Malta's Inquisition - the good the bad and the ugly

Visited the palace of the Inquisitor in Birgu this week.  Getting there by bus is a bit of a hassle.  First I waited for half an hour to get a bus to Valetta from Sliema.  Four full buses passed the stop unable to let any more on board.  From Valetta I caught a bus to Birgu and it takes a remarkably long time to get a few kilometres from where I started.  I feel sure the bus system is designed to make Malta seem much bigger.  After an hour on a bus somewhere you find yourself scratching your head in disbelief, after all the whole island is only 27 kilometres long and 15 kilometres across.  It may be small but it is jam packed with delights and the Palace of the Inquisitor was my goal.  Birgu has a mighty fine entrance.

As I approach the main entrance of Birgu I keep reminding myself how impressive it is now but how much more so it must have seemed in the 16th century.

On the left as you enter there is a fascinating museum which leads down to the underground shelters built deep beneath ground during World War II.  Down narrow corridors and steps there are dormitories and even a birthing room.  Each stone has a tale to tell in this place.

Certainly these walls were designed to keep out invaders and there is a majesty about them.  Walled defences that have layers of protection.

The side streets are pretty and distinctively Maltese. The Inquisitor's palace is not far from the main gate and is one of very few that have survived in the world still open to the public.

Inside the ground floor is a pleasant garden, obviously a pleasant place to retreat to after a tiring day investigating and torturing victims.  The kitchen is large and spacious with an oven down one side.

The staircase is spectacular and grand, this was the way to impress guests and to state ones importance.

Looking back down the stairs gives another perspective.  Note the chair which would be used to carry the really important around the city from venue to venue.

Two of the Inquisitors here in Malta went on to become popes.  Fabia Chigi became Pope Alexander VII in 1655.   There is a photo of him on the wall.  

When inquisitor he would have worn this costume below, a rather terrifying outfit to be confronted with.  I think the outfit was designed with confession in mind.

Pope Alexander VII did not get good press by some.  Here is an account, by a contemporary that knew him, that starts out well but ends badly.

"In the first months of his elevation to the Popedom, he had so taken upon him the profession of an evangelical life that he was wont to season his meat with ashes, to sleep upon a hard couch, to hate riches, glory, and pomp, taking a great pleasure to give audience to ambassadors in a chamber full of dead men's sculls, and in the sight of his coffin, which stood there to put him in mind of his death. [His] extraordinary devotion and sanctity of life I found was so much esteemed that the noise of it spread far and near. But so soon as he had called his relations about him he changed his nature. Instead of humility succeeded vanity; his mortification vanished, his hard couch was turned into a soft featherbed, his dead men's sculls into jewels, and his thoughts of death into ambition — filling his empty coffin with money as if he would corrupt death, and purchase life with riches."

I suspect piety is a hard act to maintain, but some of the faces of the Inquisitors look like rather evil characters indeed.  I keep wondering is it just me or do some of them look seriously disturbed?

I am one to talk, I take a bad photo myself but seriously, these guys were painted so surely with artistic skill they could have made them look more human.

All I can say is I would not like to be questioned by these characters while implements of torture were lying around conveniently placed.  Being found in possession of books on their index of forbidden texts would have been enough to get you into serious trouble.  Kepler's scientific treaty on the movement of the planets etc would have certainly got you strapped to something painful. Galileo's championing of the planets moving around the sun resulted in him being tried and suffering house imprisonment for the rest of his life.  But there were a whole range of things that could get you into trouble.  (see below)

It's quite a list and the last one could include informing the inquisition of the sins of others.  By not doing so you could get into real trouble.  In Malta the major sins seem to centre around witchcraft/evil eye etc. Mostly it appeared the use of love potions was common.  This activity was hard to stamp out despite the intensity of their best endeavours.  Pope Alexander VII, when inquisitor ,so filled the cells with people to investigate they ran out of room to put their suspects.  The longest serving Inquisitor in Malta was Paolo Passionei  (1743-1754). Unfortunately, he had several nasty secrets of his own which caused some difficulties.

