Page Status: Pending

Għana has been used  to draw attention to issues varying from petty squabbles to religious-political situation which had evolved  at various times in Malta.

It has really never been the subject of serious discussion and analysis at an academic level. It is therefore refreshing to see this publication by Manuel Casha which invites us to have a new and unprejudiced  look  at what Għana really stands for. He himself states that he started to write this book ‘with the intention of understanding the techniques, ethics, traditions and customs  of this music and the community that engages in it, as an outsider looking in’, and he invites us to do likewise. It is not often that a book dedicated to Maltese folk singing (Għana) comes to hand, and for this we have to thank Manuel Casha who has strived hard for decades to ensure that this unique form of self-expression is not lost forever. As he says in his introduction, ‘the soul and psyche of a nation are often embodied in its folkloric past’.

This type of folk singing was limited to a certain aficionados, and was frowned upon by the educated elite. It is not surprising therefore that it was foreigners who published what is arguably the best collection of Maltese folksong (by Bertha Ilg and Hans Stumme in Germany) over a century ago.

It has been stated that singing preceeded speech in the development of human interaction. It is certainly likely that Għana was the first attempts at Maltese literature and versification. In this book Casha explains the background of this art form, and how it has filled a niche within the life-style of those who, while not usually over-educated, can yet express themselves so eloquently in song.

One good definition of Għana could well be: Working class men enjoying themselves in song. This emphasises the origin of the singing, highlighting the fact that it was originally invented by unschooled and illiterate but highly intelligent men who needed a poetic outlet to express their feelings and to entertain their friends. There is nothing  unique  about this development. All people around the world have the same needs to develop their own style of expressing them. The  author compares Maltese Għana as a musical form similar to Blues music in America, Flamenco in Spain, Rebitika in Greece or Fado in Portugal, all of which form part of a global musical heritage. He goes so far as to predict that ‘once Għana music is discovered universally, outside of the Maltese archipelago, it will contribute a great deal in telling the story of the contemporary development of Mediterranean music, as we know it today’.

With the massive wave of migration that took place in the immediate post-war period, many folksingers left Malta to settle in places like Australia and elsewhere. They  brought with them their guitars as well as their love of Għana, which they enjoyed to display, to entertain their friends, in their homes, or even garages, to remind themselves of the Malta they had left behind and still hankered for.   By the mid 20th century, thousands of Maltese emigrated to other countries in search of a better life, carrying with them their musical heritage in the countries of their settlement.

It is interesting to note how Għana in Australia might have diverged from that in Malta.  Over the past half-century, Malta has had a very close contact with the outside world, and this has had a dramatic effect on the language spoken in towns and villages alike. On the other hand in Australia, Maltese language has been put in deep freeze, and has retained the characteristics and dialects that were standard in Malta more than half a century ago. It is refreshing to hear young children using their limited Maltese vocabulary expressed in unmistakable dialect derived from the village or town where their parents came from, and where such dialects have all but disappeared.

In a chapter on migration Casha remarks: ‘They now sung about their homeland, family, and friends they left behind. They sang about their battle with homesickness. They sang about the prejudices they encountered in the new countries where they were merely outsiders seeking acceptance. Some sang about the inequality and harsh working conditions. Some about the freezing climate to which they were not accustomed, having come from the Mediterranean, or conversely the oppressing heat they toiled in. Many sang about the loneliness of living in rural areas, in isolation on their farms or working as farm hands. Others, who were employed in sugarcane plantations, engaged in backbreaking work and suffocating heat and sang  about their difficult plight.  One must remember that many Maltese had to face the culture shock of leaving a generally urbanised environment in Malta, to surviving in a vast land where in some cases your next-door neighbour lived miles away.’

Other songs deal with the tragedies of war which some singers experienced personally. Perhaps the most poignant is one about a tragedy which occurred in an air-raid shelter in Malta. The author cannot erase from his mind the faces of the dead children which he helped to pull out from under the rubble  and  he transformed his grief into a heart-rending song.

Casha states that, as a musician, he entered the Għana field ‘to understand, discover and try and preserve and cultivate a very special part of Maltese culture in Melbourne.’

