Purse taken today - pickpockets strike!

The day started okay.  Much like any normal day, no better no worse.  I always enjoy waking.  It is not that I am an early bird or especially chirpy in the morning it’s just the thought of breakfast ever cheers.  Our printer is out of ink so my main task for today was to go to the ink cartridge refill place on Malta and get a multitude of empty cartridges filled.  Thus ensuring that at those critical moments when you need to print out a boarding pass, receipt, report etc. the printer actually works.  For once, I wanted to be organised and get a back up supply like normal people.  So that when the ink runs down you just pull open a drawer and grab a replacement.  

The walk is not a pleasant one from Sliema to San Gwan.  All traffic fumes and uneven paths, road works and building dust.  I reached the printers office and got the refills though it took longer than I expected and it meant there was not enough time to walk home to meet my appointment back in Sliema.  Checking with the staff there the closest bus stop was at the main hospital, the Mater Dei, so I walked briskly there.  At the bus stop I used my phone to call and explain my lateness.  

As I spoke there was a surge of people around moving towards the oncoming buses.  I felt a bump on the side and straightened up closing the phone.  Reaching in to my bag I searched for my purse to buy a ticket and found the bag empty.  My purse was missing!  I had those moments of disbelief, followed by a sinking realisation that not only had I lost by bank cards, my drivers licence, my Maltese ID card, all my money and even my Canadian birth certificate.  Then, that bump as the crowd surged around me lodged in my head as the moment I had been pick-pocketed.  You feel a fool, a chump, an easy target.  

You also look around at the people surrounding you with new eyes.  Instead of bonhomie you scan the faces searching for the villain.  Helplessness kicked in when I realised that I could not even afford the 1.50 euro bus fare.  I did not have a penny/cent.  Deciding to report the theft  to the local police station in San Gwan I did some more walking.  All the time, wondering if the thieves were ordering things online with my card?  Were they having a meal on my money?  Laughing at their success as they went shopping for luxuries on Amazon, booking hotels, trips etc. 

Reporting the event in the police station was not a rewarding experience.  Everything is done on computer and it was worrisome that the policewoman was a slow keyboard operator, asking advice from colleagues, getting me to repeat details.  The form to be filled in was endless and suddenly I wanted to be home cancelling my cards not here watching two fingers laboriously type.  Eventually, they gave me a number on a torn out piece of paper.  I presume if you are a tourist on holiday your insurance expects such numbers.  I have to confess I was hoping for an alert officer a bit like Inspector Morse who would be instantly on the case.  Perhaps, checking out CCTV footage at the hospital, sending an undercover officer to study the incident scene.  I know, I know it wasn’t realistic but one hopes. 

When you have been the victim of a crime you feel forlorn, abused and the police you hope are on your side.  The reality the world over is that they are going through the motions.  It is their job to record, put things on paper and file.  They know the pointlessness of it all but it is their job.  I asked at the close of our meeting if I could get a lift home to Sliema.  No, they couldn’t but they could order a taxi for me.  I pointed out that the past hour had been all about the fact that my purse had been taken and that I couldn’t afford bus fare never mind a taxi.  To be sure I had walked all the way from Sliema to San Gwan but losing my purse had drained me of all energy.  To contemplate the long dusty walk back, recalling the event, feeling useless and stupid seemed intolerable.  But walk it, I did and each step I felt peculiar, as if I really just wanted to burst into tears.  Strange emotions running wild, surfing on an anxiety about the bank cards.  

When things go bad, you suddenly know that other bad things can happen too.  Anything is possible.  All sorts of things that would never have jumped into your head are now there.  The very same people I passed on the way up now appeared much more ominous and threatening going down.  Instead of just looking sullen they looked dangerous.  I was glad to get home and get online and cancel cards.  Relieved to find no one had ordered widescreen TVs or run up debts.  Just happy to know the limit of my losses.  It feels strange.  I have absolutely no energy.  If I were an apple it’s like someone took the core out of me.  Ah well, silly to make a fuss of it.  One lives and one learns.  I had grown too relaxed in my habits.  People are usually so honest on islands, it sometimes needs a shock like this to wake you up to the real world.  This article caught my eye in the local press.

