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This EU plan for a standing force and a new security council puts small states in a real bind. There are clear gains: faster access to supplies, shared stockpiles, and quicker help if a crisis touches Maltese waters or trade routes. Those are practical things that matter.
At the same time, neutrality shapes how Malta speaks to the world. Any deeper military ties would need careful legal checks and an open public conversation. Shifting posture without clarity risks political fallout and diplomatic strain.
A middle way feels sensible. Focus on logistics, humanitarian work, cyber defense, and maritime tasks that fit national law and public feeling. That gives Malta resilience and access to resources without open ended combat obligations.
Money and capacity are real constraints. Joining pooled programs costs something, but it can bring training, tech access, and partnerships. Make sure any commitment comes with clear expectations about what Malta will get back and how costs are managed.
Legal safeguards matter. Parliamentary oversight, sunset clauses, and strict mission limits can keep cooperation consistent with neutrality. Clear rules about when Maltese assets are used will make public debate less speculative.
Staying at the table, even modestly, preserves influence. Silence might protect neutrality in the short term but could reduce Malta’s ability to shape decisions that affect the region. Be present with firm red lines.
Maybe the best posture is cautious engagement: keep neutrality as a guiding principle, but allow targeted cooperation that strengthens resilience and protects national interests. It’s not tidy, and that’s okay. It leaves room for debate and for adjustment as events unfold.
One family in Balzan was tal-Ħobż because they ran a bakery. A family in Sliema was tal-Paddy because of an Irish ancestor nobody can now trace. People from Ħamrun are Tas-Sikkina, of the knife. People from Tarxien are Tar-Redus, of the droppings, and they have fought about it within living memory.
The “laqam” is the nickname that told you everything about a Maltese family that a surname never could. It is one of the oldest surviving pieces of Arabic culture in Malta, and it is quietly disappearing.
There’s a strange feeling that comes over you when you watch a Youtube video clip like this one. Part of you laughs at how clumsy it all looks. Another part of you feels a small knot forming in your stomach, because you know this is only the early stage of something that will grow sharper and harder to spot. And perhaps the most unsettling part is realising how quickly people adapt to it, almost without noticing.
The video shows a row of AI‑generated women, all styled as if they’ve stepped out of a recruitment poster. They repeat the same line, with the same odd rhythm, as if someone pressed copy and paste on their personalities. It’s so stiff that you almost want to look away. Yet this is already being used to push political messages, and that alone should make us pause for a moment.
What stays with me is not the artificial faces. It’s the idea that someone, somewhere, believes this is a workable substitute for real public support. When you reach the point where you need to manufacture people to echo your views, you’re not building a movement. You’re filling a void.
And still, I think the bigger danger sits elsewhere. It’s in the way people now dismiss real events by calling them fake. The transcript mentions a journalist verifying a genuine incident, sharing it, and still being told it was AI. Even after official confirmation, some insisted it wasn’t real. That part hit me, because I’ve seen the same pattern in other contexts. Once someone decides that a fact is too uncomfortable to accept, AI becomes the perfect excuse to push it away.
This is where things get messy. If every uncomfortable truth can be waved off as synthetic, then the ground beneath public debate starts to crumble. You can’t have a serious conversation when half the room insists the table isn’t real. And you can’t measure public sentiment when the loudest voices might not even exist.
The presenters in the clip talk about how humans now behave like bots. They’re right. You see it every day. Short, clipped statements. Recycled lines. People posting things they barely seem to believe themselves. It’s as if the culture has absorbed the habits of automation. And once that happens, spotting the difference between a real person and a generated one becomes less about skill and more about instinct.
There’s also a quiet sadness in the way creative industries are being reshaped. Hollywood, programming, media — all feeling the pressure. Jobs thinning out. Skills being pushed aside. It’s not the first time technology has changed a sector, but the speed of this shift leaves little room for people to adjust. You can sense the anxiety in the transcript, and it’s not misplaced.
I keep coming back to one simple thought. If we lose the ability to agree on what is real, then everything else becomes noise. You can’t build policy on noise. You can’t build trust on noise. And you definitely can’t build a democracy on noise.
Perhaps the real challenge now is learning how to stay grounded when the information space feels like it’s drifting away from us. It’s not about rejecting technology. It’s about refusing to surrender our sense of reality to it. And that starts with something as basic as slowing down, checking sources, and remembering that not every image or clip deserves our immediate belief.
It’s not a perfect solution. But it’s a place to stand while the ground shifts.
