Stormy Malta

The weather in Malta this winter has been the worst since 1920. Normally, by now, we could expect balmy days with temperatures between 15 and 20 Centigrade. Not this year. The temperature has hovered stubbornly at around 13 Centigrade, and the wind has been brisk. Nevertheless, we have had little rain and it has been reasonably pleasant. Until today.

The morning dawned grey and overcast, with a strong wind. As the ‘tour guide’, I amended plans accordingly to ensure that we could be in places where there were indoor things to do. Accordingly, we went to the Three Cities and, when the rain threatened, we visited the Inquisitor’s Palace. Emerging some ninety minutes later, the sky had cleared and we were able to sit outside in the square and have coffee.

The break, however, did not last, and as the afternoon progressed the clouds grew more threatening and the wind ever stronger. We went up to Mdina to visit a friend as the storm clouds gathered overhead. By the time we headed back to the hotel the car was hard to control on the exposed roads. The true strength of the wind only became clear, however, when we parked and tried to unload the boot. The wind almost took the lid off and one of us had to hang on to it while the other grabbed our belongings – the hinges just were not strong enough.

As I write this, it is 10.30 at night. The wind is a howling gale and the sea is roiling into St. George’s Bay as I have never seen it before. The rocks where I normally sunbathe are totally submerged and the sea is threatening to breach the next level up. The wind is so strong that, as we walked up from dinner at the wonderful grill, I was almost blown over. We had to fight the door into the hotel open.

It is a magnificent sight; it is elemental and overpowering. But my heart goes out to anybody caught at sea this night. And I am very glad we did not go to Gozo, as originally planned. I cannot imagine trying to return on the Ferry in this.

This Land is My Land

Back in 1977, Dom Mintoff was the Prime Minister of Malta. He was a man with multiple chips on his shoulder, and one was that he disliked and mistrusted professionals. As a consequence of that, he came after the medical profession. As it happened, I was a third year medical student at the time, and my father was Professor of Obstetrics and Gynaecology. I won’t bore you with the details. Suffice it to say that, to our horror, some seventy medical students found ourselves displaced, unable to complete our course in Malta and thrown upon the mercy of the BMA and the medical schools in Britain. Meanwhile the consultants, including my father, were thrown out of work.

I will tell the tale of that displacement another time. Today, I just want to record that, having arrived in England and found a place at University College Hospital, London, I made a decision that I was going to integrate. I was not going to be one of those people constantly harking back to Malta, to what I had lost. I was going to be British! I eschewed Maltese events, perfected my English accent, ensured that I could hold my own in any British company. I was totally integrated. For seventeen years I did not set foot on the island from which I had sprung.

When I came back, it was for one day only, on a cruise ship. I was with my parents. My father was ill – dying – and had asked me to go along. I had been generous and allowed him to pay for my trip with them.  I still cringe when I remember. We were due to sail into Malta at 5.30 a.m. I found I could not resist it. Swathed in a bathrobe, I was on deck at 4 a.m., watching for a first sight of the island. My mother was not far behind me. Only Dad took his time, appearing at about 7 a.m., when we were about to dock.

Mum and I had made arrangements. She was being met by her favourite nephew and taken to meet friends and family. I stepped off the ship to be met by an old school friend, who took me to a series of social events. Only Dad had said that he would play it by ear. I remember looking back and seeing him on deck, waving us off. I still get a pang. How could I have been so unfeeling, so insensitive?

When I got back to the ship, late in the afternoon, I went to find him. ‘What did you do?’ I asked. There was a long pause before he said ‘I stayed here’. I was appalled. Had he not disembarked at all, I enquired? It transpired that he had. When it was quiet, when nobody was looking, he had disembarked for half an hour and walked up and down the quay. Then he had remounted the gangway, knowing he would never touch his homeland again.

I could not touch his pain; could not truly understand the sense of betrayal that so engulfed him. There was nothing to say. But later that evening, as we sailed out of Grand Harbour, my mother and I stood on deck watching Malta disappear, but Dad went below to their cabin and would not watch, or talk about it.

