On a warm autumn morning last year, I was sitting in a little, side street Valletta café, sipping a latte, with a Maltese friend of mine, whom I have known for years, when he suddenly asked me: “Just what do you see in Malta?” Not only did the question startle me, but also I was really at a loss to give a reply.

Later in the day, I pondered the question. It soon dawned upon me that falling in love with places, much as it is with people, can hardly be rationalised. The object of our affection is more a creation of our own perception, than a product of the object’s external attributes.

I believe there is a lot of truth in the saying that “beauty is in the eye of the beholder”, or as David Hume expressed it philosophically, “beauty in things exists mainly in the mind which contemplates them”.

Since the early 1970s, when I used to visit Malta as a young man, I have been captivated by the rocky island steeped in the blueness of the Mediterranean. I enjoyed driving over roads with little traffic, and hardly any traffic lights, as much as riding on the shaky, old buses, with their temperamental drivers, and colorful inscriptions, some of which I still vividly remember until today, such as the beautiful Latin sentence:  verbum dei veritas est .

It was also a joy to walk, or more exactly loiter, all over the steep streets of Valletta, narrow and wide, with their picturesque doors and balconies, quaint cafes, splendid palaces and statues, lazy cats slumbering in endless siestas, clothes lines fluttering in the breeze, and jolly, friendly ladies chatting obliviously to each other.

My aimless journey in the city upon which the knights conferred much splendor would usually end with a foamy, hot cappuccino in the luxurious, iconic 19th century Caffè Cordina.

Whether or not Malta is developing too fast, as some of my Maltese friends seem to think, would be too presumptuous for me to judge

Over the years, I have watched the island grow, expand and prosper. I had the honour of teaching Arabic at the University of Malta during the period 1995-1999. Debates about joining the European Union dominated the Maltese political discourse during that formative period.

As an observer, I felt that Malta had every right to see itself a part of a larger geographical space, asserting its European identity, without losing sight of its own uniqueness.

As a linguist, I was particularly interested in the Maltese language and its strong affinities with Arabic. I attempted to read Dun Karm, but was more at ease with the modernist poetry of poets such as my good friend Oliver Friggieri. With my Maltese students, I always emphasised that Maltese, being the only European language of a Semitic origin, should be a “legacy of pride”.

Some of my views in this respect were expressed in an interview, which the late Joseph Aquilina made with me, published in the Sunday Times in March 1996.

In addition to my academic pursuits during those years, I kept searching for a pristine kind of beauty, which I instinctively felt to be a part of the magic that allured me to Malta. I was a willing Ulysses yielding to my Maltese sirens and allowing myself to be incurably bewitched by them. 

One day in the late 1990s, I was driving towards Mdina, taking the Attard road, across the fields adorned by early spring flowers. Mdina towered above the hill, slightly covered by mist. Climbing the hill to the old city, the air felt a little colder. It was fresh and crisp. The aroma of pine trees filled the atmosphere. As I walked through the Mdina gate, I felt a certain transformation entering the “silent city”.

I was filled with serenity and a sensation that I had travelled back in time. The silence was overwhelming, interrupted only by the sound of horses pulling carriages, dragging their hooves along familiar paths by force of habit. As the chimes of the cathedral clock reverberated, sending a spiral of echoes all over the place, I felt like waking up from a dream.

I reflected this experience in a poem entitled ‘Ode to Mdina’, the opening lines of which read:

History stood perfectly still / When I beheld you perched upon the hill / Through your gate I walked /Transformed in Time / Transformed in Place / I felt /Silence there was / But many voices I heard…

In later years, during the turbulent period I served as ambassador of my country to Malta (2010-2012), my search for my “idyllic” Malta continued. Putting political woes behind me, I would drive to places such as Għajn Tuffieħa, Manikata, Dingli and Marsaxlokk, or cross over to Gozo with its hilly pastures, enchanting coastline, and little village churches, to walk and contemplate.

Greeted by villagers with genuine smiles, I felt a strong bond of humanity with them and a sense of reconciliation with our troubled world. Watching beautiful sunsets at the Golden Bay in Għajn Tuffieħa, I was thrilled by their beauty as I dreamt of sunrises bringing new hope to my own beloved country, torn by conflicts.

In my last visit to the island in October 2017, I could see the construction boom everywhere. High-rise buildings and cranes, sometimes blocking the sea view, were ubiquitous in Sliema and adjacent areas. Undoubtedly, this augurs well for the thriving economy of the island.

Thanks to the wisdom of its successive political leaderships and the determination of its own people, Malta has achieved a healthy economy and high levels of growth, envied by some larger countries in southern Europe.

However, whether or not Malta is developing too fast, as some of my Maltese friends seem to think, would be too presumptuous for me to judge. My only hope is that a balance will be maintained between exigencies of economic development, on the one hand, and environmental and aesthetic considerations, on the other.

In the meanwhile, as long as sea waves continue to splash and break upon the rocks of this island and hardy fishermen with wrinkled foreheads  venture into the open sea, my search for the idyllic Malta will not cease.

Saadun Suayeh is former Libyan ambassador to Malta.