Europe’s critical systems are ageing quietly while the threat grows louder. Sabotage isn’t a headline anymore — it’s a strategy. The question is whether policymakers will act before the next cable is cut.
It’s hard to ignore the pattern that’s been building across Europe. Russian sabotage operations didn’t just rise last year — they almost quadrupled. When numbers jump like that, you start to realise this isn’t a passing phase. It’s a strategy that’s settling in for the long haul.
What troubles me most is how exposed our critical infrastructure still is. We’ve known for years that a lot of it is ageing, patched together, or running on systems that feel like they belong to another era. You can almost picture the old software screens still glowing in control rooms that keep whole countries running. And when so much of this infrastructure sits in private hands, the gaps in responsibility become even wider. Governments depend on systems they don’t fully see, and companies carry risks they were never built to manage alone.
Then there’s the quiet part of the story — the submarine cables. They sit on the seabed, out of sight, carrying almost everything that keeps the European economy moving. If you’ve ever paused to think about how much of our daily life flows through those lines, you start to feel a bit uneasy. They’re strong, yes, but they’re not untouchable.
Russia knows all this. That’s why these operations matter. They’re not random acts. They’re part of a wider effort to wear down Europe’s resilience, to make governments hesitate, to create just enough uncertainty that unity becomes harder to hold. And because this activity sits in that grey space between peace and open conflict, it’s easy for policymakers to feel stuck. You can’t respond as if it’s war, but you can’t treat it like routine mischief either.
This is where the wake‑up call comes in. Europe can’t keep treating critical infrastructure as something to fix later. The threat has moved faster than the policy response, and that gap is where the danger sits. If we want to protect our economies, our energy systems, and even our political stability, we need to treat this as a priority rather than an afterthought.
I think the question for policymakers now is simple enough: how long can Europe afford to wait before strengthening the systems that hold everything else together. The answer feels uncomfortably clear.
There’s a moment when a country announces new aircraft and everyone feels a bit lighter. You see the photos, the price tag, the promise of better coverage, and you think, yes, this is the right direction. And to be fair, it is. Crews who have been stretching limited tools for years deserve better. The public deserves better. So the positive reaction is natural.
But once that first wave of optimism settles, you start looking at the numbers and the patterns, and the picture becomes more serious. Malta has a long history of buying capable platforms and then struggling to keep them flying once the warranty period ends. It’s not a secret. It’s something you hear quietly from people who work around these systems, and you see it reflected in the gaps that appear whenever an aircraft goes down for heavy maintenance.
The core problem is simple. A small fleet has no cushion. When you only have two or three helicopters, one grounded aircraft isn’t a minor inconvenience. It’s a national capability drop. And when the Italian Military Mission left with its AB212 helicopters#, that cushion disappeared overnight. Malta suddenly had to carry the full weight of 24/7 SAR coverage with no external redundancy. That shift increased flying hours, pushed maintenance cycles harder, and placed more pressure on crews who were already doing a lot with very little.
This is where the sustainability question becomes unavoidable. Buying a new helicopter or aircraft is the easy part. Keeping it flying for ten or fifteen years is the real test. And that’s where Malta has struggled. EU funds help with acquisition, but they don’t cover the long tail of ownership. Spare parts, mid‑life upgrades, avionics refreshes, simulator hours, and the specialised training that keeps crews sharp all fall on the national budget. When the fleet is small, every delay hits harder. Every supply chain issue becomes a capability issue.
There’s also the human side. Engineers, avionics technicians and experienced pilots are hard to retain. Civilian aviation offers better pay and clearer progression. Losing even a handful of specialists can ground aircraft for reasons that have nothing to do with hardware. It’s a quiet problem, but it’s one that shapes the entire system.
So while the new investment is welcome, it doesn’t fix the structural fragility that has been building for years. And perhaps this is the part we don’t talk about enough. Malta doesn’t just need new aircraft. It needs a sustainment model that matches the responsibility placed on these platforms. It needs long‑term contracts that don’t collapse when budgets tighten. It needs technical career paths that keep people in uniform. It needs a realistic understanding that resilience isn’t created by purchases. It’s created by systems that stay standing when things go wrong.
If anything, the new aircraft should be the moment when the country steps back and asks itself a harder question. Are we building a capability that can survive the next decade, or are we repeating the cycle where everything looks strong on paper until the warranty expires?
I think the answer depends on whether Malta treats sustainment with the same seriousness it treats acquisition. If it does, then this investment becomes more than a headline. It becomes a turning point. If it doesn’t, then we’ll be back in the same place in a few years, celebrating new platforms while quietly worrying about the ones that should still be flying.
