political experience whatsoever. “Professor,” I said, “I am interested in entering politics. What advice would you give me?”
I did not tell him I was interested in joining the Labour Party and not the Nationalist Party which he formed part of, although I am sure it would have made absolutely no difference, because for him politics was not a career or a partisan exercise, but a mission to serve the country.
“What’s your name?” he asked with his eyes reading into my timid gaze.
“Owen, Professor”.
“Look here, Owen. In politics there are good people and bad people. There are politicians who serve and there are others who make the system serve them. The best advice I can give you is this. Owen, become a good lawyer. Study hard. Put your family first, but your profession a close second.”
I thought the Professor had not understood me correctly since I had asked him about how to become a good politician, and not how to become a good lawyer. “Professor, forgive me for asking again. I’ve just asked you how to become a good politician, how to enter the political fray?”
Guido was almost amused at my naïveté’. He put his hands on my shoulders and lowered his voice: “And that is what I am going to reply to you again, Owen. Become a good lawyer. Obtain your financial independence from politics. Don’t depend on politics to earn your living.
“That way you will be able to speak your mind, to act for the common good and not for the hand that feeds you. Sometimes, in order to be of service to your country, you need to do that despite political parties. The more financially independent you are of politics, the better the politician you are. Remember this, Owen. This is my advice.”
I never forgot that advice, which was probably the best I was ever given and have always kept in mind.
Guido de Marco used to joke with us about calling him “the late Guido de Marco.” Unfortunately this appellate is a joke no more. For a lot of people, he was their lawyer, their President or their Minister. I will always remember him as my Professor, a wonderful role model for all the youths who believed that politics could be a tool to make Malta a better place and who instilled in us an understanding of what is to be expected of the people who decide to serve their country.
Thank you, Professor.