The question of course arises: will the second and subsequent generation be interested in this type of music? Casha is optimistic about this. He remarks:  ‘It might not be commonly known that 95% of ‘għannejja’, past and present, living in Melbourne started their careers after they emigrated….It is just as remarkable to discover that most lead guitarists (primi) in Melbourne were actually born and bred in Melbourne suburbs and some have never seen Malta.’

So the future of playing Maltese folksongs seems to be assured. The same, however, cannot be said about the art of actually creating the songs themselves, which depends, among other things. on a deep grasp of the Maltese language together with the necessity of being able to provide impromptu rhyming. Casha states: ‘it is a fact that while Australia produced some wonderful players, no indigenous għannej has been produced… so far’ . Even so, the interest shown by these young players has helped to maintain a level of command of the language. Casha says: ‘while young players ‘cannot sing  and rhyme, [they] can speak the language a lot more fluently since taking up the Maltese guitar’.

In this book we find a comprehensive section on writers of and Għana singers in Australia.  They came in large numbers in the post-war period, particularly in the 1950s and 60s. While their experience of life in Malta still informs a lot of the topics treated in their songs, with time, the local element starts to find its way into the song. He writes:  ‘Many writers in Australia ‘kept writing on traditional lines and on topics, which related more to the Maltese environment even though they had lived in Australia for a number of years…. [ and particularly] to a Malta they remembered from childhood.

It is curious to note that the vast majority of folk-singers are men. This is not surprising in view of the origin of Għana, which occurred mostly in bars to which few women were welcome.  The aggressive nature of the interaction between different folk-singers was also more suitable to the male rather than the female character.  However, several women did take part in folk singing, inventing their own particular brand, known as Għana tal-banju, (or ‘washer-women folksongs’).  Their songs were usually much less aggressive, they did not indulge in contests to prove who is the better singer. Interesting also, Casha comments, that women sing in a different key to men, female singers sing in  higher register. Men prefer the more aggressive key of G  which ‘creates the anticipation of the contest or battle’  whereas women prefer the key of C which ‘creates a happier anticipation.’

Casha  has analysed the structure of these Għana in great detail. He goes over the various types of Għana, explaining the structure of this art form, for those of us who have never really bothered to enquire into the intricacies and genius behind the ability of extemporising rhyming verse in an impromptu fashion. He analyses the varieties of this genre which has been adapted  to suit a variety of situations from the humorous to the tragic,  from the political repartee to engagement in downright insult. The author lists a whole glossary of terms used by għannejja  which are unique to this genre, and which are most likely to be lost but for this collection.

He also delves into the intricacies of tuning the guitar in different keys to achieve a more poignant harmony, a technique which is unheard of in any other kind of musical ensemble.  He also  gives us an introduction to the mysteries, secrets and techniques used by the various participants to achieve their unique effects.

He also provides profuse examples of Għana to illustrate various points of technique, style and content. He has also ensured that the text of several of these Għana is given in translation so that non-Maltese readers can at least get an idea of the meaning of the verse, even though a lot of their significance is unavoidably lost in translation.

Even in absence of anything else, this book would have been of value as a photo-album of Għana singers over the years. The book contains a unique collection of photographs,  an album of the protagonists who have practiced this art form over the years, both in Malta and in Australia. The book is a useful publication just for the photographic collection alone, containing a mass of information about the more prominent singers in Malta and Australia.

 One can also appreciate the importance of the nickname in individualising the performers: all the għannejja  referred to in this text are given a nickname through which they are immediately recognised.  Time was when a family nickname served the useful purpose of identifying a whole clan within a village or town, something that no surname can do. Nicknames are unique identifiers invented specifically for each  għannej  , and which disappear with his passing away.

Maltese folk singing has a particular value apart from entertainment:

• Casha insists that ‘In Australia [this genre] remains an effective instrument in documenting the heritage of a group of people who migrated between the late 1940s to the mid-1970s when thousands of Maltese left their homeland to make a new life in Australia. …. One day this Għana  source will help tell the story of this sector of Maltese migrants whose stories are still not well documented.’
• On aspect which the author emphasizes is the role of Għana  in preserving the purity of the Maltese language. He writes: ‘the Maltese language has been served well by the għannejja  in keeping its purity of form and expression.  One of the sacrosanct rules in Ghana singing is that no foreign words and expressions are acceptable.’ Moreover, he says,  it has helped to keep alive proverbs and sayings that would otherwise have long since disappeared. Casha writes:  ‘Old Maltese proverbs, idioms and old sayings, are very much the tool of a clever għannej’ ,
• It encourages young people to maintain an interest in music and Maltese culture,
• It helps them to improve their language skills,
• It helps to create cohesion among groups of young persons playing together,
• It maintains and encourages an abiding interest in performing music.