"He was guilty of 'Loose living' including fornication. Inquisitor Passionei secretly had a mistress, and he became the father of two females .... When in 1749 the Pope requested him to go to Switzerland as an Apostolic Nuntio he refused, being afraid that his scandalous life would become public! He left Malta on 1754 and was unfrocked. " 

It's a tricky business this judging of others, not perhaps a healthy spiritual exercise.  "Let he who is without sin throw the first stone..." applies surely?

The inquisitors lived in some comfort.

The room in which they interrogated suspects had a rather unpleasant feel to it.  The torture implements in the dungeon down below must have helped loosen tongues.

There is a special staircase to the prison cells below which meant they could be taken secretly to and fro without being seen by others.  The cells themselves had tiny low doors and small high windows.

The contrast between the prison cells with their cramped quarters down below to the luxury above is stark.

Strange to find in one building such marked differences only a staircase away.  Below all dark and tortured while above all light and comfort.

"A prisoner in the Inquisition is never allowed to see the face of his accuser, or of the witnesses against him, but every method is taken by threats and tortures, to oblige him to accuse himself, and by that means corroborate their evidence."

John Foxe

When you think about the inquisition it is hard to find positive things to say about this period.  Lessons have to be learnt from history and until we do it seems society will never progress.  I liked this piece by― Alfred Whitney Griswold in Essays on Education,

“Books won't stay banned. They won't burn. Ideas won't go to jail. In the long run of history, the censor and the inquisitor have always lost. The only sure weapon against bad ideas is better ideas. The source of better ideas is wisdom. The surest path to wisdom is a liberal education.” 

Withering Argument Wins Day

When we had three children under ten years old my husband and I moved to a Greek island.  Their ages were 4, 8 and 10.  To survive we took whatever jobs, that were available.  It often entailed both of us being out at work at the same time.  Being new to the island I found it hard to trust my children to a complete stranger.  Mostly, we could cover the childcare between us but for the times that both of us were committed I felt that actually the only person I could really trust on the island was my eldest son.  He was intelligent and articulate.  Very much in charge of himself and much older than his years.

In some ways, he had already hit adolescence and entered the stormy waters of rebellion.  He hated being on the island and was vociferous in complaining of the injustice of it all.  My other sons suffered probably more but did so in steadfast enduring silence.  My eldest son was furious with our decision to drag him out of his UK school across Europe to an island school where pupils and teachers spoke only Greek.  In typical fashion he combined withering argument with practical intent.  While blaming us for this miserable choice he immediately set himself the task of learning Greek.  Obviously, his campaign of a speedy UK return might not succeed so he was concerned his back up plan would be up and running.  Unknown to us, he was making friends and learning the new language fast.  School helped and a good mind when combined with a competitive edge brought him quick success.  Within months he became the family translator.  Some of the dialects he found hard to follow but even then he preserved.  After all, many of the island Greeks themselves struggled with the peculiar village accents.    So when it came to leaving my children I decided there could be no safer hands than this obstreperous elder son.  When leaving, I would announce to his siblings, “Obey your brother as you would me!”  After all, leaving a ten year old in charge was dangerous enough, without authority it would be impossible.  He turned out to be fair and firm.  Much more even tempered than myself.  I once returned to find the four year old banished to his bedroom and ran to find a sobbing child howling pathetically.  However, when I questioned him as to the fairness of his punishment, the four year old reassured me by announcing that he’d been a very bad boy indeed and deserved his punishment.

