What a ne-Vile man

Oh well another Eurovision come and gone. Thankfully we were nowhere close to winning. But it is embarrassing to be beaten by Israel. You know that country in the final genocidal throes of the extermination of Gaza. The Four Horsemen are firmly hitched to their Gideon’s Chariot, as they lay waste to humanity.

I don’t know what would happen if Malta were ever to win the Eurovision. Somebody somewhere would probably pour petrol on a library. Hell freezes over. The end of days? Thankfully this personal existential dread of mine has been dispelled for another year.

But here’s what I do know: Neville Gafà, national bell-end and part-time mouth muff, has snuck out under the cover of darkness again and tore down Daphne Caruana Galizia’s memorial. Again. 

And I’ll tell you what also didn’t happen: not a single squeak of condemnation from the Government. Not even a fart from the Opposition. Quelle surprise! They must’ve all been busy touching themselves, praying for a Eurovision victory.

Meanwhile, Minister for Culture, Owen Topoboniccio—who, not long ago, heroically stood up for a censored Maltese word in a Eurovision song (a true patriot!)—has said absolutely nothing on this more pressing cultural issue. Not a word. Maybe because he was the same kant who, back when he was Minister for Justice and Culture (two hats, one dickhead), sanctioned the original blitzkrieg erasure of Daphne’s memorial.

History will note: the Constitutional Court said all this memorial-destroying nonsense was a breach of our fundamental human rights. Big breach. Freedom of expression, if you can believe it. But Owen is still in office. Even though now only wearing the single hat of culture. Antonio Sciortino would be ashamed.

Sciortino’s trinity of Faith, Fortitude, and Civilisation don’t just stand for the heroes of 1565. They stand for anyone who gave their life for this supposed island republic. And today they stand squarely for Daphne Caruana Galizia, whether the state and its sycophants like it or not.

It wasn’t enough to kill her. A journalist. A mother. A human being. They blew her up. They had to silence her forever. And even that wasn’t enough. So now they keep killing her symbol, over and over again. Flowers. Candles. Photos. Gone by morning. Again the next day. And again the next.

We know why they do it. It’s guilt. Or fear. Probably both.

These are men—our leaders, our losers—who are terrified of flowers. Candles. Words. Truth. They’re terrified of women who won’t shut up. Who won’t stay down. Who won’t get bored and go home.

And under a steady spittle of state-sanctioned bile, these women—these miracle women—rebuild the memorial. Every day. With tenderness. With love. With stubbornness. With middle fingers held politely aloft. And every time they do, they uncover something delicate and terrifying: a nerve of hope.

And every time little Neville Gafà and Labour trolls stomp those flowers, and snuff out those candles, they simply make that hope shine a little brighter. They think they’re erasing. They’re revealing. They’re not a censor. They’re a spotlight.

St. Augustine said:

“Hope has two beautiful daughters. Their names are Anger and Courage. Anger at the way things are, and Courage to see that they do not remain as they are.”

Today on those steps across the nation’s courts, I see is that hope has many more daughters, and they are not afraid of a Neville.

Amen.