Mr Casha has been very active in ensuring that Għana continues to flourish in Australia.  He describes his own role in ensuring the preservation of this type of music. His involvement in broadcasting in Australia during which he has promoted Għana to the best of his ability, is indeed a part of the history of Maltese settlement in this continent.

There was a real risk that with the passage of time, and as these pioneers grew older and passed away, the future generation might not have the capacity or the will to continue this tradition.  It is particularly here that Mr Casha has made his most important contribution to this art-form. He has travelled up and down the country, carrying his recording equipment, saving on tape all the most important practitioners of the guitar. He has succeeded in ensuring that several members of the younger generation have taken up the instrument and now can take the place of their elders.  Some have become quite accomplished playing the guitar. Unfortunately, while their music is advanced, their grasp of the Maltese language will never allow them to express themselves in song, particularly not that brand of unique extemporising typical of the clever għannej.

Manuel Casha has done a sterling job in collecting a vast library of Ghana which is now preserved on CDs and other electronic media, and is made available for all to appreciate, even when the protagonists have long gone. He is encouraged by the interest shown by young members of the community who not only learned the technique of guitar playing, but also were keen enough to engage in the theoretical and academic aspect of this art form. Casha remarks: ‘ I am encouraged, of late, by the number of students who choose Għana and Prejjem for their thesis for their degrees of PhDs. This has shown that  a new generation Maltese see this music genre as their heritage and not something to sweep under the carpet.’

Casha himself is largely responsible for this resurgence. Through his interest, involvement in recording and documenting these songs he has been a prime mover in the resurgence of Għana in Australia. He has made sure, through his published CDs, and by ensuring that all this heritage is now archived in The National Library of Australia that future generations would be in a position to share and possibly enlarge on this heritage.

Charles B. Spiteri

B’MIRA PERFETTA

Annie, li twieldet fl-1860 u għexet 66 sena kienet tiratura mill-aqwa u ħadet sehem fil-Wirja ta’ Buffalo Bill’s Wild West, meta kellha biss 17-il sena.

Kienet popolari fl-Istati Uniti u fl-Ewropa għall-mira li kellha u kienet esperta fl-isparar tal-pistoli, rifles u xkubetti. Darba, b’rifle .22, laqtet 4,772 boċċa tal-ħġieġ minn 5,000 li tefgħalha fl-arju, f’jum wieħed.

F’għoli ta’ 90 pied (27 metru), kellha l-ħila tolqot karta tal-logħob bix-xifer irqiq jipponta lejha, waqt li sakemm taqa’ fl-art, ittaqqabha ħames jew sitt darbiet b’tiri separati oħra. Darba, fuq stedina tiegħu stess, sparat fuq sigarett li kien f’ħalq il-Prinċep werriet tas-saltna tal-Ġermanja, aktar tard Wilhelm II.

Annie Oakley twieldet fit-13 ta’ Awwissu, f’kabina tal-injam f’Patterson Township, Ohio. Bdiet tispara meta kellha disa’ snin. Meta miet missierha, u biex tgħin lill-familja, bdiet toħroġ tikkaċċja.

Waqt żjara f’Cincinnati, kellha sfida minn Frank E. Butler, stilla tal-Vaudville. Rebħitlu hi, għalkemm ix-xorti riedet li aktar tard iżżewġitu. Tant qablu bejniethom, li hi wkoll saret stilla magħrufa.

Twila biss ħames piedi (152 ċentimetru) kienet imlaqqma Little Sure Shot. Ingħaqdet mal-Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show fl-1885 u l-musical li baqa’ magħruf, bl-isem Annie Get Your Gun hu r-rakkont ta’ ħajjitha.