And maybe that’s the real takeaway. Progress isn’t just about buying something new. It’s about building a system that doesn’t fall apart the moment the spotlight moves on.
Malta is drifting through a security environment that has already changed, and the uncomfortable part is that everyone else seems to have noticed except us.
Across Europe, drones have shifted from being a hobbyist nuisance to a daily operational factor. Airports disrupted. Energy sites probed. Border regions tested.
The EU responded by building detection grids, counter‑UAV doctrine, and rapid‑response layers that mix sensors, jammers, guns, missiles, and civil‑military coordination.
Meanwhile, we’re still debating whether preparing for any of this somehow violates neutrality, as if a hostile drone will politely consult our Constitution before crossing the shoreline.
Colonel David ‘dp’ Attard’s argument lands because it’s grounded in reality, not theatrics.
Malta’s infrastructure is compact to the point of fragility: one airport, one main port, one power station, a few desalination plants, a handful of subsea cables. A single drone incident in any of these nodes would ripple across the entire country.
That’s not fear‑mongering; it’s basic maths. Small states don’t get the luxury of redundancy. When something breaks, it breaks loudly.
What makes this even stranger is that the tools already exist. The EU is pouring money into counter‑drone research, joint procurement, and shared training. These programmes were designed for countries exactly like Malta — small, resource‑limited, and exposed.
Yet we’ve chosen to sit out, insisting that neutrality means abstaining from defensive cooperation. It doesn’t. Neutrality never meant self‑inflicted blindness. It never meant refusing sensors, refusing training, refusing the ability to detect a threat before it’s already overhead.
From an air‑defence artillery perspective, the gap is even more obvious. Traditional AAA was built for fast jets, not palm‑sized UAVs with tiny radar signatures and erratic flight paths.
Modern counter‑UAV defence starts with detection: radar tuned for slow, low‑RCS targets, passive RF sensors, electro‑optical tracking, and a command node that fuses all of it into a single picture. Without that, no gun, jammer, or missile matters.
You can’t intercept what you can’t see. And without a layered response — soft‑kill for low‑risk intrusions, hard‑kill for hostile ones — you’re left with a ridiculous binary: ignore it, or escalate immediately. That’s not a strategy; it’s a gamble.
The irony is that none of this requires Malta to become something it isn’t. It doesn’t require alliances, bases, or foreign troops. It requires competence. It requires acknowledging that the threat profile has evolved faster than our institutions.
It requires accepting that drones don’t care about our political narratives. They care about physics, opportunity, and the absence of detection.
If we continue treating counter‑UAV capability as optional, we’re effectively betting the country on hope. Hope that no one tests our airspace. Hope that no one targets our infrastructure. Hope that the Mediterranean remains quiet. But hope is not a security posture, and it certainly isn’t a plan.
Europe has already adapted. The threat has already arrived. The only thing still standing still is us — neutral not by principle, but by paralysis.
Am seeing this issue shared here on Maltese timelines, and I think it deserves a calm but honest word. Malta has a rich Roman heritage and several dedicated groups who work hard to present it accurately, respectfully, and in a way that genuinely educates the public.
That’s why it would be a real pity if things start drifting into the kind of street‑corner gimmicks you find around the Colosseum in Rome, where costumed individuals hassle tourists for cash in exchange for a photo.
We don’t need that here. Malta is small enough that once something starts, it becomes “normal” very quickly. Better to address it now, before it turns into a free‑for‑all that cheapens both the history and the public spaces we all share.
There’s a big difference between proper historical re‑enactment and someone throwing on a random “Roman” outfit to make a quick euro.
One is cultural work; the other is opportunism. And if people are approaching passers‑by for money under the guise of “Roman soldiers”, then it’s fair for those who actually safeguard this heritage to speak up.
This isn’t about attacking anyone. It’s simply about keeping standards, protecting authenticity, and avoiding the slippery slope that other countries have already experienced.
Malta deserves better than turning Triton Square into a carnival sideshow.
Nip it in the bud now, before it becomes another headache we all complain about later.
Tul dawn l-ahhar gimghat, wasluli diversi rapporti dwar individwu jew individwi li qed ikunu l-Belt, biswit il-funtana tat-Tritoni liebsin taparsi ta’ Rumani ikellmu n-nies. Zammejt milli nikkummenta minhabba li kont u sa certu punt ghadni ma nafx id-dettalji kollha dwar dak li qed jaghmlu.