This ten year old’s zero tolerance of bad behaviour was combined with a level-headed approach.  No huge swings in emotion like his mother.  He was a pragmatic child-minder.  Marshalling his considerable skills to this task just as he had to the Greek language barrier and with equal success.  He did not believe in corporal punishment or verbal abuse. H seemed to have twigged at a young age that when you have a modicum of control over yourself, control of others becomes easier.  What pleased me was the good humour he brought to the task.  He may have hated being on this island and furious with his parents for transplanting him but he did not vent his fury on his younger siblings.  A sense of justice was a reassuring quality to find in this rebellious youngster.  His capacity as a major caregiver meant over the years he felt empowered to point out my inadequacies as a mother.  These, I had to take on the chin.  If someone has filled your shoes with skill and good humour they are entitled to point out your failings.  It has long been apparent to me that my mother, of the generation above, and my son, the generation below were infinitely better at this is parenting business than me.  I brought a lot of love to the task but very little practical ability.  My sons have proved themselves long suffering and remarkably loving in response.  They are much nicer human beings than I, thanks goodness!  As a parent, I look on in amazement that I was given the privilege of having such lovely characters in my life.  It has been epic to share life’s journey with them.  Never, in all the years of working in UK and Europe did I ever experience the quality of these three very different individuals. I suspect all mothers feel the same, but I feel duty-bound to be thankful for the gift they have been. 

To my eldest son thanks for being that odd mixture of intelligence and lightness of spirit.  To my middle son for the loving creative intuition he brings to all encounters.  For my youngest I can only celebrate his fearless passion and honesty.

But, I know with a deep certainty that we were not left alone on that island.  A marvellous array of wonderful people flooded into our lives.  From all walks of life they surged around our home.  Jimmy and Eleni, Tzampika an George, Ursula, Harold and Arline, Lyndsay. Maria, Dimetrious, Una, Karen, Zeni, Themis, Eleni, Vasilis, Leive, Mary and Nizam the list goes on and on.  My sons were surrounded by gems in the community. I can only bow my head in appreciation for all those who stepped in and stayed in our life, filling it with love and laughter.

We could have been contenders!

Every Boxing Day when we called up around Armagh direction with relatives in Keady, Markethill, Caledon, Tynan, Killylea we entered a strange border territory that was almost foreign to us.  Down long endless lanes to farms we found doors flung open and hoards of relatives would fill rooms eager to learn your news and share theirs.  The yearly pilgrimage coincided with the Killylea hunt on Boxing Day and I was fascinated with the huge steaming horses prancing around Main Street.  My eldest brother felt differently and referred to them as big smelly animals that could fart from both ends.  Years passed and my attitude hardened.  I disliked these fancy folk on their steeds who took perverse pleasure from hunting wildlife to death.  Deep inside, I have to confess it was their ‘Hurrah Henry’ accents, crisp riding outfits and tilt of their heads that got up my nose even more than their hunting proclivities. To me they represented the landed gentry, rich folk that were the polar opposite to my ‘poor pig farming’ background.  In contrast to the hunting fraternity, my relatives like Uncle Archie were genuinely impressive; he intrigued us children, by having a conversation with us each year consisting solely of farts.  Auntie Sally fed her grandchildren with huge lambing coke bottles with a teat on the end and the babies were all huge beaming Buddas on her lap.  Auntie Eve winded her babies by holding their bare bottoms to the fiery range and we were intrigued by the engine ‘put, put’ sound they made.  Their earthy good humour had us in stitches of laughter.

The welcome at each farm remained as warm as ever each year and it always shocked me how the bloodline of family breaks down all social barriers.  Every Boxing Day when we travelled down from Dungiven, high in the northern Sperrins, I felt embraced by a clan I hardly knew but one that claimed me as their own.  Chunky chickens (a name for particularly fat birds) were smuggled into our boot along with boxes of biscuits and sweets.  It was akin to a family hunting party on a raid.  There were strict rules that needed to be abided by.  If we called into a warm kitchen bathed in heat from a massive Aga and failed to consume a good tea – ham, salad, beetroot with lashings of hot tea, followed by freshly baked cakes my father would be scolded solemnly at the door as we left.