The state of Baka, bordered by the equally small states of Malik and Radan, situated in the African continent, has four million inhabitants.  It has been run by a dictatorship led by the notorious General Georges Patu for the last five years. He has ruled his little country with an iron fist policy, imprisoning, torturing and killing those who oppose him. 

The people are very poor and often die due to the lack of food, treatment and medicine, but Patu, his family and his henchmen enjoy a luxury life. They have amassed a fortune in money and gold now deposited safely in various banks overseas. 

The brutality of his army has instilled fear in the hard working people of his little country. Patu does not know the meaning of justice, fairness, moderation, and good governance. Those who oppose him come to one end – death. 

He was very different when he was a child – shy and loving. He did not know his father, but his mother who was poor and lived in a shack, loved him dearly. She sheltered him from danger as he grew up in the often turbulent country.

When he was a child he had noticed the strange birthmark of a serpent on his chest and cried. Other boys did not have this mark. He felt different. His mother cuddled him to her chest and told him. “Do not cry Patu. It is a sign from God. You are the chosen one. Those who harm you and your birthmark will die a violent death!” From that day onwards, following his mother’s words, he felt strong and safe. 

Despite the Army’s terror campaign, some citizens of Baka overcame their fear and opposed the regime. They gathered together a rebel force in the mountains to fight Patu’s dictatorial regime.  And what was the world’s reaction? Nothing at all! Baku was a small, poor state with no oilfields, gold mines or other important commodities to export. Therefore the developments were of no interest to the rich and powerful countries of the world. They left her and her people alone to their fate.

On this very early morning in June, not even a solitary figure strolled along the capital of Baka’s main street. Not even a stray dog dared to show his head outside. The street was bare except for the lighted lamp-posts stationed at even distance all along, shedding their dim lights on the empty and dirty road. 

The houses on both sides were completely cut off from outside, secluding their tenants from the silence and eerie atmosphere of the streets. Shutters were pulled down, doors securely closed, voices hushed. Fear engulfed the poor people.

One could hear the soldiers every hour, marching together, performing their repeated nightly checks, their strong boots beating on the hard stones of the street, making a strange sound that echoed from afar. Except for those occasional and fearful patrols, this was a dead street of the night. 

At this very early hour of the morning the curfew was still in force. It had a long time yet until it was lifted. All the streets of this Bakanian city were heavily under curfew from dawn to dusk. Government forces had clamped down on any movement in their struggle with the rebels. 

This street had witnessed vengeful murders and patriotic resistance. It had seen death stalk in to claim many victims of political oppression. Groups of fanatical patriots had given their sacred life to the cause of freedom and deliverance. Their blood still flows fresh along the streets like some fair example of man’s endurance to injustice. The fight was on, it may take years and years to be won, but only victory can bring the struggle to an end. 

Soldiers were carefully posted at strategic points surveying the scene of silence, eagle eyes looking here and there, rifles at the ready lest one solitary figure shows his head. Everybody was to stay indoors …..That was an order!

While all this was happening outside, in one solitary house a life was hanging on the strings of life and death. A light flickered in the room, a dim yellowish candle-light reflecting the sombre state of the walls. The stately silence was being interrupted by the occasional sobbing coming from the far corner of the little room. There, resting in a wooden bed was an old woman hovering between life and death. 

Her wrinkled face sweating with anguish and great pain, eyes looking upwards staring deadly beyond the ceiling. Soon after this curfew was imposed she was taken suddenly ill and her condition grew graver and graver. She needed drugs, medicine, medical care and attention.

Beside her, holding her sweating hand was her husband. He was aged too, rugged and rough, but thoughtful of the state of affairs. He was grieved seeing his beloved wife suffering slow death and pained hearing her sobs and cries. As her loving husband, he was desperate, to a state of hysterical madness that knew no bounds to reason or laws.

His name was Milaku, a rebel leader who had led his men in several raids against Patu. His dark face, flickering in the dim lights of the dying candle, was filled with pity towards his wife.  He could not bear to witness her suffering so terribly. His mind cuddled with thoughts of her; memories of her undying qualities of a peaceful, loving woman; her strong yet tender character that feared the wrath of the Almighty but not the anger of mere mortals. 