For a long time after that I did not come back. Dad died. Eventually Mum returned to Malta, so I started coming to visit. I enjoyed it, but was resistant to its charms. Gradually, however, I realised what it meant to me. Every time things went really wrong, when life was unbearable, I found myself returning to the land of may fathers.

This week, for the first time, I am here with somebody whom I consider a very special friend yet who has never been before. And I find I am so proud of it, so wanting him to like it, so wanting him to be impressed. And I can no longer pretend. The reality is: This Land is My Land – I belong to it and it belongs to me. We are intertwined and inseparable. I can stray, but it will always call me back. Perhaps, ultimately, that is what home means. It is the place where you can be yourself, whatever happens. It is the place to which, ultimately, you will return. After years away, and many travels, both my parents are buried here. I suspect I may be too.

Could there have been a worse day to be away?

Could there have been a worse day to be away?

Today, I am in Malta. A friend and I are on holiday here. We have had a lovely day, exploring the capital, Valletta, which has an extraordinary array of sights to see and savour. We barely scratched the surface. I was proud of my country, proud of showing it off, proud to be able to wander round the Archaeological Museum and watch my friend be completely mesmerised, even though he has travelled widely in the Mediterranean basin and beyond. This should have been a day of unalloyed pleasure.

Sadly, it was not. As we walked the streets of Valletta, as I showed him the wonder that is St. John’s Cathedral, and as we both stood in wonder before Caravaggio’s magnificent ‘Beheading of St. John the Baptist (is there a more evocative painting?), my mind and heart were back in England, back with my NHS colleagues as they protested valiantly against the Health and Social Care Bill.

Today there was a major rally to protest against the Health and Social Care Bill, that pernicious piece of legislation that will lay the NHS open to competition law, which will increase health inequalities, which will endanger the health of our children. I feel guilty because I was not there, even though one more person could not have made a difference. But this was a day for us all to stand up and be counted; to brave the outrage of the government and ensure that our voices were raised in voluble support for this most precious of institutions.

The tactics employed in the last few weeks have been despicable and, I believe, deeply anti-democratic. I quote from a colleague:

‘In a cynical manipulation of Parliamentary protocol, the Government has 
told the Liberal Democrats that they will implement all the Clegg /
Williams amendments once the Health and Social Care Bill is passed, in 
return for the LibDem peers not debating them, and voting against all
 forthcoming opposition amendments. Earl Howe will merely make a 
statement instead of initiating a debate in the Lords. This means that 
not only will there be no debate on Clegg / Williams, but more 
importantly, no votes will take place. With no opportunity for
 Government defeat on a vote the bill goes back to the Commons for 
approval with no possibility of returning to the Lords.’

This is outrageous. In a totally bizarre moment this week, the LibDems voted against their own amendments rather than risk defeating the government.

When did we lose democracy? At what moment, when our backs were turned, were we suddenly turned into a bunch of yes men and women who could be ridden over rough shod? I do not believe this is what England is about. I am a colonial – I grew up on tales of English exploits and, more importantly, on a certainty that England stood for honour and principles. There is no honour here, no principles. So I am ashamed – of my adopted country and, more, of myself - that I was not there. I shall not fail again. I pray that our parliament may also find again the sense of honour that it has lost.

Today, I came home

I am sitting in the lounge of a rather nice hotel on the island of Malta, sipping a glass of the local red (not bad at all) and trying to get my thoughts into some sort of order. I am here on holiday, but there is so much going on back home in England that it feels like the wrong time to be here. Ever since we landed, I have been fighting the temptation to log into twitter and find out what is happening [and I just lost that battle – it is now forty minutes later than when I started this!]

We have been planning this holiday for months; I am Maltese and my friend has never been. It seemed about time that I showed it to him. But when we planned it, I could not possibly have known about the Health and Social Care Bill progress and the important meetings, discussions and demonstrations that are to take place this week. If I had, I would certainly not have booked a holiday.

