It’s not just George Soros who thinks that the ECB might have chosen an inappropriate time for hiking its interest rates. For a very egoistic reason, I was pretty miffed too. A hike in interest rates and a parallel sucker punch delivered to the cost of living in Luxembourg struck right at the moment when I had just moved house and ‘inaugurated’ a new mortgage. That’s some bad Karma all right. The ugly monster of inflation threatens to wreak further havoc on our lives in the short term but hey… it’s the economy, stupid.
While my ‘problems’ might be limited to a shift in figures behind a decimal point, there are others whose problems are related to the “Cost of Staying Alive” (COSA). “The what?” I hear you ask. The COSA is a raw and dangerous version of the cost of living where the line between scraping a living and sinking to the bottom of an ocean is measured in the units of faith, hope and desperation. While we rely on the number crunchers in Frankfurt to make things right, those who measure their daily travails on the COSA index will depend on a multitude of decision makers and opinion shapers that range from the highest politician to the lowest common voter.
Blame
One of the side effects of the Jasmine Revolution in North Africa has been a worrying reopening of the borders that had been so effectively ‘sealed’ in the past by the partners in crime of our political establishment. With the likes of Gaddafi concentrating on more pressing issues than the policing of their countries’ borders (the Cost of Blackmailing Index), it was inevitable that the Mediterranean would refill with the Boats of Hope that ferry the COSA people over to the lands of the free. In the end, the Mare Nostrum is less and less a sea of convergence and more and more a Stygian theatre where many souls are drawing their final check before leaving this world.
In Greek mythology, Styx was the underground river that had to be crossed to reach the underworld in the afterlife. ‘Styx’ meant hate and detestation and the Mediterranean theatre has increasingly featured scenes of backstabbing detestation and an unbrotherly inability to cooperate successfully in the face of troubles. This week we watched the drama unfold of a Malta – Italy blame game during which time the souls of many men, women and children were lost. A little further up north, Sarkozy’s France (the one that acted swiftly to save lives in Benghazi) was protesting vividly with Italy for its practice of issuing Schengen permits to the Tunisians who had fled their country’s ills.
By the time Sarkozy and Berlusconi had patched up their differences, it was on condition that EU aid to Tunisia would be conditional on the patrolling of its borders. Same old, same old. Then on Thursday we also had a historic first when the island of Lampedusa pulled off the best Malta Bus Driver impression and yelled “Full Up” on sighting a new boatload of immigrants. The brave men on patrol boat P61 had to chug back to Malta having been shown that even the centuries-old laws of the sea are now being flaunted in the name of egoistic bigotry.
There’s no place like home
The blame game is played out at the expense of values. There remains no real reference point. The basic unit of the Cost of Staying Alive Index is life itself but this value too can be diluted if one’s life starts outweighing another. Gozo Bishop Mario Grech has rightly sounded the warning signal on that count − going so far as having to warn that: “Had some birds been killed, much would, rightly, have been said, while, in this case so many people had died, and many people stayed silent”. It was a biblical moment − testified in the New Testament. I looked it up… Matthew 6:26: “Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?”
Well even Jesus said so. Lately, both the big J and our heavenly Father are being unnecessarily inconvenienced on other matters. All the matters display our society’s continuous struggle to update its identity and feel comfortable with itself. Our politicians are engaged in another blame game on the divorce front − now it’s about lost votes. I’m still waiting for Joseph Muscat to shed some tears about the fact that the expat community still has to be shuttled to Malta instead of exercising its vote in an embassy or by post − what do the 2,800 have that we don’t?
While the politicians blame each other for the business of the dating of a writ and play up dubious constitutional disquisitions, the lost souls in this case are the ever increasing numbers of those who feel unrepresented by this farce. Then there was the AG’s appeal in the Realtà proceedings − I’ve stated elsewhere that the appeal itself will give us a necessary clarification on the state of the law on obscenity and pornography. Why the AG had to inconvenience any deities on this issue is rather baffling though.
Slovenly
Our national identity is in a period of great flux. How ingrained are the Catholic values of neighbourly love in our lives? When we look in the mirror do we really understand the image that we see? Which snapshot of our community is really us? Is it the police who defy the rules of logic and prohibit the sale of alcohol in a concert on some disproportionate pretext? Is it the hunters who plan to defy the Spring Hunting rules? Is it the spewers of hate on online billboards?
Is it the churchgoer who cannot digest the fact that the last words of a Nigerian soul on a sinking Boat of Hope were “Please Jesus Save Me”? Is it a politician who abuses the word “conscience” one time too many? Is it the political party that devotes more time to deception than to creative proposition?
What image represents the Maltese psyche? Can we sit down and write an essay portraying what goes on in an average Maltese man’s mind? Will we be comfortable with it? And in the end… will we end up in court defending the essay from the accusation of its being obscene and pornographic?
I’d ask God to help us but I’d like to think that Sunday is still his day of rest.
www.akkuza.com – expensive thoughts for a Sunday afternoon.