But there she was now, a helpless creature stretched in a humble bed of wood, a dying woman with no medicine or medical attention to cure her illness. He hated this moment, he hated those armed bullies that patrol the streets at night, and he hated life itself with all its miseries and tribulations. He hated these, but he loved his wife like she was his own soul. 

Suddenly there were hard knocks on the door and commands for him to come out. Patu’s soldiers had found him and they had come for him. He could shoot them out, probably die in the process but they would then kill his wife too. If he gave himself up, she might live with the help of his good neighbours. 

Milaku got out, his hands on his head, surrendering to the heavily armed soldiers. They took him immediately to General Patu’s headquarters. Patu looked the poor rugged man straight in the eye. So this was the man who, with his band of rebels, had killed so many of his men. This was the man who wants to end his reign. This was the man he had long been looking for. 

Patu was a merciless thug, a murderer, a ruthless bully. He did not hesitate. He took out his gun and shot Milaku at point blanc range, killing him instantly. He will be no threat to him anymore.

His soldiers took Milaku’s bloody shirt off and laid his corpse in front of Patu asking his instructions what to do with his body. His first thought was to parade him around the main streets of the capital to serve as a reminder to his opponents that those who oppose him will die. 

Patu’s eyes rested on the rebel’s body. He stared at his bare chest. His face turned white, fear got hold of him, he froze. On Milaku’s chest, still red with blood, he saw the birthmark of the serpent!  Just like his own. His mother’s words rang in his ears – “Those who harm the serpent birthmark will die a violent death!”

Charles B. Spiteri

Cicely Saunders qattgħet ħajjitha tgħin lin-nies jaffaċċjaw il-mewt. Hi fetħet l-ewwel dar ta’ kura għal dawk morda b’mod terminali, u fejn setgħu jmutu fil-paċi u d-dinjità. Illum hawn djar bħal dawn (hospices) mad-dinja kollha.

Meta kienet ċkejkna, Cicely kienet mistħija ħafna, tant li kienet tippreferi ma tiħux il-kolazzjon u t-tè ma’ ħbiebha milli toqgħod magħhom iparlaw u jgħajtu fil-vojt. Hekk kif kibret, waqt it-Tieni Gwerra Dinjija, daħlet infermiera u wara, meta weġġgħet daharha, kellha tieqaf minn ħidmietha u daħlet bħala ħaddiema soċjali fl-isptar.

Fl-1947, wieħed mill-pazjenti li ltaqgħet miegħu kien David Tasma, Lhudi Pollakk, li kien qed imut. Cicely kienet nisranija għall-aħħar, u hi u David qattgħu ħafna sigħat jiddiskutu l-mewt u kif in-nies li jkunu fl-aħħar ta’ ħajjithom ikunu indukrati. Saru ħbieb kbar u Cicely fehmet li t-taħdit li kellha ma’ David seta’ jkun ta’ għajnuna għal nies oħra.

Hi ħaditha b’ħidma li titkellem ma’ nies li qed imutu, toqgħod ħdejn soddithom, tistenna u titlob. Iżda kienet taf li għal ħafna min-nies f’dik il-qagħda, il-ħsejjes u l-ambjent tal-isptar ma kienx l-aħjar wieħed għalihom. Għamlet kampanja għall-ġbir tal-flus u fl-1967 fetħet is-St. Christopher Hospice f’Londra. Dan kien post għall-kwiet fejn il-pazjenti setgħu jsibu kura u lil min jifhimhom fl-aħħar jiem ta’ ħajjithom.

Fl-antik il-mewt kienet parti mill-ħajja ta’ kuljum. Għalkemm illum, tisma’ bosta nies jitkellmu dwar is-sess, il-problemi tal-familja u l-flus, ħafna minnhom ma jħobbux jitkellmu apertament dwar il-mewt. Din tagħmilha aktar diffiċli għan-nies li jafu li qed imutu, biex jaċċettaw x’inhu jiġrilhom.

L-istennija tal-mewt minn dejjem kienet diffiċli biex tkun trattata.  Ix-xogħol ta’ Cicely Saunders għen lil bosta jħossu ruħhom komdi fl-aħħar jiem ta’ ħajjithom.

