J'accuse : Pontius Pilate

In this time of pageants, processions and crucifixions one character of the paschal narrative tends to get less attention than all the rest and yet I believe that this country owes him much more attention. This man happened to be prefect of Judea at the time when one of humankind’s most important stories was unfolding and much has been written about him. I believe that one matter about the equestrian Pontius of the Pilati family has been overlooked by scholars: he HAD to have been a Maltese citizen who had been transferred for some work in the Middle East.

It is quite a pity that only the Ethiopian Orthodox Church has recognised Pontius Pilate (and his wife) as a saint for I believe that statues of the prefect would be very apt in many places around the islands − chief among which would be our House of Representatives. A Saint Pontius picture would be a mandatory part of the civil servants’ uniform in this country that has huge difficulties separating the religious from the civic and social. It’s all about the washing of hands after all…

The Divine Comedy

Depending on which gospel you follow, Pontius Pilate has different levels of responsibility for the condemnation and crucifixion of Christ. Christian lore through the ages − from the early Councils to Mel Gibson has shifted between the responsibility of the Roman masters and that of the Jewish participants in the passion. No matter who you follow, the personality of Pontius sticks out as one who wants to put a huge distance between himself and the destiny of the man who appears before him under the spurious accusation of having claimed to be King of the Jews.

Pontius is the kind of man who performs logistical somersaults and carries a bag with a multiplicity of excuses so long as he can wash his hands of the decision to inculpate the man from Nazareth. He will forever be tied with the symbolic idea of washing his hands in order that he may hopefully sleep with a clean conscience. Blame, if any, for a mistake, is to be laid at the feet of someone other than this prefect. John reports the torment faced by Pontius: the man bold enough to ask of Ieshua of Nazareth: “What is the truth?” Having interrogated Jesus at length, Pontius famously proclaims “I find no fault in him”(John 18:38). And yet…

Master and the Margarita

And yet… Finding no fault is not enough for the man who holds the highest seat of temporal power in Judea at the time. He is after all a bureaucrat who has to feel the pulse of the people he rules. He senses that the political powers that be are not very much in Ieshua’s favour and that he needs a way out. It is only then, and after having offered a feeble alternative (release the criminal?), that he chooses to wash his hands. As he washes his hands of the fate of one individual − “I am innocent of this man’s blood − you will see” − it’s clear that Pontius has his own conscience at the top of his agenda.

And that, you see is the crux. Saint Pontius is every civil servant who allows the political masters to oblige him to twist the application of the law to fit their needs and statistics. It is those civil servants who turn their administrative jobs into a little fiefdom of bureaucratic pen-pushing, toying with the rights of individuals in order to get the thrill of “power”.

There are Pontius Pilates all over the place − those who either apply the “work to rule” on a day-to-day basis. Then there are the 69 special Pontius Pilates who sit in Parliament and who will wash their hands of the responsibility to decide for or against divorce legislation in a responsible manner. They will seek refuge behind their “conscience” − like Pilate, it is their conscience that trumps the right of the individual.

Claudia Procula

In today’s world, the search for the truth that so tormented Pilate has become more convoluted. Those whose responsibility it is to serve the needs of social justice are becoming more and more used to economising with the truth. Whenever necessary, they have become used to the ritual of washing their hands. In their personal balance of truths, the main reconciling element is the idea that their conscience remains clean whenever they wash their hands.

“M’ghandix x’naqsam” (I’ve got nothing to do with it). “Dak mhux xoghli” (That’s not my job). “Hekk qalulna naghmlu” (That’s what they told us to do). A legal immigrant in possession of a long term residence permit who is trying to get his family to join him in Malta might find the stone wall of civil service Pontius Pilates too hard to overcome. A person in need of proper treatment in radiology might find that there have been too many Pontius Pilate politicians since the last equipment was purchased. And so it goes…

Il Uomo Vivo

It might be very distasteful of cynical J’accuse to raise this matter of Pilates on the day when most of Malta celebrates the return of the king. But not as distasteful as the GRTU’s sudden newfound holiness when faced with the possibility of a supermarket chain opening its doors on Good Friday. This had nothing to do with social or religious conscience − it is the way of things in this country. A businessman threatened with competition will suddenly become holier than Annas and Caiaphas put together and will seek out the local version of a Pontius Pilate who will easily appease the baying hounds so long as he thinks that his conscience is clear.

