We have, in this country, an extraordinary ability to ignore the elephant in the room. And the tiger, the warthog, the coronavirus and a murder conspiracy stretching from the criminal gangland right up to the highest office of political power.

For months, we behaved as if the coronavirus was harmless. Hundreds got infected every day. Dozens died every week. And that, we were asked to believe, was not just normal. It was, in the words of our prophet and prime minister, “heaven on earth”. Sadly, the coronavirus does not watch One TV.

Now that we dragged our health services to the edge of a catastrophe, we’ve been ordered inside, where we can only receive people from three other households to spread the virus around.

If we’re angry about what’s coming out of the courtroom, we can raise our fists at the TV like disappointed football fans. Nobody hears us.

We are asked to reconcile another categorical claim declared by the “we’ve-won-the- war-against-coronavirus” prime minister with a reality that is stubbornly inconsistent with his assertions.

“Vince Muscat, il-Koħħu”, the prime minister assured us, “has not mentioned politicians to the police.”

If he’s right, they must have been very surprised when they heard him in court speak Chris Cardona’s name. And Keith Schembri’s. And Justyne Caruana’s then husband Silvio Valletta. And Cardona’s ward and protégé David Gatt.

Except we all know the police weren’t surprised at all. Muscat this week told the courtroom the same story he had told the police in late night interviews since April 2018.

There’s understandable frustration that none of these people are in handcuffs but if Muscat’s testimony is all the police have, we are still far from prosecutions. But remember this. The police and the prosecution service are so convinced that Muscat is telling the truth that they are relying on him to bring to justice the conspirators he was close enough to, to provide evidence that can secure their conviction.

This may not be enough for a courtroom. But it sure should be enough for the people of this country to draw a political conclusion. This murder, its planning, its approval, the political consent it required, its execution and its cover-up needed and acquired the wilful, callous, and determined participation of the topmost officials of the Labour Party and its government.

How does Robert Abela deal with this? The way he deals with any reality that is inconsistent with his wide-eyed delusions of immanent eschatology.

He lies to himself and the rest of us. Muscat named no politicians. Muscat named no politicians. Muscat named no politicians. There, it’s all right now.

For months, we behaved as if the coronavirus was harmless. Now we have dragged our health services to the edge of a catastrophe- Manuel Delia

I imagine that, in order to live with himself, Abela watches One TV all the time. Consider how they cover the coronavirus. The protocol says that, 15 days after someone is recorded as having contracted the virus, if they’re still alive, they’ll be recorded as having recovered. Watch One TV report in less than 15 days’ time that the government miraculously cured a record 500 people in a day.

How do they do it? It’s not that complicated if you think about it. This week, their court reporter was blogging what Muscat was saying.

The moment il-Koħħu named Cardona, a gremlin hit the Labour propagandist’s laptop and froze it for a while.

When Muscat mentioned Schembri, One TV coverage stopped altogether for the day.

The rest of us continued reading elsewhere what Muscat was saying. He was giving us his point of view of a narrative we have been putting together again and again for the last three years. He took us in the place in Bidnija we least wanted to be, inside his head and the heads of his accomplices.

The only point of view that deserves empathy is the point of view of the victim. It is not hard to empathise.

I have written about Gatt, about Cardona, about Schembri. They can’t have liked what I wrote about them and they’re roaming free without a realistic prospect of that condition changing.

Is someone 10 metres away from me, watching me as I write this by my home office window?

Are they discussing whether a bomb would be better than the rifle they’re trying out?

Are they assessing right now when it would be the best time to take me out? Are they worried about what I’m writing and are they keen to stop me quick? Are they deciding it won’t matter if my wife and our children are with me in our car when they decide to blow it up?

I’m not trying to flatter myself with the notion that I am “irrelevant” enough (to use Joseph Muscat’s description of Daphne on the eve of her killing) to be worth their effort of plotting to kill me.

I am, rather, pointing out that the state’s complicity allowed Daphne’s killers (from Castille to the Marsa potato shed) to plan, execute and hide the murder of someone in their way. When Abela stands in front of us and denies reality, he is assuring repeat offenders they can get away with it again.

Omertà spreads viruses as effectively as it can kill journalists; or straight policemen, prosecutors, attorneys, magistrates, prison guards, activists or anyone who dares confront the reality that Abela denies.

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