Category: Retro J’accuse

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Retro J'accuse

La Liberta’

Vorrei essere libero, libero come un uomo.
Vorrei essere libero come un uomo.

Come un uomo appena nato
Che ha di fronte solamente la natura
E cammina dentro un bosco
Con la gioia di inseguire un’avventura.
Sempre libero e vitale
Fa l’amore come fosse un animale
Incosciente come un uomo
Compiaciuto della propria libertà.

La libertà non è star sopra un albero
Non è neanche il volo di un moscone
La libertà non è uno spazio libero
Libertà è partecipazione.

Vorrei essere libero, libero come un uomo.
Come un uomo che ha bisogno
Di spaziare con la propria fantasia
E che trova questo spazio
Solamente nella sua democrazia.
Che ha il diritto di votare
E che passa la sua vita a delegare
E nel farsi comandare
Ha trovato la sua nuova libertà.

La libertà non è star sopra un albero
Non è neanche avere un’opinione
La libertà non è uno spazio libero
Libertà è partecipazione.

La libertà non è star sopra un albero
Non è neanche il volo di un moscone
La libertà non è uno spazio libero
Libertà è partecipazione.

Vorrei essere libero, libero come un uomo.
Come l’uomo più evoluto
Che si innalza con la propria intelligenza
E che sfida la natura
Con la forza incontrastata della scienza
Con addosso l’entusiasmo
Di spaziare senza limiti nel cosmo
E convinto che la forza del pensiero
Sia la sola libertà.

La libertà non è star sopra un albero
Non è neanche un gesto o un’invenzione
La libertà non è uno spazio libero
Libertà è partecipazione.

La libertà non è star sopra un albero
Non è neanche il volo di un moscone
La libertà non è uno spazio libero
Libertà è partecipazione.

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Blogspot Retro J'accuse

9 years – online in 2014

nine_akkuzaMarch 2005. There was a lot of pope about the internet then. Mugabe’s presence at some ceremony got pride of place in the blog commentary though there was no mispronunciation of the word “caso” to set the social media alight. Did I say social media? In March 2005 youtube.com was barely a month old and Facebook was probably just a hint of an idea in some Harvard college.

Then was the time of insanabile cacoethes scribendi – the incredible urge to write. We blogged because we liked to blog and more than that we blogged because we could. Blogging as a mainstream thing had just begun its second decade of existence and was still in the process of causing some tremors in the online landscape. The MSM (mainstream media) reacted to blogs, almost indignantly pooh-poohing the independent army of keyboard freaks who had opened a huge crack in the world of “controlled media”.

Nine years ago blogs might have been an interesting way to get an immediate, independent take on the information going around the web. The thing is that most of that information was still in the domain of the old sources of information. Newspapers, TV and news groups had by then shifted to the net and there slant was not being complemented by the army of bloggers. Blogging was the thing to do… up until the blogger was awarded the Time Personality of The Year. A prize we will long cherish.

Then came social media – particularly facebook and twitter. Information – the sources of information – was multiplied to the nth degree and the power to comment upon anything was also disseminated exponentially. A biting blog post, a review, an insight – that became too slow. The age of clicktivism and clickteraction meant that blogs would be superseded by the outbursts of “trends” and “status updates”. The role of the blog – the real, old style blog – was changing and it was changing fast.

There was also a crucial moment with the rise and crash of Wikileaks and its founder. We learnt in one fell swoop how frugally the “truth” had been treated over all these years. Bloggers could not be so ambitious as to hope to be the guardians of independent and true scrutiny. When the veil of untruth was uncovered by Wikileaks it was already too late. Online meant a web of lies and truths confusingly intertwined. The consumer was not really in control. The netizen was living in denial.

Bloggers can still thrive. There is still a sense in blogging though it is a little different to that in 2005. As J’accuse turns nine we are aware that this medium required redefining and rebuilding. In the world of artificial intelligence and online tautologies spewed by the multitude on facebook and twitter the blog might serve the purpose of an anchor and reference point. I may be wrong. The time for this blog to wind up might have long come and gone.

This might be a blog that is in denial. There might be no place for this kind of reflection in this world of judge, jury and expert executioner by status update and commentary. Then again this might just be the very reason to kick off a new season with a new ambition and purpose.

This is the truth, if I lie.

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Retro J'accuse

Niftakar filgħodu

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Niftakar li l-arloġġ kien idoqq mas-sitta nieqes għaxra. Ma kontx inbagħti biex noħroġ minn soddti daqs kemm inbagħti llum. Missieri kien iħalli ir-radju mixgħul fuq l-istazzjon nazzjonali sa’ minn kmieni. Missieri kien jiddejjaq li nirreferi għalih bħala “missieri”… mhux kwistjoni ta’ paternita’ miċħuda imma kien jippreferi sempliċement li insejjaħlu “il-pa”.