Jien inhobb naghti l-beneficcju tad-dubju lil dak li jkun bit-tama li jitranga kif ukoll biex nigbor kemm nista informazzjoni qabel niehu decizjoni fuq il-kaz. Kelli t-tama li forsi kienu qed jirreklamaw xi produzzjoni teatrali jew inkella xi esebizzjoni temporanja li b’xi mod forsi tirrelata mal-istorja Maltija Rumana. Izda kull ma jmur, qed jidher li m’huwiex il-kaz.
Bhala President tal-grupp Legio X Fretensis – Malta, fid-dmir li nghid li l-ewwel nett dak l-ilbies missu qatt ma nhiet (ahseb u ara kemm ghandu jintlibes) ghax bl-ebda mod ma jirrapprezenta l-ilbies militari Ruman. B’responsabbilta’ nghid li jekk hemm xi entita’ wara dak li qed jaghmlu dawn l-individwi, ikun ahjar jekk ikellmu lilna biex nirreferuhom ghal ilbies kif suppost.
Barra minn hekk, jekk inhu l-kaz (kif l-evidenza s’issa qed tindika) illi dawn l-individwi qed imorru fuq in-nies bl-iskop ta’ qligh monetarju bl-iskuza ta’ ritratt, nikkundanna bla rizervi din l-imgieba. M’inix ser niddetta x’ghandhom jaghmlu l-awtoritajiet ta’ dan il-pajjiz – dik hija responsabbilta’ u kompetenza taghhom. Izda minn naha tieghi u fil-vesti ta’ President tal-UNIKU grupp storiku Ruman f’Malta, nappella sabiex dawn l-individwi jirregolarizzaw ruhom kemm dwar din l-imgieba kif ukoll dwar ir-rapprezentazzjoni tal-istorja.
Ahna ma nilbsux kostumi. Ma nilbsux biex indahhku nies. Ma nilbsux biex niffastidjaw nies. Ma nilbsux biex naghmlu qliegh personali… u ma nilbsux imbarazz.
Nilbsu lbies, armi u armaturi reali – kopji fidili lejn is-sejbiet storici. Nilbsu biex naghtu l-hajja lill-istorja. Nilbsu biex nesperjenzaw l-istess kundizzjonijiet li l-ilbies ta’ elfejn sena ilu kien jissuggetta lil kull min libes l-istess affarijiet. Fuq kollox, nilbsu biex nitghallmu u biex nedukaw lill-pubbliku dwar l-istorja Rumana u iva, ta’ pajjizna wkoll li tahthom qatta l-itwal hakma fl-istorja tieghu. Ghalhekk ma nitfaccawx fil-Gimgha l-Kbira biss.
Mill-gdid nappella sabiex tixtarru u tgharblu l-istorja vera u awtentika minn semplici karnivalata (bla ma nonqos mir-rispett lejn id-dilettanti tal-Karnival, ghax l-espressjoni ggib hekk).
Keith Cauchi President – Legio X Fretensis – Malta
This video is by Alberto (Beto) De Filippis, a veteran reporter and documentarian who publishes video essays, investigations, and travel pieces under the Mundo Beto brand. He presents first‑person reporting, opinionated analysis, and on‑the‑ground features aimed at Spanish‑speaking audiences.
He hasdecades of experience working in European newsrooms and reporting from conflict zones and remote places. He positions Mundo Beto as a small, independent outlet that mixes reportage, interviews, and commentary, and he publishes across platforms including YouTube and a dedicated site. The channel’s stated aim is to show stories “from the margins” and to offer perspectives the creator feels mainstream outlets miss.
In this video, he is sharp, personal, and has it built to make you feel something fast. It does that well. It also leaves a lot unsaid, and those gaps matter.
De Filippis opens by owning a hard line. That move is clever. It lowers the guard of listeners who might otherwise write the message off as prejudice. You hear a lived voice, someone who has crossed borders and worked in newsrooms. That gives the piece weight. It also makes the argument feel urgent and honest, not just political theatre.
Where his script gains power is in the mix of small scenes and big numbers. Streets, schools, waiting rooms — those images turn policy into daily life. Short, concrete moments like a woman feeling watched on a street corner do more to persuade than abstract claims ever could. The data lines add a sense of authority.
But the data often arrives without the context that would let you judge how strong the case really is.
Here’s the problem. He is treating a whole religion and its followers as if they were a single, unchanging thing. That flattens reality. People who share a faith do not all think the same way about law, gender, or politics. Some communities adapt and change across generations. Others struggle for reasons that go beyond belief: poverty, schooling, discrimination, and lack of jobs. Lumping all of that under one label makes the argument simpler, but it also makes it easier to stoke fear.
