My mother was far from a university graduate and definitely never aspired to be seen as intellectual. Yet she had a philosophy of life I always loved and admired. When she was my age now, I obviously thought she was ancient but one thing happened which struck me then and has remained with me.
Two of my brothers had left for England and South Africa after my eldest brother had already emigrated to faraway Australia. At the time, departing in search of your fortune abroad was quite commonplace; as was the accepted fact that distance was insurmountable.
It was practically unheard of to travel to Australia or South Africa just for a holiday or to visit sons, daughters or any other relatives. The very rich and those with time on their hands could do it; and my parents definitely did not have too much leisure time or money.
Communication was another huge problem: speaking to my brother in Australia on the phone cost a fortune for us to just blurt out half a dozen words.
It was a tough time for my mother but she took it all stoically. Then someone – time has erased the face and name but not the tone and words – accused her of not caring and feeling.
They sounded, and in my memory vault they echo eternally, like a vile few words; a few words that must have stung my mother. She was a woman of few words and normally she would never retaliate. But that day she told this sad specimen that not crying and making a scene, maybe even allowing herself a smile, did not mean she was happy, unmoved and untouched.
The words stuck in my head. It was a lesson in life and coping with hardship; there were worse hardships to live with than what my mother suffered but whatever it is, and however bad something is, my mother showed that accepting our lot and moving on is far from wrong. It also made me realise that, often, when we are quick to pass judgement we have no idea what the person we are analysing truly feels.
If we stop and laugh that does not mean we condone the crooks or their nefarious ways
Many years later, I was at a party. As was customary then, the music was iffy, the food nondescript, the wine terrible. Yet we managed to have a ball. I even sported hair which I let down.
Those were the worst years under Dom Mintoff, and someone at this same party came up to me and, in a morose, funereal tone, admonished me. She berated me for celebrating when life was so bad; when we were on the verge of, if not in, a virtual dictatorship. Back then we talked incessantly about politics, about useless dreams and visions of liberty. For once we were not discussing our situation and she thought it was incongruous that we were having fun.
A few days ago I was out – not at a party and lacking my youthful head of hair – and we were laughing and enjoying ourselves. Next to us was someone connected to the Labour Party regime – yes, they seem more and more of a regime – and people were congregating around him. Sycophants enjoying the spotlight, gnats attracted to the light, their only light.
We, the few who were apart, continued our banter, our discussions about life and beyond. We partied on. At a certain point someone asked if I had got over the pain, the suffering. I was baffled, trying to remember what joint creaked or which muscle or bone was the problem. But then it dawned on me that I was, yet again, being admonished for having fun while Malta burns.
The situation in Malta is desperate but no amount of crying will improve it, just as no amount of laughing will make it worse.
If we cannot laugh, if we cannot have a good time, if we cannot go out, drink, make merry and eat, then truly the situation would be beyond redemption.
As my mother staunchly believed, you do not need to cry to feel the pain of suffering. We will keep harping that the crooks are there, living off the fat of our land. If we stop and laugh that does not mean we condone the crooks or their nefarious ways.
If they take away our laughter, what will go next? The air we breathe perhaps?
It’s bad enough that they – the crooks, the desperate crooks – assassinated and stifled the breath of one of our own, a woman who fought alone to uncover the truth and also found time to make us smile and laugh. We cannot let them rob us of everything we have.