It takes a street in a village

The doorbell rang. It was the monthly exchange of affable banter. Landlord at the door, we swapped items, which included a touch of the ‘bubbly’ not to be shared with his better half, he insisted with a twinkle in his eye and a happy smile. 

Back to work for me.

The doorbell rang, again. “Odd time of day,” I thought. 

Opening the door, I say in my best Maltese: “Sorry, I only speak English, Dutch or German. How can I help you?” I asked this with a wry smile.

My wry smile? An attempt to be cute to cover my irritation at being disturbed, yet again. I assumed this was a daytime delivery of a late parcel from Maltapost.

But my smile changed to concern. I heard a strained and stressed announcement in Maltese. Whatever it was, this was no laughing matter.

Donning my ever-ready N95 mask, I stepped out into the street, as I heard my informant say: “It’s the old man who used to live here.”

There, sitting on the curb, hunched over, nose bleeding, shaking and ready to vomit, was my landlord. He had tripped on the curb, fallen and sat there in abject pain, moaning slightly. No small thing at 75-plus years. No small thing at any age.

It was shocking to see his slight human form brought low; crumpled, literally sitting on the street.

We jumped into action. A nurse from the flat opposite, grabbed a bag so his retching would not become another clean-up issue. She plied a cool cloth to his head, speaking to him in reassuring tones; all the while, assessing his mental state as he sat slouched and barely coherent.

I bowed near him cautiously, gently touching his back. I told him I would call his wife to let her know what had happened. The ambulance was on its way. A neighbour down the road rang for help and now stood, a sentinel, directing the driver towards our fallen senior.

I ran inside, ringing my landlord’s wife. She’d already heard. Long-time street residents and friends made sure she’d been informed. ‘Better than jungle drums,’ I thought. I delivered the message that she’d meet him at the hospital emergency room. She was leaving straightaway.

As I returned to the scene, others gathered. Mister didn’t speak but nodded. Some stroked his back. Someone covered him with their jacket. Another covered him with a blanket as he shivered from head to toe.

Yet another provided a cushion to ease the pain of hard concrete abutting thin flesh.

He was encircled in concern and neighbourly love. Some sat eye-level with him, gently, quietly murmuring words of comfort, soothing him in the language of their choice, assuring him the ambulance was coming. Soon his wife would join him. In a moment, he’d shift to a brightly lit, comforting station, warmer than the concrete perch on which he now sat. 

The ambulance arrived. With help, he stood up and walked. He was whisked away to the local hospital a few streets over.

We all stood up, we masked Samaritans. Automatically, we distanced ourselves as we thought of COVID, yet remained chatting, concerned for mister’s well-being.

Drifting back slowly to our homes, we were shaken and deeply stirred by the compassion we’d just witnessed for one helpless, crumpled soul.

Many things can be said about this ‘wee island’ archipelago. I don’t need to replicate it here. For me, though, Malta has been, and always will be, about its people. Warm, loving, engaging, supporting. No, not perfectbut what culture is that?

If I fall, pray God, let it be here.

Elisabeth Leembruggen-Kallberg – San Ġwann

Let justice be done

As the father of a disabled son, I am amazed and disgusted that some of my compatriots (some of whom occupying senior positions in government) could stoop so low to  devise a scheme to divert funds (anything between €5 and €10 million is being mentioned) that could have been used for the benefit of the disabled but instead were channelled to disgruntled supporters of the Malta Labour Party with the intention of “buying their vote”. 

It beggars belief and cannot be defended by anyone from the prime minister downwards.

My hope is that all, without exception, who contributed in any way to this wicked and fraudulent scheme are brought to justice without delay.

Tony Zammit Cutajar – Lija