The problem in this country is not that it seems to be full of hypocritical bible bashers but that the very bible bashers rarely take some time to sit down and learn the lessons that may be found within their weapon of choice. Happy Easter from the island where time stood still.

www.akkuza.com listening to Il Uomo Vivo this Easter Sunday.

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Ministro Mignotta

In the vein of the unforgettable Spiru (Spiridione) Sant and many others here is Italy’s answer… Pennachi. Enjoy.

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The Enthusiasm of Youth

Three days into my stay on the island and I am getting a bit of a tan notwithstanding the sporadic games of hide and seek played out by the big orb in the sky. I must continue to apologise for the relative laxity of updates on this blog but the mind and body have been engaged elsewhere for most of the past week. Hopefully the holiday period will allow our new thoughts to settle and inaugurate a spring of blogging ecstasy.

Today I had a happy trip down memory lane visiting Uni Campus and even got to visit a very changed KSU premises. I got to meet some of tomorrow’s future. It’s same same but different out there. On the one hand I left the quadrangle convinced that there is a lot of enthusiasm among the students of today but on the other hand I was also convinced that this enthusiasm is being wrongly channelled. The usual suspects still rule the roost and the end result is that whether it’s SDM, Pulse or a third movement we are talking about there is very little “Thinking Different” going on and very much mimicking of a failed formula. The pity lies in the waste of potential and enthusiasm – but hope springs eternal and I am sure that not all is lost.

Another little bit of info that struck me is that seven years into EU membership very few students are eager to leave the island upon graduating. There seem to be many reasons for this – relationships, the rush to get into a job and of course, the rat race. Be that as it may I still cannot understand why the number of graduates who are eager to discover the world out there and take up the challenge are so few and far between.

I’m off to a family reunion now. There’s some kinfolk I have not seen for quite a while now and there will be much catch-upping to do. We’ll catch up with the social and political commentary later.

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The Common Good Nazis

Austin Bencini has been busy spinning the “hurt” every single anti-divorce lobbyist must surely have felt when their position on the Common Good was equated to that of the Nazis. How bloody typical. “Twegga‘” (it hurts) is a common adjective in our Don Camillo and Peppone political parlance. It is a technique favoured by the politician who was dying for an excuse to avoid the subject matter and discovers that the opponent might just have thrown him a lifeline with some vague and spurious accusation. Twegga‘ is the political discussion equivalent of the footballer faking an injury and squirming on the ground in the hope of conning the referee into an undeserved send-off.

So there you have Bencini and the anti-divorce parade taking a break from the God Will’s It theories to switch to the sympathy approach. “We have been unjustly accused of being Nazis”. Not. From the little I have read of the yawn-inducing exchanges between the army for marriage and the battalion of the second marriage nothing could be further from the truth. It’s no as though the fact that equating the Nazi arguments for the common good to those of Austin Bencini will change anything from the actual substance of the debate. But Austin does not care about that does he? He cares about labelling his opponents as liars while squirming on the ground faking a career-threatening injury.

Now where’s the referee?

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J'accuse : Pulses

The metaphor is normally “il-polz tal-poplu” − the people’s pulse. It’s the measure that most politicians used to go by for a long time. Ever since a few avant-garde British colonials decided to experiment with the classic idea of a republic and created a charter for “We the people”, the question of what people want was upped a few echelons on the political scale. It would only be a few years before the apocryphal uttering of “Let them eat cake” would signal the final straw for those who dared think that the man in the street’s opinion counted for utter pish.

We’ve gone full circle since then, and the equally metaphorical ear on the ground has become the staple food for many a budding politician. Too much so in fact, since the efforts to appease the masses and to pander to popular demand risks making a prostitute of our Madame Republic. The people’s pulse has become the bread and butter of every politician in the post-9/11 world. Values and party principles count for naught and the old -isms have become fantasies and fiction.

