Malta: Living on the Edge of Europe
Thoughts and happenings from a life on Malta
Don’t knock on our door but we’ll knock on yours
I’ve just watched the Prime Minister give a press conference in connection with the UN resolution authorizing the use of force to protect Libyan citizens from Dictator Gaddafi.
In brief, we’re telling one and all that no, we are not going to actively help a down-trodden and long-suffering people even though we acknowledge that they are right in their request for assistance.
On the other hand, in reply to a question proffered by one of the journalists, our PM made it clear that should Malta come under attack, then Europe is obliged to spring to our defence.
As a salve, he explained that we will offer humanitarian assistance but this has little placatory effect. Helping to stop the bloodshed is the most humanitarian act and we are refusing to do this. So does he mean that we are ready to host hundreds of refugees should the situation arise? I doubt it because we have been making it amply clear that we have no “spare room” in our house for them.
I cannot understand how we can spectate with a clear conscience while Libya burns.
I cannot understand how, when Dictator Gaddafi and his cohorts have been eliminated from the political equation, we will have the gall to go knocking on Libya’s door hoping for a “business as usual” welcome.
I cannot understand how our Parliament refuses to take the symbolic step of stripping Dictator Gaddafi of the honours we bestowed upon him.
httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4HF8egkCZU4
Sandwich run
Trail Ramla tal-Mixquqa 13-03-2011
Three of us on the trail. Conrad and I in a luminous yellow rain jacket while Greta was in porky pink. At one point when she was running between us, I couldn’t help thinking how sandwich-like we must have appeared to the odd soul we came across during the 90′ run – Conrad and I were the buttered slices of bread and Greta the juicy ham.
Enjoyable as this jaunt was, there was nothing picnicky about it though, as the elevation/grade chart below shows!
Trail Ramla tal-Mixquqa 13-03-2011, Elevation/Grade/Distance
Birthing
Birthing – a word I don’t remember ever having used until recently, when I was writing a piece entitled “The day“. It’s also a word that I’ve hardly ever come across, so much so that I have no memory of when that was.
Until the morning after having published the article. I’m sitting on the throne, engrossed in the latest edition of Total Film while evacuating my bowels (evidence that a man can multi-task too!) I’m reading a feature discussing the utility or otherwise of movie commentaries that accompany DVD and Blu-Ray releases when, there it appears, in all its glory – “…films represent years of careful birthing…”
Am I to make something out of it? Is this pure coincidence or some evidence of predictive capabilities? Could it be a case of heightened awareness because, happy with my use of an under-utilised word, I am more inclined to notice it?
The day
Waking up at 0500hrs has its advantages. Well, it has at least one advantage. At that time, the night becomes the midwife to the birthing day and it appears that a life can be lived in the many forthcoming hours. If these 24 hours were the 42 kilometres of a marathon course, I’d still be too close to the start to even catch a glimpse of the finish line.
1900hrs and, in running terminology, I hit the wall. Instead of heavy legs, its the eyelids that feel the weight of the day’s exertions. They have developed a symbiotic relationship with the earth’s gravitational forces, pulling downwards with a determination that depresses me sometimes. I mean, the shops are just closing, there are employees returning to their homes, restaurants and clubs have yet to open their doors. Meanwhile here I sit on the sofa, trying to exercise the mind with a book or newspaper, but aware that I’m losing the struggle.
That’s it. Whether I like it or not, the line has been crossed. 2100hrs and if even a movie like Black Death cannot keep me from nodding off, then I won’t delay my journey to the land of Nod any further. I snuggle under the quilt and snuff out my social life.
Eleanor Roosevelt:
"Do what you can, with what you've got, where you are."
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