Actually you could almost say I once met Daphne. One
afternoon in May 2009, I was standing next to the door of a packed St.
Julian’s parish-church during Salvu Diacono’s funeral mass,
when in she walked - quite late - and stood right next to me. Of course I
recognised her instantly: I had been an avid follower of her outpourings for
two decades. I could not help but steal a couple of surreptitious glances at
the famous lady – quite simply the best Maltese writer of English I had ever
read.
Those who maintain that she was ugly are wrong: her face was finely-chiselled and free of wrinkles and worry-lines. There was something imposing about her: you sensed you were in the presence of somebody who had had strength in their being. Her bearing was quietly proud and her demeanour confident.
It’s probably because of my love of prose and language, but in the same way I can never forget how I “met’’ P.G. Wodehouse and where I laid hands on my first Flashman, I still recall clearly the circumstances when I came across Daphne Caruana Galizia’s writing for the first time. It was in a doctor’s clinic in Tignè, where, while waiting my turn, I leafed through one of those magazines one is wont to find in such places. An article about – of all things – topless bathing caught my eye and within seconds I was riveted. Even though I happened to disagree with the author’s position, the writing was a revelation: succinctly word-perfect and flowing, its rhythms in perfect harmony with the thoughts the writer wanted to convey and resonating flawlessly with my own comprehension mechanisms.
The effect was not only aesthetically pleasing – like a scene from nature where you feel you’re in the midst of a harmonious unity – but also almost hypnotically compelling. I had to struggle to remember that my own position was radically different from hers. I looked at the name of the author on top of the article - and would never forget it again.
A couple of years later (I think), I unexpectedly came across that name again: the by-now famous letter to the Sunday Times about the tragedy of the Esmeralda which had claimed the lives of two men off Sardinia, one of whom Daphne Caruana Galizia’s uncle. That letter, once again a paragon of the fusion of clarity of thought and forcefulness of argument expressed in language which compelled you to take in what she was trying to convey, brought her to the attention of the general public. Very soon she had her own column – The Good, the Bad and the Ugly – which, possibly much to Roamer’s chagrin, soon became the flagship page in the Sunday Times. It was certainly the one I turned to and started to read on the way home from the newsagent’s. That column – with its emphasis on the uglier facets of Maltese life, as she saw them - stamped her name on the consciousness of a nation.
Daphne Caruana Galizia’s break with the Times came about when Guido Demarco was chairman of the Strickland Foundation. Demarco had objected to a column criticising his daughter Giannella’s decision to defend the person who allegedly commissioned the murder of the Prime Minister’s assistant in court. This happened when her father was Deputy Prime Minister. Her subsequent (and consequent) move to the Independent, wherein she published that article, testified to her defining human characteristics: determination, adherence to her principles, hard-headedness – and cojones. She never forgave Guido and Giannella Demarco – with whom she feuded bitterly – and they became a more than occasional target of her articles.
Not that I found myself in perpetual agreement with the content of her writing; on the contrary I don’t think I ever disagreed more strongly with any other columnist as I did with her. I found her penchant for gossip quite disgusting (but, I’m ashamed to admit, entertaining at times). She was obviously aware of her formidable intellect and made no bones about her feelings concerning those she felt were less endowed in the brain department (i.e practically the rest of humanity) when their behaviour displeased her. Her classism I found repugnant: the frequent disparaging references to people “from the boondocks’’, "from the sticks’’, “from the other side of the tracks’’ reflected the elitism which formed and informed her world-view. How on earth she managed to integrate that elitism with her other liberal and humanist ideas (which she clearly genuinely believed in) God only knows.
Her hatred of anything remotely Labour was palpable. This was partly explained by her elitist and classist views, but mostly by the treatment she had been subjected to in the 1980s when, like many others, she stood up for fundamental rights. A slip of a girl, she had been arrested and bullied into signing an untrue confession. It’s not the sort of experience one can readily forget; certainly not Daphne. Whenever she wrote about those times one could capture a sense of very understandable hurt and humiliation, but also righteous indignation that the MLP government had crossed the boundaries of civilised behaviour and, indeed, basic human decency so many times in such a crass and cavalier fashion.