Elite pickpockets target bus commuters!  It appears these things happen more frequently that I thought.  One victim lost £500 from illicit use of her card.  When I phoned through to my bank to block my card it was the boredom and slowness of the operator that distressed me.  Of course they are just doing their job but it seems crime is so common we have all become rather blasé about the whole business.  Victims want something back.  A listening ear, even pretended concern would help, a bit of courteousness or sensitivity would go a long way.  One feels stupid enough already without dismissive boredom.  If solving crime, capturing the villain, is so tricky perhaps we could train our police to be a source of comfort and reassurance to the victims of crime, as a basic minimum?

Years ago I visited a dear couple on Rhodes who lived in a farm in a lovely valley.  As we sat under their fruit trees I complained that I never got birthday cards.  My husband pointed out rightly that I never remembered to send them so why should others bother?  Since my birthday had passed I was surprised when our hostess disappeared and then came back and presented me with a bag of her jewellery as a gift.  I was shocked and reluctant to take it but she insisted it was only cheap jewellery and she would be happy for me to have it.  It looked lovely and the colours attractive, with rings, necklaces and bracelets of all kinds.  It was so typical of these lovely pensioners to be so giving.  Imagine my horror to learn the next week that they had been robbed and they had lost so much including even clothes from their wardrobes and most of their valuables.  But on talking to them subsequently, I learned that they had been robbed the day before we called.  They just didn’t want to ruin our visit by mentioning it.  The reason her bag contained only cheap jewellery was because the thieves had taken her best.  To be kind and generous at such a time of stress and loss takes real nobility. 

So I will shut up about my day and leave you all in peace.  Life teaches us many lessons and there are times when you just have to suck it in and respond with whatever goodness you have left in the tin. 

This weeks page views of my blog - unexpected results!

Lying in Style

Was with a small group of junior youth (10 to 13 year olds) at a day camp here in Malta. My role was purely supervision. They had been given a task which they had 45 minutes to complete. All the teams where handed a sheet of information which they had to prepare a presentation on. At the end of the 45 minutes they would all have to present what they had learnt to the plenarily session. It helped we were all outside seated at a park in the sun working at a table.  Another big help was the A2 coloured sheets of cardboard, Sellotape, glue, colourful pens etc. What was an issue was our particular topic, wind erosion. Nearly all of them had already covered this topic at school and were reluctant to become involved with it again.  As they spoke about their school, their total boredom with the educational process leeched into the atmosphere. When I asked them to get started, one covered an area of the cardboard with glue and poured a handful of soil onto the sticky surface. Determined to be encouraging I praised this initiative and asked how they could show it blowing in the wind?  Immediately, a small girl starting work with large arrows but was restrained by the rest, "Do it in pencil, In case you make a mistake”, they said. She drew arrows in light pencil checking with her peers as to size and position. 

My heart sank. What is it about our systems that they kill creativity but bolster self-doubt and and the need to avoid criticism at all costs. The group was concerned that too much space had already been used up by the soil and arrows. “How would they get the rest of the information on the page”. This was combined with various cries of “No way, am I saying anything during the presentation”! The only heated discussion was on who would claim the role of holding the poster. That obviously was a nonspeaking role and much sought after. Since, the wind erosion affected rocks, I suggested perhaps we could include this on the poster I lifted a large pebble and put it on the corner of the poster. The group was horrified. It's far too big!” Followed by, “It'll never stick!” One courageous soul got going with masses of Sellotape and the rest grabbed their own stones and got sticking. Glue turned out to be useless, but by means of half of a roll of Sellotape all succeeded in placing their own rocks. They insisted on checking stability by holding the poster up right and doubling Sellotape on a pebble which showed signs of movement. Water waves erosion of sea arches was captured in a series of five pictures beginning with an arch and ending with two solitary pillars pointing skyward. Rain and it's effects was beautifully drawn in intricate coloured tear drops of rain falling abundantly above a stuck on pebble. 

