In Malta, Admiralty dockyards have played a central, but not invariably acknowledged, role in the industrial, economic, military, educational and, not least, political evolution of the islands.
From around the mid-19th century, they became the largest single employer in Malta, responsible for putting food in the mouths of innumerable families, for triggering trade union consciousness and for defining barriers between the rulers and the ruled. Dockyard workers turned into formidable political forces.
A glass ceiling endured, through which the Maltese rarely broke – higher positions almost automatically went to Britons, however worthy or competent the native.
Security of employment depended on negative, transient circumstances, like international tensions and armed conflict.
Dockers’ plight influenced the native language, like gaxxin, the leftovers from ships’ tables, which went to feed the hungry who could not afford proper food.
Military establishments, like Admiralty dockyards, discouraged (at times banned) photography. That explains the relative scarcity of images of workshops and mechanical and engineering equipment.
Our dockyard boasts of at least one culturally outstanding distinction. In 1858, a British expedition ransacked the Greek Mausoleum of Halicarnassus, in Bodrum, Turkey, one of the Seven Wonders of the World, built c. 300BC.
The looters carted off all the unique sculpture and decoration to UK museums.
They left the plain hardstone blocks in Malta, to face the new extension of Number One Dock, then being built. Malta has wonders of the world but they are hidden in slime.
The contribution of Maltese dockers to the survival of democracy in World War II cannot be underestimated. It is problematic whether those merits still flourished after the end of the conflict.
I may contribute a dedicated feature to the floating dock, if I have enough images.
All images from the author’s collections.