Souvenirs of God: Broken pieces of a collective memory

By the time this gets published the roaring flames of indignation that spread through the dry desert that is social media would have subsided into warm glowing embers.

A 100-year-old statue used for the feast of Our Lady of Mt Carmel in Valletta was destroyed on Saturday 11 July, ostensibly the result of an accident from a film crew working in the heart of Valletta. The internet went wild.

For those who know me, I am a festa freak, or ‘mejda tal-qubbajd’ as my friends would say. I am fascinated not just by the ritual and spectacle, but also by the insights it has afforded me into humanity. If you really want to understand why people vote the way they do, why they channel their fears into unbridled racism, and why they are indifferent to the very serious challenges facing us, go to a festa.

Festas are the litmus paper for our society. No wonder politicians jostle to curry favour to these communities, not only pumping money, but offering themselves up to ridiculous vote-buying spectacles in front of holy icons. The irony of watching those who indignantly shout ‘foul bloody murder’ at incidents like last Saturday’s shake hands with the very same policy makers responsible for the mess we are in is not lost on me.

Now, I will not profess to speak on behalf of the Valletta community or the festa community, or whatever is left of them. If this had happened 20 or 30 years ago, it would have resulted in nothing more than a little snippet of local news.

Indeed, this is not the first incident of its kind—a similar incident destroyed a similar priceless statue of Saint Vincent Ferrer that formed part of the festa decorations for the feast of St Dominic in Valletta. But this was back when Valletta was still a city, not a theme park.

Let us be clear. Millions have been pumped into Valletta. Dilapidated buildings restored, churches saved, public buildings returned to the nation. One need only mention the Grand Master’s Palace, the Valletta Design Cluster, and the Valletta market. I have the luxury of working in one such Valletta monument—the investment is real and genuine.

Funds have also been pumped into voluntary organisations (including festa organisations) saving many from bankruptcy and eviction. But when all is weighed up, what have we really gained?

Dwindling generation

Back in 2014 I embarked on my doctoral research. I chose Valletta; a community in flux, which had suddenly become the focus of international attention thanks to Valletta 2018 European Capital of Culture. Back then ‘Valletta’ became a synonym for ‘culture’. It also became a brand. ‘Valletta’ was the place to be. One of my first exercises was to interview 100 people who were somehow related to Valletta; who lived there, brought up there, worked there, and by the time I finished in 2018, at least half of them had left the city.

Valletta was being carved out. Blocks upon blocks of Valletta were cleared for short lets and boutique hotels. Property, already unreachable for many, was impossible for Valletta residents. At least 80% of all Valletta festa volunteers do not live in Valletta. The younger generation, though incredibly dedicated, is dwindling. Some pockets survive like

Mandraġġ, Dijuballi, and Arċipierku—but only just. The ones that remain are fiercely protective, to the point of being aggressive and unforgiving. I do not blame them. Never ever blame the victim.

Institutional chaos

No one here is arguing that tourism is bad or hospitality is evil, but put away your mobile phones and experience Valletta through your senses, not the tinted broken mirrors of influencers. Once again, I have the luxury of working in a heritage building. I’ve seen drunk people piss and throw up against our church walls. I’ve seen young party-goers driving the wrong way, entering pedestrian areas, and reversing into street furniture. The music from certain establishments can be heard from two to three blocks away with street DJs, full on rock bands, and rave parties in historic buildings. And we haven’t even started on the streets over-run with advertisement boards, tables and chairs, and peddlers selling cheap wares.

That chaos is exacerbated even at an institutional level. No-one will shoulder responsibility because no-one can. A policy of divide and rule has ensured that blame is endlessly shifted around. Who is to blame for the shattered statue? The film crew? They will blame the law enforcers and the permit givers, who will in turn claim that this is not a local council matter, but a government matter, who will in turn claim that the government should not interfere and micromanage, and that there are institutions like the Malta Tourism Authority who will of course not get involved in what is possibly a criminal action.

Altar of greed

These might seem like trivial things, but they have serious repercussions. Valletta festa organisations have to go through a labyrinth of permits and regulations. If an eating establishment refuses to remove furniture to allow festa decorations to go up, the police are unable to intervene, or at best have limited powers. Eventually, like all things in Malta, these volunteers (and let us not forget that important point) have to resort to speaking to ‘someone’—a minister or high-ranking civil servant, who will invariably offer a short-term solution, in return for electoral loyalty, thereby perpetuating this dysfunctional cycle.

In 2023 the Maltese festa was inscribed in the official UNESCO register of Intangible World Heritage. It happened not because someone spoke to a minister or high-ranking official. It happened because the Maltese festa is unique—it is simultaneously a complex piece of community theatre and a depository of great spiritual and cultural beauty. Once you destroy that community what you are left with is a cheap piece of cultural roleplay. It is also a title that comes with huge responsibilities. Festas are precious because they reflect something about us. Right now, what we are projecting to the world is a broken statue at the altar of greed.

All our policies, strategies, manifestos, and solutions to all our problems can be summarised as, ‘change things by offering more of the same’. More tourists, more TCNs, more schemes, more funding, more buildings, more roads… more, more, more! And crucially, everyone is crying for change without wanting to be that change.

Collective memory

The problem is not a broken statue; the problem is a broken community. With every gentrified building, and with every displaced Belti, we are losing centuries of narratives that have shaped the city. The statue of Our Lady of Mt Carmel has been carried around the streets of Valletta every year on 16 July for centuries. It is the repository of the hopes and dreams of a nation. Every piece of festa decoration, including that broken statue, is part of a complex web. Even I remember that statue as a childhood memory. To destroy it is to destroy a collective memory.

I wrote that everyone wants change, but no-one wants to change, but what happens when we have no other option? To whom can we turn to when we have been made so dependent on this ungodly system? I have refrained from mentioning political entities or institutions not because I have any personal preferences or fear anyone, but because they are ultimately all part of the same broken system. This last election has made that abundantly clear. I have no easy solution to offer. I, like you, are left mourning the broken pieces of a collective memory.

God is murdered

Many are familiar with Nietzsche’s ‘God is dead’. God is not ‘dead’—God has been murdered, butchered, and sold as souvenirs by false prophets promising new gods.

Even our values are nothing more than products churned out from the anus of amoral capitalism. Who do we turn to when God is dead?

Perhaps I can ponder this as I wander the streets of Valletta, with a little souvenir of God in my hands, as I gulp down an over-priced sandwich served by a TCN whose daily wage is less than the price of my sandwich. I will then wander aimlessly as loud noises are belted out from armies of speakers, as I wade through a sea of tourists, eagerly looking for their own little souvenir of God in this empty shell of a city—as empty as our motherland shouting ‘Melita Christiana’ whilst her high priests peddle cheap luxury goods and kitschy souvenirs of God.