“Sure, this doesn't count as a visit, son!  You hardly had a crumb.  Now, mind you, it wasn't a proper call at all.  You'll have to call again and have a real tea.”

The scolding was intense and serious with deep disappointment that the social niceties had not been adhered to.  My father would bow his head and admit he’d failed his hosts and duly promise to return for an extra call before next Boxing Day.  Given that we called at half a dozen farmhouses on Boxing Day our appetites were phenomenal.  You couldn't get out off a meal by saying that Auntie Annie had already fed you to the gills.  That wouldn't do at all.  So, we learned to develop appetites that consumed all that was presented on plates.  My brothers and I became skilled at clearing table after table.  Only when our bellies ached, bloated beyond bearing did we call a halt.  Dreading the terrible scolding our father would endure, if we were rude enough to leave with only a cup of tea in us.  It was part of our cultural identity to eat meal after meal with gusto.  If only eating had been an Olympic sport we three would have been contenders.  I was, years later, at a Christmas ‘work do’ and had consumed a huge plateful of food.  My colleague next to me was feeling indisposed and could not touch their equally enormous pile of turkey and stuffing etc.  It was second nature to immediately consume their dinner and desert straight after my own.  Their appalled expression said it all.  Training and endurance, I called it.  Sure, hadn’t we as a family eaten our way across Co Armagh for decades?  A powerful appetite is the only proper response to a generous host.  Sure, any kith or kin of mine knows that!

Lost in Translation - what they really mean

We often hear what others say but do we actually understand?  Here are tips to getting clear translation and free advice on good responses.

When a boyfriend says, referring to an ex, "She means nothing to me!"
translation - he's fixated on this woman, drop him like a hot potato

When a girlfriend says. "My previous boyfriend had many faults but he was generous."
translation - she will bleed you of every penny you have

When a man says, "I am a man of few words"
translation - I have nothing interesting to say

When she says, "Why do you always look at other women?"
translation - beware the green eyed monster, unless you enjoy control, get your ass out of there!

When anyone says any of the following they mean the same

1. 'Sorry I forgot my wallet."
2. "Sorry, I don't have change."
3. "Didn't you say you'd get this?"

translation - they are a mean bastard and you will be expected to pay all bills and be grateful for doing so.

When she asks, "Does my ass look big in this?"
Translation - Do you think I'm getting fat?  Do not tell her she takes after her huge Mum and sisters.  Do not agree.  The only response that is fairly safe is to complain bitterly that she has lost too much weight recently.

When he says, "I've had to sort out your kids!"
translation - he has been agressive towards your children because he is angry with you.

When she says, "I think I've got the prettiest hands."
translation - the rest of me is extraordinarily ugly and in comparison the hands look good.

When he says, "I've a fine physic!"
tranlation - This is always said by the over endowed to those who think otherwise.

When he/she says "You never listen to what I say!"
translation - is invariably said by those whose conversation is akin to a dentist drill.

When he says, "Things may be tricky now but...."
translation - means there is much more bullshit ahead.  Whatever rapids you are encountering now are nothing to the drop ahead.

When he says, "Do you want to finish that?"
translation - the beggar is after your food, fork him immediately!

When he says, "You are very clever!"
translation - I cannot stand intelligent women, dumb down or else!

When he says, "Why have you got that face on?"
translation - this means that you no longer have the right to certain expressions.  The only correct response is a beeline for the nearest exit.

He says, "For goodness sake, for once can you make a decision yourself!"
translation - usually said by an over controlling freak who  is bored by having total control.

She says, "Your trousures are caught up in your socks."
translation -  why did I end up with the smuck?

He says, "I like your hair the way it was."
translation - don't change a hair of your head without consulting me beforehand

I am sure you have your own insights on what is behind the words we hear.  Sorry that on reading this, it came across as rather critical.  People sometimes mean exactly what they say, I am sure.