August 1945. The Armistice was signed; the war was over. From all over the battlefields in Europe and those beyond the Pacific, the fighting men were now returning home to embrace their eager mothers, wives and children. From all over these battle-scarred places they streamed, back to their country, back to their homes, back to their loved-ones. 

For five long years they fought hard, courageously, gallantly and with a patriotic sense that makes men heroes.  In the last year they suffered hell, defeat, humiliation and tasted the bitter effects of occupation. 

Yet not all that went away to fight their country’s cause were now returning home. Some still lay there, buried beneath the soil of battle in a foreign land; these will never return home, will never cry at the sight of their mothers. Their duty done, they now sleep peacefully in the ruins of Stalingrad, El Alamein, Arnhem, Kursk, Berlin and other battlefields. 

The big troopship had berthed safely and silently alongside the other ships at the port of Cologne. The troopship brought human cargo, soldiers of the once great Wehrmacht Army from the Western Front, from the Pacific Isles, from the far-flung Eastern Front. 

They lined the deck of the ship, some five thousand of them, and gazed eagerly at German soil after five long and bitter years in strange foreign lands. The hard steel helmets, the shining smart rifles, the up-to-date battle equipment were gone.

They all wore very light army caps and dirty battledresses.  These men were being escorted by equally tired Army officers. These soldiers were the vanquished, they were German soldiers. 

One by one they walked down the gangway guarded by grim- faced Allied soldiers. They walked silently, their proud heads erect as ever, catching the fresh air of their German homeland. 

On the shore, held at a distance by the victorious Allied soldiers, were a multitude of people. They were not ordinary people these; they were wives, mothers and children  waiting eagerly and anxiously for the first glimpse of a husband, a son, a brother, a father. 

Some will be lucky enough to see him, some will shudder at the sight of a battered war-torn face while some, less fortunate than the others, will walk away dejected, resigned to the melancholy depression of a dear loss.

Franz Huber longed to see his own loved country again; he longed to see how his beloved Cologne had resisted the onslaught of Allied bombing. He was still on the ship, waiting his turn to set his feet on native German soil. 

He looked over to the shore; there the eager people were waving excitedly and expectantly but, at the same time, in a solemn way. Nobody knew whom they were waving to. Laying aside the fact that they were close relatives of the returning soldiers, Huber thought, there was nothing to wave about. 

It was his turn now to walk down the gangway; his turn to leave the ship and touch the sacred ground of Germany. As he walked down he noticed how the dejected German people greeted the defeated soldiers of the Rhineland – with warm fervour and excitement. 

As his friends walked down before him they were embraced and hugged by their mothers and wives. They had to wait hard and long for that embrace, that warm hearted kiss. But now the mother and son, the husband and wife, were together again, now nothing mattered, not even the grim-faced presence of the victors. 

Somewhere deep down there, in the crowd of fervent patriots, there must be his own Jean. She must be there waiting eagerly for his long-awaited return, anxiously anticipating the tired yet affectionate embrace of a lonely soldier. 

His mother had written to him some few months back and told him that his beloved Jean was still alive in Cologne and, she added, lonelier than ever. 

Franz Huber and Jean Schmidt were engaged to each other just before Franz was posted to the Eastern Front. He loved her as much as his heart would let him; he was young and so was she, but there was nothing immature about their love affair.  

It was very different from the common love affairs pushed forward by the robustness and eagerness of youth. He knew Jean well and always thought that she would be his perfect wife and lifelong companion.

He would have married her before his departure had his mother not told him to leave it until he comes back. Well, he was back now and the first thing he wanted done was to marry Jean  Schmidt. 

After three long eventful years of cruel separation he failed to forget her delightful and inspiring memory. Jean was not a typical daughter of the Reich; she was neither fair nor of a stature to fall under that category. Jean’s hair was dark, falling in long lovely tresses on her shoulders. Her complexion matched her hair rendering her a beautiful girl. Yes indeed, Jean Schmidt was lovely! And he kept that inspiring thought all through the cruel and brutal stages of the war. Her photograph was always close to his chest.  

Franz did not like fair haired girls, detested their arrogant and often vulgar bearing. He always thought, contrary to what the Reich encouraged and expected of its Aryan citizens, that such girls would never make good, loving wives.    