For someone with a Labour background who during the 1980s broke with the MLP over the wanton violence and human rights violations, her feelings were perfectly understandable. Her lack of awareness about how those feelings were colouring her analysis of political life were not. Nor how they were being vented on contemporary PL politicians and even common Labourites with no direct political involvement – MPs’ mothers, for goodness sake. Her public celebration of Mintoff’s death was possibly the moral nadir of her career.
There were many high points though. To my mind, the unstinting and unflinching struggle against the lack of moral and ethical standards in public life gained her the admiration of all those who wish to live in a society where honesty is truly valued. The revelations related to the Panama Papers and their aftermath probably marked the zenith of her life’s work. It was certainly fortuitous – she herself admitted it – that she was to get to know about their contents prior to their publication. Actually the timing of her revelations, with hindsight, may have been questionable for it could have allowed the Minister concerned to include the “investments’’ in the Ministerial declaration, although none but the most blinded PL supporters were taken in. Be that as it may, her abilities in spotting connections and digging up information based on educated guesses and intelligent analysis following on from the Panama papers – and in other instances – were outstanding. They were certainly unparalleled in the Maltese journalistic scene. In common with the rest of the nation, I lapped up every word.
While her references to her “international network of spies’’ may have been made half in jest, in reality dozens of people contributed to the stream of scoops (and gossipy bits) she came up with. The reasons these individuals chose to pass on information and images probably ranged from genuine concern about malfeasance to rabid anti-PL sentiment to self-interest. With some there was a clear symbiotic relationship: people who had been criticised and derided in her blogs gritted their teeth and passed on information about their enemies. The information about two of the juiciest stories published in her Running Commentary - Alfred Mifsud’s alleged acceptance of a huge bribe from Ronnie Demajo as well as Adrian Delia’s alleged professional involvement in the Soho prostitution scene – was obtained in this manner. Her informers in the two cases both knew where to go if immediate impact on a national scale was what they were after.
Her stories about Egrant’s supposed ownership by the PM’s wife also fell into this category. The Russian informer wanted to get back at the Bank and strengthen her claims against it. Daphne had the scoop of a lifetime, one which fitted perfectly with the available evidence and confirmed her assessment of Muscat, the PL Government, the PL itself and the essence of Labour - as she saw it. Moreover, the story had the potential to spell the end of the hated PL government. Daphne Caruana Galizia obviously believed the story was genuine, and, in my judgement, the informer exuded credibility when she was interviewed by Pierre Portelli. The PM’s denials about ownership of Egrant were equally convincing. Daphne maintained that it was not she who precipitated the election. I think she underestimated the effect of that particular allegation on the PL grandees and the PM himself.
One facet of her writing which always intrigued me, perhaps because of the contrast with the hard-hitting, sometimes vicious prose she reserved for her preferred, mostly political, targets, was the tenderness and sensitivity she displayed when writing about family affairs. I don’t just mean her own family, but her take about many aspects of family dynamics, particularly mother and child relationships. Her insights into that aspect of family relations were impressively profound. They often provoked a smile in me.
On Monday 16th October, I had a few minutes to kill and wandered into a local band-club – a rather unusual occurrence for me. The place was practically empty, save for half a dozen apparently regular patrons who were laughing and joking while I sat on my own sipping tea and watching snooker on TV. At one point the barman turned to one of the other customers he had been exchanging banter with.
Those who maintain that she was ugly are wrong: her face was finely-chiselled and free of wrinkles and worry-lines. There was something imposing about her: you sensed you were in the presence of somebody who had had strength in their being. Her bearing was quietly proud and her demeanour confident.
It’s probably because of my love of prose and language, but in the same way I can never forget how I “met’’ P.G. Wodehouse and where I laid hands on my first Flashman, I still recall clearly the circumstances when I came across Daphne Caruana Galizia’s writing for the first time. It was in a doctor’s clinic in Tignè, where, while waiting my turn, I leafed through one of those magazines one is wont to find in such places. An article about – of all things – topless bathing caught my eye and within seconds I was riveted. Even though I happened to disagree with the author’s position, the writing was a revelation: succinctly word-perfect and flowing, its rhythms in perfect harmony with the thoughts the writer wanted to convey and resonating flawlessly with my own comprehension mechanisms.
