What happened to police officer Simon Schembri was absolutely horrendous. I wish him well, which in this case means a full physical and mental recovery.
That does not mean, however, that I ever considered joining the thousands of people who marched in Valletta last week. Nor do I subscribe to the sort of things being said by, among others, the Police Commissioner, Home Affairs Minister Michael Farrugia, and the hyperbolic Sandro Camilleri. My reasons have to do with two emotions: respect, and hate.
The drift of the Valletta protestors, and especially of their leaders (who included, disturbingly, the President of the Republic) was that it is somehow the State’s task to wipe out all traces of what it deems to be disrespect to the police. While that may seem acceptable at face value, it isn’t.
Truth be told, there was no logical link between the incident and the protest. My definition of disrespect does not include running people over and driving off. Simon Schembri was not a victim of disrespect, but rather of a clear attempt to kill or seriously injure.
It’s clear that those behind the demonstration had other things in mind. To them, respect means that we must refrain from all criticism of the police. If Sandro Camilleri had it his way, we’d all be in jaw-dislocated awe of police uniforms, simply because they are police uniforms.
Now I know that uniforms may evoke all manner of responses, but universal respect and self-censorship are not among them. I respect the police as much as I do bus drivers, plumbers, and doctors. The main purpose of a police uniform is to discipline the wearer, as opposed to disciplining the rest of us into some kind of superlative respect and awe.
It’s clear that those behind the demonstration had other things in mind. To them, respect means that we must refrain from all criticism of the police
It is good that there are laws that protect the police, and everyone else, from being run over or otherwise assaulted. It is not good that these laws become a cult of the uniform, and of the untouchability of wearers. I reserve the right, for example, not to feel respect for the police officers who harassed black people in Marsa last year. I also think I should be free to say so without having to face a banner held up by the President of the Republic.
The second emotion that comes into play is hate. Three young people were hauled to court last week on charges of hate speech (on Facebook) against the police. While what they wrote was despicable, that shouldn’t stop us from asking whether or not we should be free to hate.
The somewhat predictable image is that of the Two Minutes Hate in Orwell’s Nineteen eighty-four. The daily rituals of the totalitarian state of Oceania included a two-minute film during which viewers were obliged to hate the contemptible attributes of the enemies of the Party.
Apart from the obvious (there’s nothing good about hate), the reason why this ritual was so creepingly terrible and fascist was that everyone had to take part. What’s worse, viewers would invariably find themselves caught up in a collective hate that was manufactured by the Party to keep itself in power.
The only thing I can think of that’s as bad as a Two Minutes Hate, is a Two Minutes Love. My reading of Orwell is that his problem was not so much the hate, but rather the idea of an emotion that’s forced on people to start with, but that quickly ropes them in as enthusiastic participants.
Now I rather thought of the Valletta demonstration as a kind of tinpot two minutes love. No one who is anything in politics and public life had any choice but to join in and love the police. There was an evident scramble to be at the front, in the most loving place possible and chest-to-broad chest beside Sandro Camilleri.
There’s more. Those of us who find a two minutes love disturbing will be inclined to think that if one loves at all, one ought to do so freely. And, if we are free to love, it follows that we should also be free to do the opposite – in other words, to hate.
Which means it was a bit of fix really. On the one hand, the great and the good had no choice but to love. On the other, common citizens who went on Facebook to do the opposite found themselves in prison.
Exactly Nineteen eighty-four it might not be. (I probably won’t find myself in Room 101 for writing this.) Then again, Orwell’s was a cautionary tale, not a sociological description. In this case, it cautions us that a public frenzy of love and respect that also bans hate and disrespect, is distinctly totalitarian.
mafalzon@hotmail.com