Their inclination to flirt would never enable them to settle down devotedly to happy married life. But he liked the type of girl who would stand by him in all his troubles and tribulations. Faithfulness and sincerity were the characteristics that he always sought in a woman.

His avowed love for Jean was indestructible. It was kept alive while all around him he witnessed scenes so brutal and ugly that would have made his love towards Jean, even towards mankind, shake its very foundation. 

He witnessed poor brave soldiers of the Fatherland fall gallantly in the face of battle all around him, uttering their last dying sound of death; he saw buildings fall and crumble on their innocent tenants, burying them alive with their meagre possessions; he saw the desolation and plunder in the wake of the enemy’s retreat into the heart of Russia; he saw the brave proud armies of the great German Republic sweep victoriously onwards, marching deep into the enemy’s lands. 

War……..hate ………guns…….flames……..death! These did not shake his love for Jean. He was a good soldier still, was young Franz Huber.   

He was on German soil now. The sound of the enthusiastic people around them was instilling pride and honour in the hearts of the returning soldiers. 

The German armies were defeated. The soldiers were returning home. He was free now, free to wander wherever he wished, free to go back to the delightful places he knew so well before the war, his old-time friends, his Jean, his mother. 

This was repatriation day and he was extremely happy. Now he was just Franz Huber, no longer Corporal Huber of the Second Battalion of the Reich.

He waited there among the people, jostled with them, and wandered the place to find his Jean. All along he saw soldier friends who had formed part of his defeated company being kissed and hugged by their wives and girlfriends. In a few minutes he too will forget the troubles and sufferings he had endured during the last five years. He will be in Jean‘s arms. But Jean was nowhere to be seen, nowhere. 

He walked away dejected and headed to the place he knew so well – his home. He remembered how he used to play in this street, how he often used to meet his friends here. It was now deserted, lonely, and miserable.

A large part of the houses were destroyed by Allied bombing. Some, the remains of which were still visible, brought pity to his heart. Others were totally ravaged and not a sign of their existence was left. And yet some others were still towering over this absolute destruction. Of the long line of houses in his street that once was the pride of the city of Cologne, only a few still remained as if to bear witness to such desolution.  

Cologne was the fourth largest city in Germany. Her famous cathedral, Germany’s most visited landmark, the seat of the Archbishop of Cologne, was one of the finest in the whole world. It is the largest gothic church in Northern Europe and it has the tallest spires and largest façade of all the churches in the world. The cathedral, although heavily damaged, was not destroyed by the bombings. The University of Cologne is one of Europe’s oldest and earliest places of learning.

But the city suffered terribly. On the night of 30/31 May 1942 more than 1,000 Allied bombers hit its heart. More than 150,000 of its 700,000 inhabitants fled the city after this terrible air raid.  

Franz hurried his steps. He must find No 68, he must; it was his mother’s home; he was brought up in it; it had so many memories etched in his mind. Then he saw it, practically alone and still erect; No 68, his dear old home, still defying the Allied bombers. He was happy.

He looked on both sides of him bringing familiar memories with each wayward glance; the beer house where he drunk late with his student friends; the cinema was supposed to be there; the little park where he and Jean met every other day. Jean…..he must know about her.  

He went up the few steps leading to his mother’s house and knocked hard, impatiently. His poor long-suffering heart was beating rapidly. The door opened and in between its frame, a stout elderly woman in a black shawl appeared …..his mother!

The woman stared at him. “Franz” she exclaimed emotionally. In an instant both mother and son were in each other’s arms. A mother holding her soldier son back from the war; a son embracing his suffering mother. She knew he was safe now and he will never leave her. She couldn’t believe that her son was not dead when so many young men of the German Army did not return to their own country. 

“Mama, where is Jeanny?” shot Franz as if she was all that mattered in the whole world. His eyes flashed. his face grew pale, he willed his mother to answer. 

His mother’s face grimaced; will she tell him the truth and see her son face yet another ordeal? Will she keep silent, as if she did not know? But he will know eventually and will have to swallow the pill of disappointment nevertheless. She will tell him, she will. “Franz, Jean‘s not here anymore, she’s run away, she will not return to us!”