The effect was not only aesthetically pleasing – like a scene from nature where you feel you’re in the midst of a harmonious unity – but also almost hypnotically compelling. I had to struggle to remember that my own position was radically different from hers. I looked at the name of the author on top of the article - and would never forget it again.
A couple of years later (I think), I unexpectedly came across that name again: the by-now famous letter to the Sunday Times about the tragedy of the Esmeralda which had claimed the lives of two men off Sardinia, one of whom Daphne Caruana Galizia’s uncle. That letter, once again a paragon of the fusion of clarity of thought and forcefulness of argument expressed in language which compelled you to take in what she was trying to convey, brought her to the attention of the general public. Very soon she had her own column – The Good, the Bad and the Ugly – which, possibly much to Roamer’s chagrin, soon became the flagship page in the Sunday Times. It was certainly the one I turned to and started to read on the way home from the newsagent’s. That column – with its emphasis on the uglier facets of Maltese life, as she saw them - stamped her name on the consciousness of a nation.
Daphne Caruana Galizia’s break with the Times came about when Guido Demarco was chairman of the Strickland Foundation. Demarco had objected to a column criticising his daughter Giannella’s decision to defend the person who allegedly commissioned the murder of the Prime Minister’s assistant in court. This happened when her father was Deputy Prime Minister. Her subsequent (and consequent) move to the Independent, wherein she published that article, testified to her defining human characteristics: determination, adherence to her principles, hard-headedness – and cojones. She never forgave Guido and Giannella Demarco – with whom she feuded bitterly – and they became a more than occasional target of her articles.
Not that I found myself in perpetual agreement with the content of her writing; on the contrary I don’t think I ever disagreed more strongly with any other columnist as I did with her. I found her penchant for gossip quite disgusting (but, I’m ashamed to admit, entertaining at times). She was obviously aware of her formidable intellect and made no bones about her feelings concerning those she felt were less endowed in the brain department (i.e practically the rest of humanity) when their behaviour displeased her. Her classism I found repugnant: the frequent disparaging references to people “from the boondocks’’, "from the sticks’’, “from the other side of the tracks’’ reflected the elitism which formed and informed her world-view. How on earth she managed to integrate that elitism with her other liberal and humanist ideas (which she clearly genuinely believed in) God only knows.
Her hatred of anything remotely Labour was palpable. This was partly explained by her elitist and classist views, but mostly by the treatment she had been subjected to in the 1980s when, like many others, she stood up for fundamental rights. A slip of a girl, she had been arrested and bullied into signing an untrue confession. It’s not the sort of experience one can readily forget; certainly not Daphne. Whenever she wrote about those times one could capture a sense of very understandable hurt and humiliation, but also righteous indignation that the MLP government had crossed the boundaries of civilised behaviour and, indeed, basic human decency so many times in such a crass and cavalier fashion.
For someone with a Labour background who during the 1980s broke with the MLP over the wanton violence and human rights violations, her feelings were perfectly understandable. Her lack of awareness about how those feelings were colouring her analysis of political life were not. Nor how they were being vented on contemporary PL politicians and even common Labourites with no direct political involvement – MPs’ mothers, for goodness sake. Her public celebration of Mintoff’s death was possibly the moral nadir of her career.
There were many high points though. To my mind, the unstinting and unflinching struggle against the lack of moral and ethical standards in public life gained her the admiration of all those who wish to live in a society where honesty is truly valued. The revelations related to the Panama Papers and their aftermath probably marked the zenith of her life’s work. It was certainly fortuitous – she herself admitted it – that she was to get to know about their contents prior to their publication. Actually the timing of her revelations, with hindsight, may have been questionable for it could have allowed the Minister concerned to include the “investments’’ in the Ministerial declaration, although none but the most blinded PL supporters were taken in. Be that as it may, her abilities in spotting connections and digging up information based on educated guesses and intelligent analysis following on from the Panama papers – and in other instances – were outstanding. They were certainly unparalleled in the Maltese journalistic scene. In common with the rest of the nation, I lapped up every word.
