My farthest excursions in life took me only a few steps to make. In the dead of night, sometimes as late as 3am, sitting on the rooftop on balmy summer nights when all is calm and quiet, all I had to do was tilt my head back. Instantly, I found myself light years into space, staring into the dark, mesmerised by its deep beauty.
I would be staring at the stars, counting twinkles, or studying Jupiter’s moons. When our own moon hid most of the stars, I’d be studying its cratered details, especially with the aid of its crescent shadow, zooming my telescope in at increasing magnitudes, desperately trying to keep up with the moon’s speed on my non-motorised telescope, constantly chasing the sphere as it travelled out of sight in only a few seconds.
Other times I’d be out with just my binoculars, enjoying the wider field of view while hunting for Messier objects, and usually ending up staring at the Pleiades, entirely captivated by the Seven Sisters’ enchanting beauty. Most of the time, however, I’d be out with just my eyes in search of a splendid visual, and my mind in search of an interpretation. Poems were of great assistance in the latter endeavour, and I recall one in particular reflecting on man’s greatness despite his cosmic insignificance; we are so small, yet it is precisely our awareness of this fact – an awareness that larger, more majestic objects, lack – that makes us so big.
Knowledge and awareness is also what makes the night sky so fascinating. Ignorance will keep its heavenly beauty in the dark. One cannot appreciate this outwardly magnificence without knowing what it stands for; besides the larger objects like the moon, telescopes will only reveal a set of bright dots, and even Jupiter and Saturn may disappoint those bereft of imagination, especially these days when technology has made our imagination lazier.
Knowing that the smudge in your binoculars’ field of view is actually a whole galaxy located approximately 2.5 million light years away (and, therefore, 2.5 million years ago), and that this is the farthest object, both in space and time, that you can witness with the naked eye, adds a degree of excitement and mystique to astronomical observation. The wonder of being able to see the past is accessible only to the wise man, not the brute.
To anyone lacking sensibility, the images in the eyepiece will only represent what they look like, and not what they are.
For the creative and knowledgeable mind, however, the sky at night holds many wonders. Even without fancy equipment, armed solely with the optical tools Mother Nature bestowed upon us, there are many objects of interest to look out for.
Constellations are always fun, if sometimes challenging, to make out, and finding the Big Dipper – an asterism that is part of the constellation Ursa Major – should be the first thing budding astronomers do. A double star in that asterism can easily appear as one to those of weaker sight; distinguishing Alcor from Mizar is therefore an interesting exercise for the beginner. I myself never passed the test: my binoculars always revealed the twin star that my eyes constantly failed to discern. So much for the Roman army.
As enlightening as my forays into the dark were, I knew there were light forces at play.
My love for astronomy has always been hindered by light. Once, during a boat astronomy tour that took stargazers off the coast of the archipelago to the darker skies under which the Mediterranean Sea vigorously dances, I got a glimpse of the curse incurred by the island, and I saw the monster from afar: an unhealthy pink dome menacingly enveloping the whole island, isolating us even further from the rest of the cosmos.
By contrast, out there on the water, the skies were blanketed by white dots of light: stars were literally all over the place, and there were so many that I had trouble locating familiar constellations. It was a sight to behold (as everyone onboard intended to do), the likes of which I had never witnessed before: incredibly magical, yet so extraordinarily ordinary. Despite the rocking of the boat, which makes serious stargazing impossible, it still remains my most thrilling astronomical experience to this day, not least because it was my first opportunity to witness the real beauty that lies hidden beneath the light pollution above us.
Knowledge and awareness is also what makes the night sky so fascinating
Being a trip organised by astronomers, it had naturally been planned to coincide with the best observation conditions, and the moon was therefore nowhere in sight. Andromeda could be easily seen, and as I let my sight enter this enchanting galaxy, an aesthetic black hole where mindfulness is easily lost, I lamented the fact that I was being robbed of this beauty every day – or, rather, night – of my life.
There are some places in Malta where night still provides simple and free natural pleasures. The cliffs at Dingli and Mellieħa are infamous pleasure spots, even among astronomers. Still, that pleasure is wholly afforded to those looking out to sea – anyone turning their gaze 180 degrees will be able to see the contrasting poverty of the sky above land, as if an iron wall had been erected among the clouds.
Perhaps we should have official blackout nights allowing people to witness the mesmerising beauty that they are being deprived of: perhaps that would motivate them to act on curbing this light problem.
Meanwhile, the blackout in the heavens will persist: our skies are so heavily lit that they aren’t dark enough to be lit by stars.
In Hungary, away from the city lights of Budapest, citizens can still enjoy dark nights, as their vast countryside and the roads connecting these parts to the capital (including the motorways) are dimly lit, and this has enabled me to truly witness the beauty of the Perseid meteor shower, which can regale stargazers with an average of one shooting star a minute when the moon does not make an appearance. Last summer I was even able to capture some of these meteors as they shot past and seemingly plunged into a pool.
While not as dark as Hungary (it has three astronomical observatories and two parks listed in CNN’s ‘22 best places in the world to stargaze’), Gozo has always been luckier than her sister island in this regard, enjoying darker skies thanks to its more rural environment, and being home to picturesque villages where the beauty of starry nights can still be savoured while basking in the dark.
That this is now also under threat is very sad news to me. The whole island, small as it is, should keep enjoying the natural heritage given from above through intelligent and minimal lighting, but it is not surprising that eventually most of the urbanised areas will succumb to this light malady.
It is unthinkable, however, that a site like Dwejra, its injury still fresh, could face the same fate. A dark sky heritage area, Dwejra can remain the best place for stargazing only if absolutely no lights whatsoever are introduced. Someone not familiar with astronomy might not appreciate the importance of this, but astronomers go to great pains to ensure that no light intrudes on their observation sessions. One of the first things I bought along with my telescope was a red flashlight precisely for this reason, and this is a common tool among astronomers who want to see things in the dark without introducing blinding light that resets their visual adaptation to the dark.
I’m not really worried though, because I am sure everybody will be up in arms against any light development. After all, during the warmer months we are seduced by so many ‘under the stars’ concerts and activities, advertised to us (and tourists) on a daily basis, that I’m sure the question pops up in everybody’s head: How can we offer an event under the stars if we put a blanket over them?
Unless, of course, we come up with some tasteless technological solution providing some artificial star light show, effectively killing off the last of the stars from the Maltese summer sky. Hopefully, we’re smarter than that, as one does not need to be particularly bright to realise how dim such an idea would be.
My roof barely sees any stars these days. Just a bland, monotonously blank sky. The stars do not care, for they cannot, but I, being human, can and do. I still cannot recall the name of that poem that posited this as a counter to arguments for our cosmic insignificance, in the spirit of Pascal’s ‘thinking reed’ argument. But I do recall another poem, written by W. H. Auden, and I joyfully accept the responsibility of being the more loving one.
And even though stars don’t give a damn, as an astronomer I have indeed missed them on many days. So I cannot in all honesty say with the poet that: “Were all stars to disappear or die, I should learn to look at an empty sky, And feel its total dark sublime, Though this might take me a little time.”
My learning would probably take forever, but I am hoping that we can prolong their lives by slightly longer than that.