University… I have some vague memory of that. You could be forgiven for thinking the mistiness descends through a haze of nostalgia, but reality is I resided on an undesirable street in Nottingham that bore witness to two murders during my time there (sorry parents, forgot to mention that).
And I was gifted the pleasure one dark evening of being greeted by a small but determined crowd who kindly offered to brick my shared rented house (as in, lobbing said items through windows) unless a poster put up by one of my housemates advocating support for British troops was taken down within 10 seconds.
The reason I can recall only select episodes of my time there is because the poster to which I refer – saying something like ‘Support our Boys’ – made its ill-fated appearance during the first Iraq war, not the second.
Yes, that long ago.
But I do remember, quite clearly, how violated my housemates and I felt – even though three of us had voiced our disapproval at our fellow tenant displaying the poster in a neighbourhood partially populated by a Muslim community – at being threatened with menaces to remove it. And I beg for your understanding when I confess that any faint temptation to argue the merits of freedom of expression was immediately trumped by an urgent need for self-preservation.
I also remember, in vibrant technicolour, the daytime hours of my very first week, Freshers Week no less (it had another name, but let’s not go there).
Barely 18, I had moved away from home for the first time in my life and was suddenly about to embark on a lifetime journey of discovering that I knew much less than I thought I did.
Walking around the Student Union building, one was exposed to a 100 clubs and societies that catered for almost every interest, viewpoint and inclination known to young man and woman.
I drifted past tables manned by Palestinians, Jews, Catholics, Protestants, Conservatives, La-bourites, Kung Fu instructors, ballroom dancers and an eclectic array of weird and wonderful pursuits. None was asked if the other could be there but all were keen to engage freshers in conversation.
In the event, I made relatively modest choices: the campus radio station, newspaper and one called The Honourable Society of the Inner Temple, which my grandmother thought was a religious sect until being enlightened that it was actually connected to the very aptly named Bar.
The rector’s belated decision to do the right thing has not fixed a very evident problem
Oh, and in my spare time I studied a bit of law and politics. After all, my degree subject was the reason I was at university, right?
That’s certainly what I had thought during a long summer of anticipation. But after my new world was revealed to me my perception of a higher education establishment changed forever.
Sure, the BA-whatever was important enough to indulge occasionally; but in those first few days I learned that university is about so much more than that.
It’s a society in its own right. Or at least it ought to be. Which is why, along with others, I was overcome with utter dismay at the actions last Monday of University of Malta security guards who confiscated an ‘Ian Borg mask’ from a student who had the temerity to attempt to recruit freshers as Graffitti activists.
As a catalogue of errors unfurled, the University proceeded to issue a statement condoning this medieval conduct (insert expletive here) before making a bad situation worse by adding that political mockery is inappropriate as the event is visited by “various dignitaries” (insert stronger expletive).
The rector then recoiled in an embarrassing retraction the following day and it was no doubt mere coincidence that this came after his first reaction was universally condemned even by hallowed politicians.
Let’s get a few things straight: For starters, Freshers Week is no place for dignitaries. If they choose to go – and who on earth wants them there? – it should be only on the explicit understanding that they are subject to the student house rules of free-thinking. And if they feel insulted as they pose for their publicity shots, then so be it.
Secondly, if the country’s educational elite are not able to challenge views, prejudices, arguments as well as developing their minds and personalities at university – let’s not forget that in Malta students do not benefit from experiencing the challenges and collegiality of life away from the mollycoddled confines of their parental home – where else can they go?
Political party clubs in their local village, perhaps?
The rector’s belated decision to do the right thing has not fixed a very evident problem; on the contrary, his behaviour throughout has shown that, as the University’s supposed guardian, he is at best part of it. Changing this mentality requires deep thought and, if necessary, root and branch reform.
Failure to effect this will leave Malta with a university that by its very nature stifles the development of young people and wallows in self-imposed irrelevance.
My images of undergraduate life may have faded a little, but one thing remains crystal clear: if I were a student today I’d rather take a brick through my window than settle for that.
Steve Mallia is a former Editor-In-Chief of Times of Malta.