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Signs from the after-life

Guilt will never stop tormenting those with blood on their hands

When Daphne Caruana Galizia was still alive and giving us a near-daily commentary on the ills, scandals and horror stories of this blighted land, she wrote one blog-post which is still referred to by many of her various enemies as justification for her assassination. Or, if not a blatant justification of the horrific act, a calculation that by her lowering the bar and criticising, and being vile about, the dead, she was asking for it.

One of the men most detested, and written about, by Daphne was Dom Mintoff, whom she considered an ogre, as most of us did. Even staunch Labour supporters - those who thought of him as a demi-god - in a normal world would have changed their opinion of him when he did the unpardonable act of sinking his own Labour party when they were in government.

But we are, and have always been, reluctant to denigrate anyone publicly after their death. Not Daphne! When Mintoff died - of natural causes and not as a result of any unnatural bombing - she wrote that she was happy enough to enjoy a jig and a dance on his grave.

One thing about her will always shine bright. She had an amazing turn of phrase, an amazingly accurate way of depicting our society and the gift of being perennially wicked in the most wonderful of ways.

She had a touch of the light-hearted that was, at least to me and a few other readers, unparallelled by anyone in Malta.

As a result of her assassination - whether premeditated by anyone connected to government or not - her many enemies from all the political divides thought they were well rid of her. They believed she is permanently gone, never to come back and chide us all, or to point her finger at all our ills and ill-begotten gains.

Could it be that Daphne, even from beyond the grave, is sending an electrified message to Joseph Muscat and his band of crooks?

But as the blood on Lady Macbeth’s hand kept coming back to haunt her, guilt will never stop tormenting the ones who have metaphorical or literal blood on their hands.

No amount of washing over of memorials to Daphne will clear the conscience of the ones who should have defended her and made sure she would remain alive. No amount of justification can ever make sense of a woman being blown up near her house; or ever excuse the fact that a woman who was a writer and a free spirit was not allowed to live as all mortals should, even the harshest critics.

Daphne’s spirit seems to criticise the authorities in the strangest of ways. A few days ago a wire hanging on the barricades erected by the Minister of Culture - can irony be more in your face? - around Daphne’s memorial on the Great Siege monument, seemed to be a middle-finger salute to Owen and friends.

Could it be that Daphne, even from beyond the grave, is sending an electrified message to Joseph Muscat and his band of crooks? ‘

Daphne seems to be mocking them all and saying : “Yes, you allowed me to be butchered and I do not write every day to keep you in check. But nothing you do will erase my memory, the fact that I outwitted you and uncovered your shady deals. And you will never live happily ever after.”

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