Trains, roots and witches

One risk of this blog is that it occupies a dangerous space between the personal, the political and the public spheres. It is obviously spurred by everyday happenings, political anger and personal anxieties. It gives James the chance to stray away from the analytical impersonal style of a newspaper article. It also gives him the chance to write about his introspective thoughts, which are lurking beneath the surface. In many ways the past weeks of semi isolation have been an ideal context for a journey dominated by three images; roots, trains and witches. Roots because these represent what anchors us to reality and connect the future to the past, creeping incrementally and seeking new sources of nourishment without breaking the chain.  Trains because these represent the opportunity of a journey towards the next stations, a chance of a mapped out flight which may lack an ultimate destination.  Witches cause they represent magical realism, the small extraordinary happenings in very ordinary lives, the ephemeral joy of threading dangerously and the thought that it is better to be awake and exposed to risk than asleep and numb.  Yet these all live in contradiction with each other  in a world where as Heraclitus warned us you cannot step in the same river twice.  This may be why I changed my mind on stopping this blog upon the realization that the restoration of normality will not mean the end of this journey. 

Ftit u hafna bahar

Sabih il-bahar kalm jew ftit immewweg ghax go fih qisek dejjem thoss li minnu ghandek bizzejjed.  Kemm jekk ghal  ftit f xi qabza ta’ malajr kemm jekk hafna, f' xi nofs ta nhar tiela u niezel miflug bix-xemx imma bic-certezza li se ssibu hemm biex jiffriskak.  U l-bahar fil-bajjiet kommunist u ararkist.  Jghati lil kulhadd u ma jiehu xejn lil hadd. Jistiedenk imma tmur meta trid int.  Il-bahar ghandu riha, hoss u jmissek kullumkien, ruh u gisem.  Materjalist u spiritwali fl-istess hin.  Il-bahar ta’ kulhadd ghalinqas sakemm ma jbieghawhx ukoll.  U minkejja li ghandu r-ritmu tieghu f' dik  iz-zifna eternal tieghu mar-rih, fih issib is-silenzju.  Ghax fih facli ma tixtieqx iktar.  Go fih ftit jew hafna dejjem bizzejjed.    Ghalinqas sakemm qieghed hdejh jew go fih.  U anki jekk il-boghod taf li qieghed hemm dejjem u  kwazi kullumkien.        

Food glorious Food

There can be no feast without an abundance of food, preferably accompanied by wine, raki, beer or herbal brews and teas. For since the invention of fire, food has become a collective experience which has to be shared. The way we have evolved has a lot to do with the way we started preparing and consuming our food. Our own bodies are the biological products of cooking. But food is not just material sustenance but a cultural depository of tastes accumulated through history, layer over layer. Food is also the finest example of international exchange; can you imagine Italian food without tomatoes or the Maghreb without harissa? Yet there where no chillies, chocolate, potatoes and tomatoes in the old world before the brutal conquest of the new world. These ingredients may well be the only positive legacy left from a genocidal conquest. Yet even the conquestadors could not resist being seduced by the spices and flavors concocted by the Mayas, the Aztecs and the Incas. Food is a cultural exchange. Ingredients from different cultures can blend in a way which enhances diversity. Nobody can resist the smell of a pot cooking, irrespective of cultural boundaries and religious divides. Through this exchange often encouraged by the seductive appeal of taste and smell, home grown foods evolve and change but still retain a distinct texture. Immigrants often bring with them new tempting smells but unlike Mc Donalds and coco cola, they tend to enrich what is already established. But the cultural exchange is only part of the story. The other fascinating story is that related to the act of cooking. For cooking is akin to witchcraft. The flavors and herbs we put in the pot can actually change the mood and humors of those who enjoy them, both in the act of preparation and in the act of consumption. And it all comes round through the magic of science: the sheer action of heat, air and earth on base ingredients which are elevated to new levels. The transformation and blending of ingredients is nothing short of an alchemy which often transforms the frugal in to the sublime. There is also magic in the chemistry taking place when food hits the taste buds. Smell also triggers our personal memories especially those related to childhood. But even the most delicious food would lack flavor and taste if consumed in a solitary environment. For it is the feast which turns food in to a sensual experience. It draws us closer to our loved ones. Sure over the past century food has fallen victim to mass production, factory farming, the fast food industry and big retail chains, which have undermined diversity and imposed a sterile uniformity. It has also fallen victim to vanity and the domestification of private life in the nuclear family and taken away from the neighborhood. It has broken apart by rigid seating and cutlery arrangements, which undermine the whole concept of feasting. Eating on cushions on the floor is more conducive to sharing and feasting than sitting on a high chair. A feast has to be messy, joyful and excessive. It has to include numerous plates and flavors. It is no wonder that feasting and food are so intertwined. So in a time of social distancing, it is imperative not to forget the joys of feasting, something which should fill us with revolutionary hope. For reclaiming the joys of sharing, slow cooking, celebrating locally grown ingredients and opening up to an exchange of diversity is an integral part of building a new world in the here and now. It is another reason why we should resist the return to normality. One benefits of the slow down is that we have more time to cook. Just imagine if we can do this in the absence of social distances. After corona; lets have more of these feasts.

