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I had heard that not long before his death, my nephew Julian Manduca had been enquiring about the asylum seekers detention centres and why, if those held in them were being treated humanely, journalists were not allowed to visit them.
Hal-Far is not far from where I live so I decided to walk there on quite a warm afternoon. One walks out of Birzebbuga along Triq il-Gebel (appropriately named) along a dusty, slightly uphill road. Along those 2 kilometres there were capers, honeysuckle, wild fennel, prickly pears, and mallow growing, but all having to compete with an endless stream of litter – full and empty plastic carrier bags, plastic containers, cartons, wrappers – and abandoned vehicles in the fields beyond, a number of apparently abandoned houses, and others in a state of neglect. This is the Maltese early 21st century countryside.
Soon I began to notice young black men walking in the same direction as myself – all smiled and nodded to me, in a dignified and polite way – I don’t suppose they see many middle-aged solitary women walking to where they are living. There were no signs to tell me whether the road led to anywhere. Two men from Eritrea walked alongside me. I asked them how far to where they lived. “Five minutes to ‘Freedom’,” said one, “Military further on” – he indicated with his hand into the distance. I walked with them. They had spent 5 months “in prison” since they arrived in Malta but were now free to go out from the Hal-Far centre. They aim to go to England and have mobile phone contact with friends there. They spoke about the strife they had escaped from. I asked how they found Malta and the Maltese people. One of them spoke about broadening minds – that if people did not travel much or read much about the rest of the world they would not know much about people and situations in other countries. The way they thought and perceived things would be bound to be narrow and, he added, “what is more, they seem to think all Africans are criminals”. Asked about their spoken English they said they had learned it in Eritrea. I asked about their treatment in detention and was told that some, but not all, of the staff had ill-treated them. They sounded positive and optimistic about their future: I said that the UK would not be paradise on earth though there is much to commend it.
Further on I came to old barrack blocks and several women and children. A fair-sized playground with small boys kicking a ball. Little girls ran around their mothers. There were lines of washing everywhere – mostly children’s clothes. There was nowhere pleasing for these people to go and sit outside unless they were going to walk along the dusty road away from the camp – nothing in close walking distance, no sight to cheer the soul; the land around was just littered. I spoke to two of these women in French and English – they were from the Congo – both seemed nervous and disturbed and we did not get very far, I asked what their food was like and one mother gestured to her daughter to lift the lid from a foil dish of which she was holding a pile. This contained mashed instant potato and chopped carrots and peas with two thin slices of something fried in batter – possible chicken. All cold. It looked like an old aeroplane meal. “We don’t eat it” the woman said and when asked what they do eat she said “we get bread” and showed me a packet of pale hamburger buns.
Upstairs men were pacing up and down outside the barrack rooms. There was a Maltese man standing by his car and I asked him whether he had some connection with the camp. “Yes,” he said but added no more, neither did he ask me who I was and why I was there but only where I lived. When I said San Gorg ta’ Birzebbuga he wanted to know my “laqam” – I do have one but it comes from Gharb in Gozo so he would be unlikely know it. In answer to my question about the camp he said everyone in it could go out now (not previously) and that they are better off than we are “because they get free medicine”.
I walked to another section where there was an entrance to a building and a board “Immigration Reception Centre” – I approached the building but did not go in – there were no officials, no one to ask anything nor to ask what I wanted. There were three empty sentry boxes. A Somali man sat on a bench – he told a similar story to the Eritreans about war in his country. He too had been detained in Floriana, but now had “freedom”. He was sad because he had left his parents behind.
Lastly I met an Eritrean woman who was visiting a friend here – she was based in Floriana but, clearly, not in the detention section of it. Asked about the food there (always a non-controversial kind of question) she said that in Floriana they cooked their own food. This woman seemed cheerful, she was dressed in Western clothes but other women nearby were wearing the hijab. A bus arrived and disgorged a large group – about 50 – of uncertain origin. They were pale skinned with oriental looks which was puzzling.
Back on the road several buildings had ETC boards, giving an email address for enquiries about apprenticeships. One board said ISTC – the S standing for Security I believe.
A very old, bent Maltese man came towards me pushing the frame of an ancient pram with a cardboard box in it, in which he was placing old bottles and other items. His dialect was so strong, he was toothless and hard to understand. He was concerned that I was out there alone at 8 pm (in fact it was 6). Was I looking for “tal-linja” he asked? A few feet away a black man was talking into his mobile. A bizarre clash of cultures, the old man as alien to contemporary Maltese people as the black man was. Even the much younger man who had asked my “laqam” was not typical of today’s urban Maltese.
At the entrance to another road, which led to a building, there was a big ETC board . As I stopped to wonder what might be in the building two ferocious dogs approached both coming straight at me. I moved away and was saved by a woman who stopped her car and spoke to me. Mercifully the dogs decided not to follow me. Were they guard dogs? Who or what were they guarding?
I understand that Malta and Australia are the two countries which keep asylum seekers longest in detention. At the time of my visit Maltese journalists were prohibited from visiting the detention camps. I walked back through the squalor of Triq il Gebel, back to Birzebbuga.
I had found out very little. I was not stopped by anyone. I never identified the “military” building which the Eritrean man had gestured towards, in the distance. Nobody stopped me, nobody seemed to be in charge. I had witnessed nothing but a godforsaken piece of my homeland, peopled by desperate, hungry and malnourished people, some of whom I had managed to speak to. I came away with as many questions in my mind as I had arrived with. I certainly did not recognise this as part of the Malta I was brought up in.
Helen Caruana Galizia
United Kingdom
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