Tar-radju filgħodu ma kenitx drawwa biss tagħna. Niftakar fil-btala inqum għand in-nannu ir-Rabat jew Marsalforn u kien ikun idur mad-dar liebes piġamtu bit-transistor f’idejħ iwassal il-mewġ il-kbar tal-informazzjoni minn fuq il-BBC (AM mhux FM). Id-dinja daħlet id-dar kmieni fost textix isaħħar u jfakkar li kollox kien qed jiġri il-bogħod.

Ir-radju ta’ missieri (aħfirli pa) kien ikun fuq Radju Malta. Kienu jitfgħu serduq jiddi hekk għas-sitta sabiex wieħed jiftakar li din hija għodwa oħra u ta’ min toħroġ mis-sodda. Niftakar ninħasel malajr malajr – doċċa u nixfa f’tebqa t’għajn – u imbagħad dritt għal ġo l-uniformi waqt li jinqraw ir-riżultati tal-ballun bl-ismijiet ta’ bliet fantażjużi jsiru iktar tal-ħolm malli jiżolqu bi tbatija minn ħalq il-qarrej malti. L-uniformi tkun lesta bil-qmis mgħoddija, il-qalziet bit-tinja dritta u żraben ibblakkati. Ftit ħin taqbad dik l-għuda ta’ kuljum fuq darek, titfa’ fih il-lunch imlesti mill-ma u bewsa u tlaqna.

Niftakar Paceville filgħodu dejjem bata biex tnikker mir-raqda. Fost sturdament ġenerali konna niltaqgħu l-erba’ monelli li aħna fuq waqfet ix-xarabank ta’ quddiem il-Wembley. Niftakar nogħxa u nistħi nara in-nisa tas-sixth form u ħalqi jissarram malli jippruvaw ikellmuni dwar xi ħaġa.

Insejt isem ix-xufier (mingħalija Karlu) li kien iħallina indoqqu cassette tal-aħħar siltiet mużikali (x’iktarx biex noqgħodu kwieti) miġjub minn xi tifel avant-garde li missieru ma jixtrix biss mużika ta’ Clayderman u Rondo Veneziano. Niftakar li meta għal xi raġuni ma kienx jiġi konna indumu seklu biex naslu l-iskola b’tal-linja iżda kienet avventura liema bħala.

Niftakar, filgħodu, li siegħa kienet iddum eternita.

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Retro J'accuse

Orżata

L-aħħar li kont fil-gżira erġajt skoprejt il-pjaċir tal-orżata. Proprjament skoprejt il-pjaċir tal-granita tal-orżata. Ħsiebi mar lura għal żmien ieħor, għal Marsalforn ieħor. Kien iż-żmien li issa huwa ikkundanat għal nostalġija propagandistika iżda xorta jibqa żmien sabiħ. Qabel ma waslet l-invażjoni tal-ġelati ta’ barra, qabel ma kellna il-Magnum, il-Cornetto u il-Cucciolone l-għażla kienet pjuttost lokali.

Kont tixtri ġelat tal-Lyons Maid – u għadni konvint sa llum li ċ-cikkulata tagħhom kien l-itjeb. Jew tagħżel minn għażla kulurita tal-ġelati tal-Wembley – fosthom il-mitiku Screwball… ġelat kremuż tal-vanilla b’xi ġulepp imħallat miegħu u fil-qiegħ issib il-bubble gum. Pjaċir immens. 8 ċenteżmi kollox. U oqgħod attent bl-imgħarfa tal-imjam għax taf tibla’ xi skalda. Kien hemm oħrajn tajbin, minbarra ovvjament il-famużissimu u irrimpjazzabbli ġelat tal-magna Carpigiani – li illum issib wieħed tajjeb mingħand tal-Granola fil-Menqa ta’ Marsalforn (fejn spjegawli ukoll li ma jġibux ġelati tal-islice “Għax jinbiegħ malajr wisq”). Kien hemm – għal min jiftakar r-Rabat fis-sajf – il-ġelat sublimi ta’ Lola ta’ wara’ San Ġorġ. Festival ta’ kremożita’ u togħma qisha manna mill-ġenna.

Iżda fuq kollox kien hemm il-granita. Granita tal-Wembley. Stajt, jekk kont amateur, tieħu dik tal-frawli jew tal-lumi. Imma jekk vera trid tgħid li tħobb il-granita m’hemm xejn isbaħ minn dik tal-lewż – l-orżata iffrizata. Kullħadd bit-teknika tiegħu. Min jaqleb il-bott ta’ taħt fuq u erħilu jigdem, u min iħaffer bl-imgħarfa. Kull min igawdi mill-pjaċir bnin tal-granita mitluf fi ħsibijiet sublimi.

Das-sajf ħadt erba’ jew ħamsa… kważi kollha mingħand taċ-Ċirasa il-Qbajjar (illum Qbajjar Restaurant – irrikorru għal ħut impekkabbli). Saru jagħmluh b’lewn ħadrani minflok abjad imma tajjeb għadu. Ġejt lura Lussemburgu u mort dritt sas-supermarket (Match) u fittixt l-essenza tal-lewż. Sibtu, bil-Franċiż jissejjaħ orgeat. Ħallatt buqar minnu u tfajt erba tazzi fil-friġġ. Ilbieraħ kilt l-ewwel wieħed.