Why I love Malta but not its flag

The display of Maltese flags on homes, particularly in the poorer and less affluent neighborhoods, during Covid 19 times leaves me cold. Not just because this display of patriotism was contaminated by xenophobia and anti immigrant sentiment stemming from Robert Abela's attempt to project himself as a strongman during a medical emergency, but also because it reminds of the emptiness of this signifier.
Sure enough I feel human more than Maltese or European, but I love Malta, its landscapes, the way the sun illuminates the contours of its rocks, the noise and clutter of its people, the beauty of the Maltese language, the townscapes and the mixture of Mediterranean and other influences. My love for Malta has little to do with it being a nation state, something which was mostly a historical coincidence and far from some manifest destiny. But am proud of some aspects of our history. For example I am proud of our heroic role in resisting fascism in the second world war. I am also proud of the national awakening after the second world war, which saw women and workers winning the right to vote and the election of a Labour government. I am also proud of our robust national health service whose effectiveness spared Malta from the worst ravages of Covid experienced by richer countries. I am also proud of my country's late transformation from a laggard in LGBTIQ issues to a global trailblazer.
So I do not belong to that segment of the population which denigrates Malta, its language and its working classes.
For identity is Malta is intimately connected to class and segregation in education. The segregation of Maltese elites in private schools curtails the evolution of vibrant national culture. Even the media landscape is one where Maltese newspapers are mostly partisan, while the independent media is associated with English.
But surely I can't be proud of many other aspects of manufactured Maltese identity. Sure I can't stand Maltese exceptionalism, so evident in the rhetoric of the anti abortion brigade, who celebrate Malta's uniqueness where motherhood is not a choice but an imposition. I can't stand the eight pointed cross cherished by the far right as a substitute for the swastika. Neither do I stand the way nationalism has replaced class consciousness especially among Labour party supporters. In this new dominant ideology workers are not expected to struggle for their rights but are expected to fulfill their duties to state and party, both of which subservient to capitalism.
Neither am impressed by those who identify themselves as Europeans in order to deny their Maltese roots. In many cases their attitudes are reminiscent of the Maltese elite's identification first with Italianita than with British imperialism, in a bid to be treated as equals by colonial masters. And while I am a firm believer in European integration, the idea of a fortress Europe worries me as much as right wing nationalism.
In many ways the idea of Maltese identity frustrates me because it lacks the confidence and vitality to evolve, absorb and change. I love the rhythm of Maltese ghana but it lacks political and social relevance and failed to blend with other genres like hip hop, punk or reggae. Even our flea markets are lacking in character. We even managed to turn a food market in to a food court serviced by a few local chains. I love the language but there is a general reluctance to coin new words and popularise their use. We are even reluctant to name our children in Maltese. Our TV no longer features high quality drama as was the case in the 1970s and 1980s. Our lack of confidence in our culture probably is one factor contributing to our fear of the others. We are not sufficiently rooted in our culture to believe in our ability to absorb from others while also transmitting aspects of our culture to them.
So while rejecting nationalism as an ideology, I do see a great need for a celebration of Maltese and Mediterranean identities. My starting point is not the nation state but the regional influences which shaped our cultures for the past hundreds of years. Unlike nationalism regionalism can be progressive and inclusive. It offers food, music, beauty, poetry and feasts to all those willing to engage and participate. Rather than erecting fences, regionalism seeks to seduce by appealing to the senses. Unfortunately the drab Maltese flag hanging from balconies lacks sensuality. It is just a symbol representing the state and not the history and lives of its peoples. Ironically the only positive reinforcement in our flag is evoked by the George Cross, granted by the British King to acknowledge our bravery in fighting Nazi Fascism. But still we do not have our own equivalent of Bella Ciao to celebrate that heroic and popular struggle.