While her references to her “international network of spies’’ may have been made half in jest, in reality dozens of people contributed to the stream of scoops (and gossipy bits) she came up with. The reasons these individuals chose to pass on information and images probably ranged from genuine concern about malfeasance to rabid anti-PL sentiment to self-interest. With some there was a clear symbiotic relationship: people who had been criticised and derided in her blogs gritted their teeth and passed on information about their enemies. The information about two of the juiciest stories published in her Running Commentary - Alfred Mifsud’s alleged acceptance of a huge bribe from Ronnie Demajo as well as Adrian Delia’s alleged professional involvement in the Soho prostitution scene – was obtained in this manner. Her informers in the two cases both knew where to go if immediate impact on a national scale was what they were after.
Her stories about Egrant’s supposed ownership by the PM’s wife also fell into this category. The Russian informer wanted to get back at the Bank and strengthen her claims against it. Daphne had the scoop of a lifetime, one which fitted perfectly with the available evidence and confirmed her assessment of Muscat, the PL Government, the PL itself and the essence of Labour - as she saw it. Moreover, the story had the potential to spell the end of the hated PL government. Daphne Caruana Galizia obviously believed the story was genuine, and, in my judgement, the informer exuded credibility when she was interviewed by Pierre Portelli. The PM’s denials about ownership of Egrant were equally convincing. Daphne maintained that it was not she who precipitated the election. I think she underestimated the effect of that particular allegation on the PL grandees and the PM himself.
One facet of her writing which always intrigued me, perhaps because of the contrast with the hard-hitting, sometimes vicious prose she reserved for her preferred, mostly political, targets, was the tenderness and sensitivity she displayed when writing about family affairs. I don’t just mean her own family, but her take about many aspects of family dynamics, particularly mother and child relationships. Her insights into that aspect of family relations were impressively profound. They often provoked a smile in me.
On Monday 16th October, I had a few minutes to kill and wandered into a local band-club – a rather unusual occurrence for me. The place was practically empty, save for half a dozen apparently regular patrons who were laughing and joking while I sat on my own sipping tea and watching snooker on TV. At one point the barman turned to one of the other customers he had been exchanging banter with.
“Look, they’ve killed Daphne Caruana Galizia with a
bomb’’, I thought I heard him say.
I didn’t react.
Then a few seconds later I heard myself say, “You’re joking, right?”.
“No”, he said, ''Look’’, and he held up his mobile phone.
I didn’t have to look at it. His expression was clear enough.
I literally felt myself breaking into a sweat. The shock must have shown on my face.
“Was she a relative of yours?’’, the barman asked.
“No’’.
“I’m asking because of the way you reacted’’.
Daphne Caruana Galizia – dead? Daphne Caruana Galizia, whose page I consulted several times daily, with whom I had had a couple of minor run-ins on the newspaper comments boards or perhaps her own blog, whose offerings I found to be always stimulating – sometimes to the point of near-apoplexy – blown up? It was as if I had been informed that I had lost the use of my left arm because of somebody’s deliberate decision to inflict permanent damage.
I don’t remember walking out of the club. I’m still not sure whether I paid the barman his 40 cents...
I don’t remember getting on the bus, but at 5.45pm I was in Floriana for a meeting I have attended every Monday, practically without fail, for many years.
Somebody said, “I’m not saying she deserved it, but the way she wrote it was almost to be expected’’. I grasped my right arm with my left behind my back, and bit my tongue.
From where I stand, she was not an amiable woman - but she was a great one. Not flawless, not by a long chalk, but one who left her mark. No saint, says this great sinner, but a fighter for proper standards in public life - despite the fact that she herself sometimes violated other standards.
Her life was taken before its time. Savagely, brutally, in an inhumane manner. A family was plunged into grief. Save for the very few troglodytes who rejoiced at her death, a nation is mourning her passing and searching its soul for answers to questions which it never believed it would have to ask – and which it may never be able to answer. But which it should ask anyway.
I wonder how she herself would have answered them.
I didn’t have to look at it. His expression was clear enough.
I literally felt myself breaking into a sweat. The shock must have shown on my face.
“Was she a relative of yours?’’, the barman asked.
“No’’.
“I’m asking because of the way you reacted’’.
Daphne Caruana Galizia – dead? Daphne Caruana Galizia, whose page I consulted several times daily, with whom I had had a couple of minor run-ins on the newspaper comments boards or perhaps her own blog, whose offerings I found to be always stimulating – sometimes to the point of near-apoplexy – blown up? It was as if I had been informed that I had lost the use of my left arm because of somebody’s deliberate decision to inflict permanent damage.