Thusly, a modern and progressive politician will praise a fascist Italian decision to not comply with international rules in the name of the national interest. “Mhux fl-interess nazzjonali” − now that’s a big one. If the “people’s pulse” leads to prostitution of political values then the modern concept of “national interest” and “common good” is an open invitation to a free-for-all in a whorehouse. J’accuse has bemoaned the dilution of party political values for years now − only to be derided as an “armchair critic” or self-important pontificator. It is only now that the mud is falling away from their fawning eyes that the former critics have begun to notice that our political “elite” is stuffed with the crème de la crème of incompetent lackeys.

Lima

Deprived as I am of first hand contact, I am dependent on the feedback provided by social networks. I am fully aware that they are not the full picture of the goings on in Malta but they do provide a particular snapshot and perspective. Take today for example. I gleaned from a quick perusal of online updates that the general mood on the island was a grumpy one that befits the religious occasion that was being celebrated. “A typical Our Lady of Sorrows day” wrote one punter − and it seems that the clouds were out and about in order to provide the right ambience for the solemn occasion.

It must be because Luxembourg is no longer as Catholic a nation as it once proudly was, but the deities that are failed to provide the same setting of decorum in this corner of the world. This week’s Le Jeudi (a weekly Luxo newspaper) carried a special report about the plight of immigrants. The series of articles was entitled “The frontiers of solidarity” and highlighted the issues surrounding the “politique d’urgence”. Luxembourg’s asylum seekers come mostly from the Balkans but the difference in nationality of origin does not mean that they face different problems than those we face in the Mediterranean.

The biggest worry is that the “massive influx” of asylum seekers from the Balkans would highlight the lack of receiving structures and that this would lead to the Immigration Ministry taking “hurried decisions on the fate of asylum seekers”. Sound familiar? Well, that’s not all. Luxembourg is also not very happy with the EU level of collaboration. NGOs in Luxembourg are angry that notwithstanding previous lessons that should have been learnt, nothing much has changed recently.

Lentil

On the one hand they will discuss the “Marshall Plan” for the Maghreb. On the other they will mention that in the case of the Sudanese, Erithreans and Somalis going to Malta it is not a simple issue of sending them back. The pulse in Luxembourg is clearly on cue. They are much more on the game than some of the politicians closer to the scene. Pulse-wise, there is something wrong when a progressive politician suggests taking advantage of the Arab Spring to boost national tourism. It gets worse when the same politician lauds Italy’s heavy-handed nationalism on the matter of immigration. All we needed was a Christian Democrat minister announcing new oil drilling projects while any potential Libyan protestors are distracted.

The pulse of the people is twisted. It is twisted because of an elaborate machinery that translates to GIGO (garbage in garbage out) in modern talk − or “you reap what you sow” in Luddite parlance. We are unable to see the hopelessness of a situation like a uniformed policeman telling dark skinned men to “Go back to Africa” but we will harp and harp on the “freedom of expression and need for censorship”. We have collectively fallen for the dupe that is “public consultation” in the divorce debate. We are struggling to cope with the idea of a modern open society when our instinct and upbringing keeps raising the ghosts of a nanny-state past.

47 varieties

And then there are our representatives. Our politicians of the future are deceiving themselves (and others) by unearthing the unwilling complicity of long dead heroes of another era. Only today I had a tiff with a Labour exponent who tried to link Manwel Dimech to today’s progressives. Neither Manwel Dimech nor Nerik Mizzi nor Don Luigi Sturzo would be falling over themselves to be a part of this political mess that we call parties nowadays. It is no secret to anyone, but the most baffling part of it is that most of us are content to continue to propagate the lie.

At the rate we are going, the political vultures will be pecking at a carcass that has offered a pulse too many for its hungry mouths.

Appendix

I almost forgot. This article is due an appendix of its own. The chief at the Maltese Translation Unit at the Court of Justice asked me to plug the next round of concours for lawyer-linguists. What does that mean? It means that suitably qualified individuals (yep, you do need a law degree among other things) should be on the lookout on the EPSO website as an open exam for the new intake will shortly be announced.

www.akkuza.com On the island for the Easter break.