It reminded me of how I used to spend ages colouring in the sea in history maps for homework. On one on the Spanish Armada I had had tiny blue lines extending out around the entire European coastline.  I cannot remember a single historical fact about the Armada but I recall with pleasure the intricate blue lines faning out from Cornwall in the south to the Hebrides in the north. It took me hours and my history teacher was not over enthusiastic about my efforts. So, when critics began complaining about how many raindrops the girl had drawn, I countered with ample enthusiasm for more! She purred purred in delight and did 10 more of the multicoloured drops. 

We were left with all the knowledge in diagram form but no words. An entire 30 minutes had already passed and there was now growing rebellion about speaking in public. They all looked at the poster's assortment of sketches, stones, arrows and soil. At one point tiny branches of trees had been added to the sides by someone unable to find an appropriately sized pebble. I could see why they were doubting their creation and dreading the public humiliation of having to show it to the wider group.  

I advised them to take one fact each and talk on that. That way each person would only have one sentence to say in public. They reluctantly agreed that this might make it easier. They had a diagram to point to for each fact so that would also help.  There were many doubtful looks at each other. Obviously, they figured their poster would be more confusing than helpful. I pointed out that half the difficulty in explaining the different processes involved was the stupid names given in the text. 

“How about each of you rename them and when you explain to the group use your name instead of the technical terms.”  

There was shocked looks around as if I'd asked them to lie in public. “You mean just make them up!” One shouted. 

“Sure as long as you know what it means, what odds what you call it? You're more likely to remember your own chosen name for the things anyway.” I added. 

This was greeted with howls of laughter and delight. They all came up with ridiculous names.  Wind blowing soil and sand across the landscape was renamed Wind-oh!  (pronounced wind dash oh). Rain water falling into cracks in stones was called H2O Sponge formation. Water freezing in the cracks as ice and causes bigger cracks was renamed Aquacracking. And so it went on. Strangely knowing that they could use their own 'made up' names, all were eager to present their idea. The deliciousness of falsehood in public was heady. So pleased were they with their new terminology they decided to end with a quiz to test if the audience could remember the new words. 

The young presenters had a field day. Each spouting on about about their names. Getting the audience to pronounce it properly. Spelling it aloud so everyone could appreciate it’s cleverness. During the quiz the entire audience remembered each term perfectly, the team was ecstatic! In triumph, they stormed off. One concerned whistleblower stayed and warned the audience that all these terms had been made up. That they didn't actually exist. Just in case someone used them in school. 

“You mean all of them!”  One boy in the front row asked in despair. None of the adults there noticed or questioned the strange terminology. We have long grown accustomed to new terminology and are willing to swallow it down wholesale. 

But it struck me that isn't that what most education is about?  The memorisation of facts and terms and the regurgitation of the same in tests. Knowledge of these code words means passing and ignorance of them failing. Isn't it mostly a complete waste of time that just sucks creativity out of every topic. Education becomes fence jumping, teaching entails training the horses to jump higher and faster over a known obstacle course. Those who mastered this useless skill are called the intelligent among us and go on to further education. More advanced fence jumping takes place. Astute at swallowing terminology wholesale, with excellent memories and obedient regurgitators when faced with the end of term exams. They used to say only the cream of the cream get to university 'the rich and the thick'. Now I have begun to question everything we commonly accept as education. When did we think the information conveyed mattered more than the purveyor or the recipient? Exactly what do we celebrate on their graduation? My son and nephew refused to go to their graduations. At the time, I resented not having the ceremony, the photographs the shared celebration. But, in hindsight, I reckon it was a statement about how little any of that actually meant. Three years of what exactly? The brains that emerge from many of our educational systems are stultified by its regime. Somewhere, along the way they lose that most vital of all things. The passion for truth and discovery. Jaded and unsatisfied they become excellent folder for this world. Hungry for things to buy to fill the void.  We have forgotten that when a horse gallops it does so instinctively, it was born to run free across its landscape. Perhaps, we have forgotten the purpose of education.  If our system converts curiosity into apathy we must ask how can we recapture the joy of learning?  