The novel

This is not a political blog. Neither a philosophical one. It is an experiment in (semi) fiction.
Because tonight am feeling enclosed in the warmth of an invisible air chrysalis woven by smiling pixies inhaling pot (not be little people as in 1Q84). So back to the experiment. First things which come to mind sort of stuff. Stream of consciousness? That may be a dangerous slippery territory to visit.
But recently i had been thinking of writing a novel or a short story. That will make an ideal starting point for this exercise.
Who shall live in the story? What shall i call them? How far will they resemble the characters of this novel (the one in which we are living right now), which is behaving more like fiction than reality. For we do live in an extra ordinary time.
Actually this may be the short story i should be writing or is it writing me? Good question. But for a start i have to detach and become an author.
Is life already writing the author's novel? Well some of the ingredients are there; I mean a pandemic makes a good plot, one in which the characters have to react to it in the most unlikely ways. But a lock-down? It makes the whole thing confined and enclosed. No open horizons. But not as comforting as the chrysalis, somewhat colder. But we could get some pixies or witches in the story who can open horizons and travel across time and space.
And should he even feature in this novel? Any way he is a sort of average quasi middle aged journalist with a past militancy in left wing groups-of which he remains nostalgic, living a not so remarkable life, reading one or two novels a month, takes three family holidays a year, drinks heavily with friends once a week and spends quite a lot of time watching netflix and listening to spotify. He first saw the pandemic as a disruption. Now he views it as an opportunity for some internal voyage of self discovery and to drink more wine. He is enjoying the suspension of time and for some reason seems happier than usual (not that he was sad). He sometimes fears the return to normality but is yearning for an after covid party. He may actually make an interesting character.
But he should be busy doing other things like actually writing this novel. In fact he should not be in the story at all. He can't be in it and outside of it at the same time.
So let us leave him out of this for now. He may well burden the whole thing by his over bearing presence and he may get too absorbed in some of the characters. That may complicate the plot. So what will be the novel about? Should it be political? Perhaps. Power does not hibernate during a pandemic. And there are always people busy thriving on fears. But there cannot be a revolution during a pandemic. Even protests are restricted to the internet.
Should it be about love? Neither it is the ideal time for falling in love. This would also complicate life for the author, especially in a total lock-down where characters are home bound (he may delve on the impact of social media but that risks turning in to a sociological inquiry). Neither can the lockdown be partial in the novel. Otherwise if every one starts going out for walks and parties, the novel would lose punch.
Should it be about sex? Well according to some reports many are having more sex now than ever but in the novel that will depend on the characters, and he still has to create them. And where is he to pick them up from? Probably he could invent and mix. Mixing people like colors or the images in dream. It often happens in dreams that one face turns in to another. That can be freaky but the association between faces can be very revealing. He has experienced this a couple of times lately. But nothing beats the life of real people. For the novel is happening in the world around us. All it needs is a twist of magical realism; extraordinary things in ordinary lives. Or is that already happening?