Now, I ought to confess that I don’t enjoy flying. As soon as I arrive anywhere near an airport, I start to perspire gently and I have to ensure that I haven’t eaten anything for several hours before as it tends to have a rather uncertain, unpredictable and unpleasant effect on my guts. It was very windy at Heathrow this morning. As we boarded the aircraft, we could feel it shaking around us. I muttered something unprintable under my breath: take-off, I felt, was unlikely to be a pleasant experience.

To say I was right would be a gross understatement. As we started to roll down the tarmac, gathering speed, the plane swerved from side to side as the pilots strove to control it in the vicious crosswinds. As we became airborne, the plane jerked about, seemingly totally out of control. I was, frankly, terrified. I was also telling myself that it was all my fault because I had not obeyed my conscience and cancelled the holiday to be at the demonstrations.

Happily, my doom-laden predictions did not come to pass and soon we were above the cloud base and the winds and enjoying a trouble free flight to Malta. Over Sicily, we started our descent. Totally relaxed now (possibly helped by a couple of glasses of wine) I gazed at the Mediterranean, recognised the bank where the tankers and container ships anchor waiting for a space at the Free Port, identified every landmark. Suddenly, we were here.

We got off the plane. I am here with an English friend with whom I have travelled much. Always, in the past, we have hurried through, being the first in every queue. Today I found myself strolling, ignoring the silent messages to get a move on. I stood in the warm spring sunshine and refused to be rushed. And at last I was able to put a name to the feeling: I am HOME.

I left Malta in 1977 as a consequence of the political upheavals of the time. I have only returned for holidays since. Yet today I know, with absolute certainty, that this is where I am myself: I do not have to worry that I speak too loudly or wave my arms about too much; I do not have to pretend to be politically correct; I do not have to be slightly embarrassed or, worse, overly bombastic, about being a practising Catholic; I do not have to pretend that table manners are a thing of the past or that I am not offended when people behave badly.

It took coming here with a good English friend to realise that I am, unashamedly, Maltese, Mediterranean, Catholic, slow, strolling, happy, noisy, passionate. And if that isn’t good enough, then I’m sorry, but it’s far too late to change.

Why?

I was just about to go to bed, when I thought I would check the last few emails that had come in. I wish I hadn’t. They told me that Dr. Felicity Harvey CBE, currently Director of the Implementation Unit in the Cabinet Office, would take up the post of Director General for Public Health. She will lead the Department’s public health teams and will work closely with Public Health England, the NHS Commissioning Board and local government.

Now I know nothing about Dr. Felicity Harvey. I am sure that she is a splendid and highly ethical person. However, looking her up on Google, all I could come up with is that she is the director of medicines, pharmacy and industry group at the Department of Health. Forgive me, but to a PH person, this does not look like PH. In fact, quite the opposite. Surely somebody who is leading such an important PH task ought to know something about the subject?

Call me paranoid, but I begin to see a pattern here:

·      The Chief Medical Officer is no longer the head of the medical service, but only of the PH service [you missed that? So did lots of people, but it’s true], yet she has no PH training at all. She is, in fact, a haematologist, an academic, and head of research. How does that qualify her to head up PH? Why was that not a PH job?

·      The post of Director General for Public Health is similarly not defined as a PH job – in fact, it seems to have been given to somebody with more links to the pharmaceutical industry than to PH.

·      The PH input to commissioning NHS services is being totally ignored and down-graded (happy to supply details).

So I ask: WHY:

·      Is the Government determined to side-line PH?

·      Has the Government decided to ignore all PH trained people?

·      Will the Government not listen to a highly trained cadre of people prepared to do their best to make the system work?

Could it possibly be that we have been too honest, too open? That we have been prepared to be constructively critical?

‘Of course not’ I hear you cry.

Just as we were not excluded, together with most of out medical colleagues, from the summit at Downing Street because ‘we would not be constructive’.

This is not democracy. It is a shameful sham.

Those of us who have voted for the Conservative and LibDem parties in the past will not forget. We will not forget that the NHS has been sold to the highest bidder, with no regard to the people of this country.

SHAME ON YOU MR CAMERON AND MR CLEGG

I DO NOT KNOW HOW YOU CAN FACE YOURSELVES