Letter to a Son

Del (my cousin) flies back tomorrow and it has been a whirlwind of meals/hotel and outings.  The upside is a whole range of experiences that I would otherwise have missed.  The hotel on Gozo was lovely, not far from the Azure window and has an amazing Turkish spa.  Marble tiles with basins of hot and cold water and ornate bowls with which to pour the stuff over you.   The tiles on the huge table and benches/walls are heated.  So whether you lie prone or sit leaning against the walls you are embraced by the wet warmth.  

Power showers are everywhere/plunge pools/swimming pools with massive waterfalls that blast your shoulder muscles into submission.  In the entrance of the spa are jugs of scented oil with which to anoint hair and skin.  Next to the Hamman is a darkened room with sun lounges/cushions laid out among the candles and low meditative music plays you lie tranquil surrounded by the novelty of no distractions.  Your mind settles like a pool without occupants.  A glass stillness reflecting your reflections.  Del and I lay in total silence for an hour, well, Del slept actually.  

In fact, I have observed Del can fall asleep on a canteen table, on three seats in the ferry terminal, prone on a sun-baked wall and even on a bench overlooking the coast.  She even fell asleep ipad crushed between forearms, hands together in supplication.  It is a great gift from God to be able to sleep anywhere!  

I look on amazed and struck by how different we all are.  It is so precious to share time with others as it opens a window to a completely different world.  Most of the time we have to settle for our own small keyhole on things.  I have meaning to write to you for sometime and then didn’t get round to it.  I need to warm up so as to speak.  Get my writing going again.  So forgive my rustiness.  

So satisfying to have those wonderful drawings of yours pour out and thanks for sharing them with me.  I studied them and their names with interest.  When being creative it is hard to know where the pen will go next but it is delightful to see creation unfold.  It is in that inner absorption that makes magic appear and you are fortunate indeed to have a magic wand (pen/pencil) that takes you to such a mysterious place.  Opening that door to an inner place in all of us that we cannot miss out on.

I’d love to see you with your own little art studio room all set up with implements at the ready and walls covered with your creations.  Being able to go to that place whenever the need/desire came.  If I’m honest I’d also love to see you surrounded with lovely people that bask in your ability to love and who also radiate that back.  Being able to have those wonderful nurturing conversations that you engender in all that meet you.  

For me having my own children blew my mind and heart.  It’s like producing a piece of art that is better than anything you can devise.  A part of you and the one you love but better than both of you.  A masterpiece that changes with each day but lodges itself deep within your heart.  With each hug and laugh they embed hooks deep within heart muscle making you melt with joy.  I regret many things I have done.  Wish I’d done so many things differently/wisely/patiently but you three boys have made my life joyous despite all my stumbling.  

Know how much you bring to my life.  How I hug myself in delight at your happiness and am inconsolable when worries cloud your day.  If I had my way I would have wrapped you all in cotton wool protected from all harm but what sort of life is that?  No, I must celebrate your freedom, your independence, your successes and triumphs however hard won.  

Choose good people to have around.  Such fellowship cleanses the rust from off our heart and allows us to lower the barriers that are needed to protect us from others!  There are definitely those that suck us dry emotionally and there are those that we find in their presence our souls grow.  We become people we like more, not less.  Keeping your finger on that pulse that tells us which direction this person brings to us is vital.  You, who are so intuitive, have a great advantage.  I stumble blind in this world, not able to distinguish the good from the bad.  Only through painful experience does my antenna get the message, ‘run, run, run like the wind!’  Well, I did warn you that my writing was rusty so apologies for all this rambling.  I hope you can make more sense of it than I can.  Know that it is sent with all my love and gratitude.  Thanks again for all your love and for making this world sweeter!