Sisyphus in the multiverse

One of the most fascinating scientific theories is that there exists an infinity of universes in which our lives are played out in an infinity of different ways. So there is an infinity of us doing the same things but slightly or significantly differently. Or perhaps not even doing the same things. This begs the question can you slip from one universe to another?
Can it happen willfully or does it happen randomly? Probably it simply can't happen as parallel lines can never meet. That is one thought which often took me somewhere else during maths lessons in secondary school.
What if one were to follow two parallel lines for eternity? Would some twist or incident change their inevitable destiny of not meeting? But just imagine the frustration of spending eternity waiting for the impossible to happen. It is a sensation which I sometimes encounter in my dreams. For although more often than not I tend to forget my dreams, apart from a few recollection of faces, that overwhelming sensation of hope being dashed by the realm of possibility is familiar. Yet it does come with recollections of defiance. Sure enough choosing between defiance and submission to fate, is one of the greatest dilemmas. For both are essential ingredients of our humanity.
That may be why the myth of Sisyphus has always struck me as the one best representing the human condition. Sisyphus submitted to his fate by rolling the boulder up the mountain for an infinity of times. But he remained defiant by never losing hope that one day he would manage to reach the mountain peak and complete the task which would set him free. In this way he fulfilled the will of the Gods but still defied them by remaining hopeful. And is there not a greater chance if the number of universes is infinite that in at least one universe Sisyphus has triumphed?
Moreover although one may safely conclude that there is no means to slip from this reality to another,there are significant moments when it really does feel as if our reality is being pulled by an invisible force which can thwart but also create possibilities and sometimes doing both with a twist of cosmic irony. But probably this sounds more like some metaphysical justification for entirely personal choices. In the end the randomness of it all, simply confirms my hunch that it is all about coincidence. Life is chaotic. Nothing happens for a reason. Our only freedom is to defy, rebel and create even if we can at any time be blown away by forces which we cannot control. We are after all insignificant beings living in a small fraction of the known universe, possibly one of an infinity of universes. Yet the desire to take control and bring some order to chaos is also a part of our humanity. That is why we still have a duty to resist injustice and create beauty despite the futility of it all.

The words which make us

Naturally enough we strive to define the world around us through words which have fixed meanings. But our lives and the world we live in are in constant flux. Even in these times when we are secluded in our homes, we are more than ever marching towards uncharted waters. In some ways this gives us the luxury to contemplate change, possibly a dramatic collapse of aspects of the neo-liberal order, but we are inevitably faced by the limits of our vocabulary. So there is an inevitable conflict between the stationary state of the dictionary and change both in personal and historical narratives. We have a limited number of words for such a wide variety of hues and experiences. Not surprisingly the Inuit are said to have 50 different words for snow. Perhaps the more we live in a confined space, we also start observing hues of which we were largely not aware. Even while walking everyday in my hometown i started noting small architectural details which had escaped my field of vision. Also in the stationary state we are confined we are likely to reflect more in the different hues in our relationships with each other. For example the word friendship-something so valuable in corona times, comes in so many different hues and intensities, the kind where you can talk about the meaning of existence until the sun came up, the kind where you laugh yourself to bits and the kind which anchor you to different aspects of reality.

The same applies to domestic life where fixed definitions disguise so many different ways of living this experience. What is awkward in these times is that in a moment of enforced segregation, we have also more likely to virtually bring in work and friends in to the domestic sphere, in what is reminiscent of older times when work was also carried in the home and when the home was part of the neighbourhood. So is the return of the balcony as a sphere of interaction, a space from where the outside world can be seen and from where we seek to establish a connection.

Yet more often than not we have only one word for very complex human interactions. Moreover the meaning of words is socially determined, often reflecting not just what is generally expected by society but also deeply ingrained power relations. Some cultures do not have a word for property. Others like the Na in China do not have words for fathers or husbands because these roles do not even exist. But while the economic and social infrastructure is reflected in language, in other ways we are ruled by and through words. Therefore at best language provides us with a map to navigate one particular aspect of a multi layered reality. Somethings are in fact best experienced through silence. But it also shapes the way we perceive that reality. Words can sometimes help us articulate thoughts and emotions but they can also act as a prison. Probably we are living in a productive time when new words will be created. This may be the best indication that the times are changing.

Coining new words to reflect the many different hues in this sense becomes a revolutionary task. In this there is a lot to learn from the LGBTQI movement which has managed to re-define human sexuality by giving the plurality of identities and experiences a name. It is something which the new left and counter culture of the 1960s started by questioning not just capitalism and patriarchy but also their ramification in every day life and choices. Some are suspicious of so-called identity politics, fearing an erosion of collective struggles as if these universal causes depend on rendering the "others" who live in our midst invisible. Even worse is the assertion that giving recognition and standing up for the others by they immigrants or other minorities, weakens the movement. In fact this is one case where 'silence' becomes an accomplice of oppression. Unforunately in times of contagion, there is also a risk of increased invisibility for those whose existence remains a token, something we can only afford to be concerned with when the good times return.