Tagħlaq għajnejk u tilmaħ il-Qolla s-Safra mill-bogħod. Issa jonqos biss li insib mod inġib il-baħar hawn ukoll.

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Retro J'accuse

Immigrants & Refugees (Utopia)

Anniversaries are also a time to look back at what we have done. I’ve decided to pull a series of posts from J’accuse’s past into a new rubrique called “Retro J’accuse”. This first one remains a topical issue. It deals with the way we treat immigrants in our country and was prompted by a Sunday Times of Malta editorial that, how can I put it, was not exactly brilliant. From March 27 2006 – here’s Immigrants & Refugees:

Imagine a day not very far from this one. Imagine that you have packed your suitcase with the absolutely necessary and that you are in line to get onto a plane out of the country. The country that is now called Ave Melita (yes they would probably name it something that stupid) is no longer your home. The government’s latest policy is called “Min ma joghgbux jitlaq” and you have taken one of the last places available in this scheme and you are heading to a new life into another country that you will have to call home – away from the sun, sea and Xarabank that you loved so much.

You could not stay. Your conscience did not allow you to stay silent infront of measures like “Malta tal-Maltin (suwed barra)” and the latest one called “Dissoluzzjoni tal-Ordni tal-Gizwiti”. You collected your papers from the Centru Nazzjonali tal-Purifikazzjoni, the former Jesuit College in Birkirkara, and sped with haste to the airport with tears in your eyes. Your stomach still has to be emptied on a regular basis as you adjust to the new reality and you see the same empty, desperate look in the fellow passengers of this forced abortion of nationals. You still cannot bring yourself to explain what has happened in your country and why you have to leave it so fast. But you have no time to do so. You have to begin to adjust to the new country.

The new country is not like those Mediterranean pits that were reserved for the boat people. Like them, it knew you were coming. Unlike them it did not reserve a hastily built slum for you to call as home. You live in a former army barrack but your tiny room has running water, electricity and there is even a communications and technology room for all immigrants to keep contact with the world. Morale is low – no one wanted to be here. The authorities try to be accomodating and to relieve the greatest troubles. They create a scheme for economic support. Different jobs in the local market are made available. Unlike the Mediterranean nightmares that you used to read about you are to be allowed to scrape away a little earning in order to be self-sufficient and be able to hope for brighter days.

When you venture out into the street , the locals are understanding. Although your complexion is very much like those of the terrorists who bombed and targeted their nation with violent attacks at train stations and on buses, very few make the quick and illogical assumption that you could be of the same ilk. You are offered lifts to work. You join the local carpool and although you are not working as the University Professor that you were in Malta, your life as a shoe salesman in this little town allows you to live with dignity even though your career and dreams have been put on hold.

Then one day a local radical paper falls into your hands. Your eyes cannot believe what they see. They seem to have caught up with you. Those bungling buffoons who were in power in Malta seem to have found a foothold even in this welcoming state, here is what they say:

“Surely, there are ways of keeping them busy and alleviating their boredom. For example, they should help, in their own interest, to keep toilets clean. Also, could not some scheme of putting them to work on public cleaning projects, under strict supervision, and for a small allowance, improve things? There are many jobs they could be given – God knows the island needs a massive sprucing up! The scheme could start with a few small groups, and eventually expanded. Naturally it must be ensured that at the end of their day’s work, they return to “base”.” source

 

In this new country you had been allowed to find a job through an Immigrant Job Assistance scheme. In Malta they wanted to turn immigrants into Chain Gangs. Desperate beings who had reached the lowest of the turningpoints in their life, who had abandoned their family and the little social sustenance they had in the hope of a new life would be used to spruce up the island under strict supervision.

You discard the paper and turn on the TV in your room – the one you just bought with the money put aside from your first two months’ salary.

They will be everywhere. The intolerant, the coocooned as well as the well-meaning bumblers. You remember that massacres in India and Africa under the colonial regime were prompted by well-meaning actions of the Evangelical communities who intended to civilise the misbelieving miscreants. And you begin to notice how some things never change. How difficult it is to achieve genuine tolerance based on brotherly love and not the tolerance that relies on looking down a snobbish nose into the eyes of the tolerated, and humiliated human being?

This just cannot be real.


****

Note: The extract in quotes is taken from the editorial of the Sunday Times of Malta – 26th March 2006. It refers to the illegal immigrants and refugees who were bundled into housing under atrocious conditions and is a partial reaction to the new uproar created by a visit of European Parliament inspectors who were among the first outsiders to be allowed by the democratic Republic of Malta to inspect the conditions. The visit had prompted escapes from detention by immigrants eager to show their plight to the visiting MEPS (and who cares how they got to know about the visit? Why should they not know about it?). Following the escapes, police in Floriana were seen stopping anyone who is black while passers by called for a all immigrants to be rounded up and burnt in a square.

It is possible that the above summary is as biased as it could get. But even the possibility that it is one tenth of the truth makes me feel ashamed that I am Maltese.