Lots of love

Life choices, nose picking and animal heads

People who kill animals to hang them on their walls are like ear or nose pickers who insist on examining the fruits of their labours.  It gives them some sort of satisfied pleasure that just defeats me on all levels.

It obviously makes them happy, but it makes you think about the choices we make and how they influence our lives.  Relationships are another example.

People who are miserable because they have not found the one, should be aware that they are probably not miserable because they are alone.  The more likely explanation is that their unhappiness is their own making.  The world is full of people who tell you they are unhappy because either they lack that certain someone or because the one they have makes them miserable.  The sad fact is that most of us are alone because we prefer it or together because we chose it.  If our choice has made you unhappy – then accept the role you played in that path and do something about it.  Blaming everything and everyone around you cements your powerlessness to change any of it.

Mind you at a wedding I remember my Dad giving a speech.  He concluded by wishing the couple well and said, that "we all marry who we deserve".  At that point almost every couple in the room seemed to look at their partner and think, “What the hell did I do to deserve this?”

Could one honest politician have the courage to say it anyway?

Is it ever so, the wealthy are greeted with open arms? Those who have money to spend are waved ashore.  A boost to the economy, the ring of cash registers heralds their entrance. The poor get no such welcome mat. They pile onto overloaded boats fleeing the intolerable to find the possible. They fill refugee camps around their country's borders. These are not rich enough to woo their suitor countries. They quite clearly are not wanted. They must scurry through dark places. Whatever savings they gather is used to bribe the smugglers. It is big business this trade. People used to earn lots of money capturing Africans and transporting them to be sold abroad into slavery. Now, there is a new currency in human flesh.  Money is to be earned transporting those who cannot bear to live in their homes to countries that do not want them, by those who make a livelihood from the spreading chaos. 

The deaths are a stain on Europe. It's red tide of shame. But compared to the loss of life and danger these refugees face at home, the journey is worth the risk. Does Europe bite its fingers in hatred that the victims don't die or suffer quietly in their own backyard’s? Don't these people see by fleeing to southern Europe they embarrass the developed world. We have become accustomed to the deaths, murders and atrocities of the third world but not in our own borders. However, Bosnia showed Europe could once more stomach the killing of large numbers.  Rwanda proved that even killings approaching a million caused handwringing but no action at the UN. The truth is less palatable than we imagine. The reality is hidden behind feel good charity endeavours. Our shame is not that we don't know what is happening. It is because we don't want to know.  

The system is sustainable because our focus is on our own misery and fears. Terrorism, viruses,  Ebola, bird flu, the weak economy, threatening wars. The distracted developed world is like a selfish adolescent who is concerned only with how things affect them. This mindset has no room for global awareness. No matter what environmental considerations, wildlife extinctions, global warming, pollution of our land, sea and air. Never mind human loss of life the show must go on. Unfortunately, we are reaching the tipping point on all fronts. Beyond which, many fear, there is no recovery. 

Some solutions are obvious. This flawed view that we can continue to abuse and over use the earth's resources to fuel a growing economy at whatever cost. It beggars belief that are our leaders could be so disengaged from reality. They, of course, are singing from the hymmn sheet, that the developed world insists on hearing, business as usual! Everything is limited.  The amount of gold, gas and oil is finite. Natural resources such as water, fish and crops are not only limited but fragile. We would do well to give our leaders a reality check. We cannot grow ourselves out of the present problems. The growth they proclaim as future progress will be at a cost the world cannot sustain. Politicians are obliged to tell us what we want to hear, either business as usual or business better than normal. They fear divergence from this popular script. 

Could somewhere, some leader have the courage to say the unpalatable.  Okay, they will never be re-elected. The truth will have to be their swan song. But, could one honest politician of any nation or background have the courage to say it anyway.

The Charge of the Light Brigade and Florence Nightingale

(first part of this story is given in  Sa Maison and Lady Lockwood this is part 2)

After a peaceful decade of living in Malta with her daughter and son, cultivating her lovely garden Lady Lockwood must have felt a genuine relief that the torment and turbulence of her married life was behind her.  Given the court case and widespread publicity within the British papers of her husband’s abuse her garden and home in Sa Maison must have been a solace.  Few, knew of her here and she could live a quiet life in the sunny and friendly Mediterranean island.  The views from her villa and garden are breath taking and the area to this day has a wonderful calm atmosphere.

