My Memories of Freedom Day - Manuel

My  Memories of Freedom Day

Manuel

During the run-up to Freedom Day, I was quite heavily involved in politics. I was 23 at the time and an active member of the Għaqda Żgħażagħ Soċjalisti, but, rather than joining a local branch, I felt far more comfortable within the ranks of the Għaqda Studenti Soċjalisti -  a small grouping of University and Polytechnic students enjoying official status within the Għ. Ż. S., but which had acquired a reputation for dissidence. Its leading lights were two law students by the names of Wenzu Mintoff and Toni Abela.

After the 1976 elections, discontent began to creep in the minds of a small number of Socialists, many of whom were students. The wanton violence during the 1976 election victory celebrations – the large number of PN clubs ransacked had prompted Dom Mintoff into issuing the sole unequivocal condemnation of Labour thug violence I can remember  during his 13 year premiership – the institutionalised favouritism, the crass manipulation of the sound and vision media, the  absolute inability to differentiate between government and party,  and shameless sycophancy towards Mintoff displayed by most Ministers and the party hierarchy jarred horribly with the much-vaunted Democratic Socialist credentials of the MLP. That small group of upstart students was almost the sole voice raised in public protest from within the Left.

Doubts about what was happening we had aplenty, but about the absolute political importance and necessity of Freedom Day we harboured no uncertainties. The 1964 Independence Agreement clinched by George Borg Olivier was a sham – or so went the received wisdom within the ranks of the Left.  The British, who had denied Mintoff’s demand for independence in 1958, were prepared to grant it four short years later to the PN, obviously - we had convinced ourselves - because the spineless PN lacked the fibre Mintoff possessed and could only offer a flaccid resistance to British claims to retain, after Independence, not only the use of the Island as a military base, but also the right to control all communications (sound, airport, sea-ports) and broadcasting. In return, Malta was receiving a paltry £5,000,000 yearly, most of which was in the form of a loan. It was Mintoff – through the brinksmanship and tough negotiation at which he excelled – who had, in 1972, negotiated a more respectable deal for Malta, one which ensured enough funds and aid to enable us to build up an industrial base to absorb the workers who were employed with the British services.

The prospect of real freedom from foreign domination whether in a colonial or neo-colonial (one of the buzz-words of the 70’s) form, together with the unbounded admiration anyone with a social conscience had to have for the extraordinary achievements in the social field during the 1971-76 legislature, was what kept the dissident Socialists within the MLP fold. Real independence - and a welfare state which eradicated poverty from the island - was worth almost any price, even a degree of erosion of human rights and the tampering with institutions which guaranteed democracy. 

Of course, what we did not like to admit to ourselves was that having been staunch MLP supporters for years, the emotional ties with the MLP were very painful to sever, especially in the context of a polarised community, many of whose members viewed the supporters of “the other side” with abhorrence, if not downright hatred. Most of one’s friends and relatives identified with the MLP, and the prospect of cutting loose often brought with it concerns about social isolation, and in some cases, fear of family conflict. It was much more comfortable for one to resolve misgivings by focussing on, and perhaps inflating, the significance of the closure of the British bases, in order to save one from having to cut the chord.

The Opposition’s attitudes made the decision to stick to the MLP easier. In the first half of the 70’s the PN was viewed with derision, led by once-great leader well past his sell-by date, riven by internal conflict between the majority of MP’s and an increasingly beleaguered Borg Olivier, and upholding a conservative ideology out of tune with the socially-conscious times. Later, when BO’s tenacious grip on the leadership was finally loosened and EFA could take over, and the PN started to embrace more progressive ideas, one could point at very opportunistic stances it took to make life difficult for the government, supporting (and fomenting) industrial strife and opposing all “progressive” initiatives undertaken by the Labour government. Moreover, where they were in the majority, (in the banks, in the Civil Service etc), Nationalist supporters often ganged up on, and bullied, the weaker, more isolated Labour supporters – our parents, our brothers and sisters, our girlfriends and boyfriends - and made their life hell. At a time, when there were widespread accusations that the Socialists wanted to monopolise most things, hatred towards political opponents was certainly not the sole preserve of the MLP. No, it wasn’t difficult to justify not going over to the Nationalist camp.

As the date approached, the sense of expectation and apprehension was high. The Nationalists and their media apologists (DCG may not have been around then, but Roamer certainly was)  had latched on one of the concluding phrases in the Government’s five year plan – “after the 31st March 1979 the future beckons’’ – to generate widespread fear of what awaited Malta once the fateful day arrived.  Labour supporters tended to speak of the forthcoming 31st March 1979 in the awed voices and hushed tones more appropriate to a guided tour of heaven. Everyone seemed to think that something truly cataclysmic was about to happen after that day. I remember arguing with a couple of staunch Labourite friends, and with my then girlfriend – a dyed-in-the-wool Nazzjonalista – that nothing would happen, neither good nor bad, and that life would be exactly the same afterwards. They all sincerely believed I was bonkers to say that.

In the event, the ceremony took place in driving rain. I believe the actual lighting of the torch had to be done twice to allow it to be captured for posterity – something had gone wrong the first time round. I wasn’t among the delirious crowd, but sound asleep in bed. In retrospect I think that by that time, enthusiasm for politics had evaporated, and my priorities had re-arranged themselves. When I woke up the next morning, the first thoughts were not about freedom, but about what joke I would play on my girlfriend later on in the day…..