I don’t remember walking out of the club. I’m still not sure whether I paid the barman his 40 cents...
I don’t remember getting on the bus, but at 5.45pm I was in Floriana for a meeting I have attended every Monday, practically without fail, for many years.
Somebody said, “I’m not saying she deserved it, but the way she wrote it was almost to be expected’’. I grasped my right arm with my left behind my back, and bit my tongue.
From where I stand, she was not an amiable woman - but she was a great one. Not flawless, not by a long chalk, but one who left her mark. No saint, says this great sinner, but a fighter for proper standards in public life - despite the fact that she herself sometimes violated other standards.
Her life was taken before its time. Savagely, brutally, in an inhumane manner. A family was plunged into grief. Save for the very few troglodytes who rejoiced at her death, a nation is mourning her passing and searching its soul for answers to questions which it never believed it would have to ask – and which it may never be able to answer. But which it should ask anyway.
I wonder how she herself would have answered them.
Excellent analysis of such an interesting character! Well done and greatly written!
ReplyDeleteBrilliant Manuel.
ReplyDeleteThanks.
DeleteAs one who shares a love of well-written work, I must say that Daphne would have graciously thanked you for such an insightful analysis of her personality and her work. I often turned to her in disgust at unfolding events. In issues concerning dirty work, Daphne's sense of integrity was unparalleled.
ReplyDeleteI clearly recall standing in my boss's office on the fateful day, talking about some inane joke, and he turned to me in shock, saying (in Maltese); "They've blown Daphne up."
I walked around in shock for days, finding any and all means to try to come to terms with the fact that this particular candle had been snuffed, this beacon forcefully extinguished. For weeks, I clicked on her page daily, as had become my daily practice first thing upon opening my eyes over the previous couple of years, and last thing before i slept. While often in disagreement with some of the snide comments where these were clearly unconnected with the goings-on that concerned the political scene (in Malta and abroad), she was often right about things that she pointed out and she had an incredible sense of foresght and immense clarity in her observations. She wore no kid gloves in making statements (sometimes rather too sweeping), did not create any bulwark for her stark observations, so that the truth, really, did hurt.
Within most sectors, particularly where I worked with people who walked around sporting mental blinkers, I could not afford to let on that i was an avid follower, and an active participant on her blog. She was far too controversial, and thus perceived as dangerous - that is, a threat to those who were getting far too comfortable in their shoes, their fat cushy jobs.
Ten months on, we hear that the German family of the youngster who was found dead at Dingli Cliffs have given up obtaining answers from the Maltese authorities concerning the real cause of his death. Not only does this prove Daphne right on many counts, but it could also point to the conscious incompetence (unwillingness) to take matters seriously in the higher echelons of power, where things really matter. This, coupled with the alienation of the masses, is what frustrated Daphne. To an extent, I am in agreement with her elitism, in the sense that she could not bear to see people accepting things at face value, being spoon-fed blatant lies and lapping them up like parched and starved dogs. one has to be a unique kind of blinkered to be able to swallow the mass-anaesthesia being doled out through festivals and fun activities, so that those willing to be numbed far outweigh the righteously indignant, by a very long shot. It's all fine because their own pockets are just a little fatter, so dirty work on top should not be anyone's concern. She rightly believed that, in some cases, people do have different levels of intelligence - though unfortunately she gave very little credit to those who were genuinely trying to get to grips with things. Yes, she was disdainful towards others and talked down to all but a handful, yet I think that this was, in part, a manner of protecting herself, of avoiding becoming part of the gullible masses and associating with them. She wanted none of it, because most of it was unheard of in what should be an educated nation.
It is lonely up on top, and I sensed her awareness of this - of her sheer alone-ness and the (not necessarily) loneliness that came from being (wilfully) misunderstood. It paid many to 'misnderstand' her, because standing by her side, taking up her standard, was perceived to constitute too much sacrifice. In the end, she paid the highest and most brutal price - her own life.
She wasn't too proud to say "Thank you" when I wished her a happy fellow Women's Day on the 8th March of that year. Those were my last direct words to her, and hers to me were "Thank you."