It must have been horrendous to find that peace shattered by the onset of war in the Crimean.  The British Expeditionary force arrived on route to the Crimea and some of her husband’s ex regiments were included in the battalions posted to Malta.  It seems a strange coincidence that some of the British force should be billeted in her very garden.  For a year and a half Malta was full of soldiers and in order to get to their accommodation they had to gain access through her garden.  One of the soldiers posted at this time was an artist and his paintings ( and some photographs of troops) in Malta show how much the British Expeditionary force dominated the island during this period.

Having arrived in 1843-46 Various accounts suggest that they needed to use the site of her house to position guns to defend the walls.  They wanted to demolish her house and for a year and half Lady Lockwood held out hoping that she would not lose her home.  Having been to the garden and examined the bastions it seems strange to position the guns on this lower bastion when much higher sites on the walls above would have provided greater height and range.  In the end the military had their way and her villa was knocked to the ground.  It originally was a hunting lodge built in the 18^th century and its seems a shame that such a historic building was flattened to provide two gun mountings.  Lady Lockwood left the island and all that remains are the beautiful gardens and two circular slabs on which the guns were mounted.  On the adjacent walls the military have carved their insignia which can just be made out although weather worn.  I know historians have argued that the demolition  of the house was purely a military expediency but one wonders what other factors played a role in their decision.  All the paintings shown above are by a soldier from her husband’s old regiment the rifle brigade.  In the officer’s circles they must have known of her husband, Captain Robert Manners Lockwood and his disgrace in the press which had happened a few years previously.  From one historical account there is this piece which is tantalising.

‘In 1853 British military experts obtained permission to pull down the house to make way for a gun platform... the decision to bring in the Military experts to decide on the dismantling of the house was taken after Lady Lockwood gave the cold shoulder to a high ranking military official’. 

Who knows?  I found it fascinating to see that there are actual photographs of the troops at the Crimean war.  I had thought that this was before cameras were available but no there are these shots of various officers from this time and it makes it all seem so much closer.    

Florence Nightingale and forty of her nurses visited Malta on route to the Crimea and their services were much needed.  In the Crimean War (October 1853 – February 1856) Russia lost to an alliance of France, Britain, the Ottoman Empire, and Sardinia.  At its end there were 350,000–375,000 dead.  

Florence Nightingale 1854

I remember my father would often quote from a famous poem (by Lord Tennyson) about a battle of the Crimea known as the Charge of the Light Brigade.

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismayed?
Not tho’ the soldier knew
Someone had blundered:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

It ends with a section celebrating their bravery

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honour the charge they made,
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.

A wonderful poem. It is thought a mistake was made in sending instructions to this brigade and they were sent into direct withering fire.  I find it hard to celebrate anything about war and loss of life.  Certainly, no glory or long lasting good seems to emerge from most conflicts.  Over 20,000 of the British Expeditionary force would die in the Crimean war.

“How is it possible for men to fight from morning until evening, killing each other, shedding the blood of their fellow-men: And for what object? To gain possession of a part of the earth! Even the animals, when they fight, have an immediate and more reasonable cause for their attacks! How terrible it is that men, who are of the higher kingdom, can descend to slaying and bringing misery to their fellow-beings, for the possession of a tract of land!

The highest of created beings fighting to obtain the lowest form of matter, earth! Land belongs not to one people, but to all people. This earth is not man’s home, but his tomb. It is for their tombs these men are fighting. “ Baha’i Writings

Yesterday, I walked along the front to the gardens of Sa Maison and found the flowers blooming along its outer bastions.  Spring has arrived and Lady Lockwood might have been delighted to see how much of her garden remains.  Perhaps, as Marcus Aurelius said so succintly around 170 AD, 

“What we do now echoes in eternity.”