Joe Zammit Ciantar lovingly remembers his late mother and his childhood years in Gozo on Mother’s Day.

When we were still at home, my siblings and I used to call her ‘ma’, and among ourselves and cousins, we always referred to her as ‘il-mamma’ … mother.

Carmela was born on January 31, 1922 – feast of St John Bosco – and grew up in Sannat, a devotee of St Margaret, the patron saint of the village. At school she must have shown very good qualities because the ‘authorities’ used to ask her to teach what she would have learnt to a group of her school mates. And she used to love talking about it.

She became a very attractive young lady. Carmela had already lost her father and one of her two brothers, Furtu, when she married my father – Ġużeppi, from the nearby village of Xewkija, whom she met in Victoria – in the early 1940s, during World War II. They settled in Sannat, and by May 1942 – perhaps the worst year in the war for both Malta and Gozo – she had my sister Lydia and me.

Later that year, on October 10, she lost Lydia, who was hit by shrapnel, miraculously saved five-month-old me from a window sill in a surviving standing wall, and almost lost my father, who was buried in the rubble and wreckage wrought by the explosion of two German bombs let off on the village, at around 10.15am. My father spent 15 days in hospital recovering from the blast he had exhaled and wounds he sustained.

After the war, my family moved to Victoria, in a rented modest house in Sannat Road – today Triq Nerik Mizzi. My father used to work as an engine driver in the Magna tad-Dawl (a small power station), behind the nearby Dominican Sisters’ convent and Pompej church, and the Bishop’s Sacred Heart seminary.

In Rabat, as we knew Victoria back then, our family increased by two sisters (another Lydia and Marija), and two brothers (Anton and Giovanni). I remember when Giovanni, the youngest of us all, was born at home, with Ġuża l-Majjistra (an experienced midwife married to a hairdresser) helping in the delivery, while my sisters, brother, and I were sent to stay at our neighbours, the Rapa family.

Although I did not understand what was happening then, I vividly still remember hearing the crying of a ‘baby’ in our house where there should have been only mother and father.

She miraculously saved five-month-old me from a window sill

One day, I should have been taking care of baby Giovanni, when all of a sudden he slipped out of my hands and fell head first on the floor. Mother panicked; Giovanni was almost dead and he would not utter a sound. That evening, my worried parents took us to Qala, on to Il-Knisja tal-Kunċizzjoni, and down the crypt, to present the baby to the tomb of San Kerrew. Giovanni started crying; he would live.

My mother’s love for my father was unconditional; she was so proud of him. My father loved her as much, too. Yet we never saw them kiss or hug each other in front of us. Still, one could tell there was sincere, full love towards each other and us. They were both proud of the family they had.

Yet we never ever celebrated any birthdays; in our childhood they were special days we never heard of. However, we used to receive strina money on New Year’s Day and presents at Christmastime.

At home, Mother was always doing all the odd jobs she could lay her hands on to bring up five siblings, to save money by sewing clothes for all of us and making shirts for our father. She used to help my father in all the tasks he used to employ himself with, including radio and clock repairing, and… taxidermy. [Father was a qualified and certified taxidermist.] She was very good at diligently skinning birds for him to stuff and put up in a ‘natural’ pose as in life.

Parents Carmela and Ġużeppi with their children, spouses and grandchildren in 1992.

Mother was the schemer and planner of all that was done at home, including making and cooking torot [tarts] with turtle doves’ or quails’ meat. We, her children, helped with errands. She had a very strong character. She used to organise our school needs, take us to visit our grandparents and relatives, encourage us to attend religious lessons, and wake us up every day for the early morning Holy Mass at Ta’ Pompej, only a few metres away from home.

She was very keen on seeing us promoted from one class to another, and obtaining good results about which she would boast with neighbours. She was so proud of our achievements at school.

Mother was extremely happy when I passed enough GCEs to be employed as a teacher. She was in seventh heaven when Lydia obtained good results in her GCEs and was admitted to Mater Admirabilis Training College for female teachers. Besides, she was happy that Lydia had a namrat [lover] too; Lydia was in the best of her youth, a humble, beautiful young lady, always with a smile on her face. She started teaching, in September 1963, at Marsa Primary School.

Three months later, Lydia would start to complain of severe headaches which would eventually become worse, and on May 8, 1964 – on my 22nd birthday – she passed peacefully away. It was tragic for all the family, but above all, for Mother.

She fell into a melancholic mood from which she never recovered. The loss of Lydia was abysmal. Her grief abated a little when I introduced to the family my future wife, Irma, who brought a smile back on her face like which I had not seen for a long time. Even though all of us, her children, had settled with jobs, families, and homes, the look on her face still revealed shadows of sadness… Lydia was missed. Mother never forgot her.

A spell of happiness surrounded both Mother and Father every time they met our parents-in-law; these were always happy encounters they cherished and treasured. After various health complications, my father died in 1994 at the age of 80. At the same time, Mother – who had been supporting him without ever complaining for several years – started to feel sick with... we never found out… some type of melanoma, perhaps?

She passed away 16 months later, when she was 73.

We, siblings, all loved our parents. When I grew up, Father used to treat me as a brother, and when he died I wept as I had never done in my whole life, and felt the world crumbling around me.

Mother must have still treasured the day she saved me in October 1942 and looked upon me as the best councillor in the family. When she died I cried within myself but did not shed a tear. Of course, I loved her, even though in my life I never told her so by word of mouth. Yes, Ma, I loved you, and I still do. To you this writing… on Mother’s Day… I know you appreciate.