For one little moment he could not think. Then he fell heavily on his knees and cried bitterly like a child. He loved Jean so much, so sincerely. He never dreamed that she could do that to him; she told him that she loved him; that she would never leave him; that she would wait patiently for his return from the war. But now she left him!

He run out and went for a walk around the blitzed city. The iron bench behind the cathedral, where he and Jean used to sit in the evening, was still there, overlooking the river that once used to be so busy with all kinds of boats. 

He sat there and reflected on the unfortunates of his love ……unfaithfulness of women …..Please God, please help me …….. He opened his buttoned shirt and tore away a silver locket, holding it in his hands and thinking deeply on his fate. His brown deep eyes spoke pity; He swung his hand and threw the vile object away. The still water stirred as the locket touched the surface, a number of concentric circles enveloped it into oblivion. 

With one last look at it, he stood up and went his way. His heart, like that of Cologne, was totally devastated. Like his beloved country, he will have to start from scratch.     

On 21 December 2016, Valletta 2018 Chairman Jason Micallef, the Hon. Dr Godfrey Farrugia MP and photographer Patrick J. Fenech addressed the press during the launch of BDL Publications’ new book THE MALTESE VILLAGE FESTA – A Traditional Yearly Ritual. The event was held at the Malta Chamber of Commerce in Valletta.

With over 750 colour photographs and erudite texts, this publication takes the reader from the origins of the festa during medieval times, through to the present day. It also includes a fascinating collection of most of the statuary representations of patron saints of the titular and secondary feasts which are the focal point of these solemn religious celebrations.

Editor: Godfrey Farrugia

Authors: Paul Sant Cassia, Carmel Cassar, Vicki Ann Cremona, Jeremy Boissevain, Raymond Saliba, Jesmond Manicaro.

The book is now available from all leading stationers, bookshops and from BDL in San Ġwann (behind Junior’s Toy Shop).

Charles B. Spiteri

Qażquż ċkejken li kiser il-pelvis meta ommu waqgħet fuqu, sarlu karru biex jgħinu jibqa’ jimxi waqt li jfiq.

Il-qażquż, bl-isem ta’ Leon Trotsky kellu ġimagħtejn biss meta ommu tfixklet fih, waqgħet fuqu u kisritlu l-pelvis, b’konsegwenza li ma setax jimxi aktar. Iżda ruħ tajba ħadet lill-annimal ferut fil-Missjoni Edgar; 

Santwarju tal-annimali li ma jaħdimx għall-qligħ, f’Kilmore, l-Awstralja, fejn minkejja l-feriti tiegħu, Leon qed jagħmel progress kontinwu u jingħata l-kura.

Iżda peress li l-qażquż għadu ċkejken ħafna u l-għadam tiegħu hu rqiq, l-attenzjoni fuqu kellha tkun studjata sew. Barra minn hekk inħadem l-iżgħar karru li qatt inħadem, biex ma joħloqlux toqol fuq idejh.

F’ġieħ il-mara Maltija li żammet il-familja.

Taħleb in-nagħġa filgħodu u l-ħalib fil-barmil taż-żingu jew bieqja żgħira u tagħmlu fil-barmil.

Trab mill-pilloli tfarrakhom u tqegħidhom fil-qwieleb. Wara tnax-il siegħa ħa jibbiesu u tqegħidhom fil-qanniċ. Jumejn biżżejjed fis-sajf. Fix-xitwa iżjed. Billejl jibqgħu hemm iqattru.

Xħin jinxfu sew tagħmilhom fil-ħall iswed mgħerrqin u mbagħad fil-bieqja. Erbat ijiem fil-ħall. Wara tagħmel bżar iswed u jkollhom il-bżar fuqhom. Magħmul jaħraq, ġo vażett, il-bżar ġol-vażett u ħall fuqu. Iżżid il-ħall jgħidulu semel. Magħluq tajjeb, bla arja, il-flixkun għax jitnawru u jmorru.

Tifsiriet:

Bieqja: skutella

Qanniċ: gabarrè tal-qasab li fuqu jitqiegħdu l-ġbejniet biex jinxfu

Semel: butir

Żingu: tal-ħadid (irqiq)

Bl-għajnuna ta’ Joe Camilleri, bidwi Mosti Malti u tfajla Maltija li tagħmel il-ġbejniet kuljum.