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The Absurdity of Football Time

Football fan Patrick Galea penned this piece as a facebook note. It could very well have been entitled “the Theory of Relativity as Applied to The Game”. He has kindly agreed for it to be reproduced here as a sporty/geeky Zolabyte. Cheers. (and Forza Juve of course)

It is not a secret to football fans that the working of the clock during a game depends entirely on how many times the goal nets have been favourably hit. And if your own team’s net is to be hit at all, just hope that at the very least it is hit favourably, that is, on the right side. The right side, as it turns out in these cases, is always the outside. The reverse applies to the other net, of course, and the inside of that net is where the biscuit is at. That’s football for you: try and score one more than them; and if you are a fan, hope that your team keeps your afternoon in tact and scores one more than the others, those gutless, hate-inspiring evil bastards.

And there’s 90 minutes of that.

Or so they say.

In truth, the time available for favourable net-hitting is like a new-age yoga instructor: exists in another dimension, and has a penchant for flexibility. Like the king of frustrating retorts when all you seek is a straight-forward answer: “it all depends”. It goes to show that whoever coined the term ‘like clockwork’ was not thinking of football time-keeping. Chances are he never watched a competitive football match either, because time during matches goes into Alice-in-Wonderland mode and changes its rhythm and tempo according to the digits on the scoreboard.

There is no news there. That the experience of time is subjective is hardly a Nobel-winning discovery. Indeed, this sentiment is captured easily enough by such common morsels of wisdom as “time flies when you’re having fun” and “clocks go slow at the place of work”. The ruling principle is obvious, time seems to speed up when you’re enjoying yourself, but drags on infinitely when you are not. But as well as this general idea has served the humans in their daily business, it just does not apply to football.

Masochistic tendencies aside, the general assumption underlying this point is that fans, being supporters of a team, should be enjoying themselves when their team is winning, and by obvious logic, should hate it when it is not. You would think then that a winning team’s supporters, being joyful of a favourable score-line, would hardly notice the time going by. But it doesn’t work like that. Time does not fly when your team is winning, especially when that winning margin is one measly frustrating goal and the contest has reached its final segments, around that 80 minute mark. No, time does not fly. It sticks. It lurks. It hangs around idling as if it were a sunny Sunday in a picnic park.

Lest some brave soul dares suggest that the sudden decrease in the pace of time is merely an illusion brought on by a heightened awareness of the clock, I can assure them that it is not. Proof: when a fan’s team is losing by a goal to nothing, or an equally gut-wrenching goal difference, when every bad pass, throw-in, or a millisecond stop is followed by glances at the clock, when fans are basically watching more of the clock than the game, time does nothing that resembles slowing down. It goes faster than you can say “Is that five minutes already”? Hail the absurdity of football time. Unlike other life situations, favourable circumstances in football do not always make time rush, and unpleasant ones do not sedate time into co-operation.

Substituting hyperbole with a dose of realism for a second (or an hour, depending on the score), I guess that the absurdity of football time owes itself to the perennial contest between optimist and pessimist tendencies inside the football fan. Indeed, none of the above applies if your team has a cushion of several goals or if it is losing by some. And most definitely, none of the above applies if your favourite team is Manchester United, who are practically guaranteed to score in the dying minutes whenever they need to (Fuckheads!).

The hazy optimism of the possibility of scoring and the reality of diminishing time to allow it, as well as its counterpart, the persistent pessimism of conceding and the slow and ample time that makes it possible, are only triggered by a vague sense of realism that anything can happen in football. Indeed, the optimist and the pessimist inside the football fan eventually synthesize to become the realist, the fan who knows too well about the possibility, or the probability, that their team concedes in the dying moments of the match, who has surrendered all hope, who knows that the elusive last second goal that would win points for the team will only ever happen if it is immediately followed by a ridiculous raised flag on the side of the pitch. This is the beautiful game. A game which constantly pits pessimism against optimism and the umpteenth triumph of one over the other leaves the loser mysteriously unscathed.

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Zolabytes is a rubrique on J’accuse – the name is a nod to the original J’accuser (Emile Zola) and a building block of the digital age (byte). Zolabytes is intended to be a collection of guest contributions in the spirit of discussion that has been promoted by J’accuse on the online Maltese political scene for 5 years.
Opinions expressed in zolabyte contributions are those of the author in question. Opinions appearing on zolabytes do not necessarily reflect the editorial line of J’accuse the blog.
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