Another gap is causation. This video links migration to pressure on public services and to rising insecurity. That can be true in specific places and moments. But it is not the only explanation. Economic shifts, housing policy, school funding, and policing choices all play roles. From a video production standpoint, he needs to persuade someone who doubts what’s being claimed, show how these factors interact. He needs to offer examples where policy choices made a difference.
That turns a warning into something useful.
If De Filippis’s goal is to push for change, his claims need to be stronger if it named concrete fixes. For example: targeted job programs in neighbourhoods with high unemployment, language and credential support for newcomers, clearer rules for family reunification that balance rights and capacity, and local investments in schools and health services.
He needs to say what could be tried, and why it might work. People respond better when they hear a path forward, even a tentative one.
Tone matters. Right now how he says all, leans on alarm. That gets attention. But it also risks hardening people who already feel anxious, and it can push others away who see the argument as unfair. A small shift toward nuance — acknowledging success stories, admitting uncertainty about some numbers, and naming the limits of his own view — would make the message more credible without dulling its edge.
Undoubtedly, this video’s message is as a starting point for a real conversation. It raises real questions about public services and social cohesion. It also asks us to decide what kind of society we want to be. We can answer by closing borders and shrinking public life, or by investing in places and people so that everyone can share in the benefits. That choice is political, yes, but it is also practical.
So take what he says seriously, and then test it. Check the numbers, to see if he is right about the strain, then targeted action will show it. Were wrong wrong about the causes, those same actions will point the way to better solutions.
His strong rhetoric can wake people up. It can also close them down. He wants change that lasts (like most of us), so there needs to be a pairing of the wake‑up call with clear, humane steps that people can imagine actually working. That keeps the conversation honest and opens the door to real fixes.
It’s hard not to feel a little stunned when a vessel bought to protect our Maltese waters sits idle for a year. That image — a brand-new hull gathering dust and rust — is more than waste; it’s a sign that planning stopped at purchase. You can see the money, but you don’t see the thought that should have gone into making the boat useful from day one.
The immediate loss is obvious: patrol hours not sailed, fisheries left unmonitored, and a gap in search and rescue capacity. But the deeper problem is how the project was run. Buying hardware without lining up the people, the spare parts, the training, and the test routines is like buying a car and leaving it in the garage because no one knows how to drive it or fix it when the engine light comes on.
There are a few practical failures that tend to repeat in cases like this.
First, the handover process was treated as an administrative milestone rather than an operational one. The vendor signs off, the invoice is paid, and the asset is declared delivered. Yet delivery should mean the crew can take the boat to sea and use it safely on day one. That requires independent trials, realistic sea tests, and a checklist that includes maintenance tooling and critical spares. If those items were not locked into the contract, the boat becomes a liability instead of an asset.
Second, the sustainment chain looks like an afterthought. New platforms often need special parts and diagnostic tools that are not stocked locally. If the supply chain is fragile, a single failed component can keep the vessel ashore for months. That’s not just poor logistics; it’s poor risk management. You don’t buy a capability and then hope the supply chain will catch up.
Third, the human side was probably underestimated. New systems bring new procedures. Crews need hands-on time, simulators, and maintenance teams need structured courses. If training schedules lag behind delivery, the platform sits while people catch up. That’s a predictable mismatch that should be avoided by design.
There are also strategic blind spots worth naming. A single expensive platform creates a single point of failure in presence and deterrence. If the plan relied on that boat to cover a particular patrol area or mission set, the grounding creates a hole that is visible to anyone watching. That invites illegal fishing, smuggling, and other low-risk, high-reward behaviour. A more resilient posture would spread capability across several smaller, easier-to-maintain assets and unmanned systems so presence is continuous even when one platform is down.
Another issue is accountability. When procurement, operations, and maintenance sit in separate silos, problems get passed around. No one owns the fix. That slows response and erodes public trust. A single programme office with clear authority and transparent reporting would make it harder for a problem to linger unnoticed.
So what should have been done, had a proper plan been in place that could have stopped this from happening ?
Start with a focused audit that names the technical faults and the programme failures. Don’t stop at a list of broken parts; map the decisions that let those faults persist. Then align people and parts with the platform. Fast-track crew certification, ship in the critical spares, and set up a dedicated maintenance team that can work through the issues without being pulled in a dozen directions.
Change the procurement rules so that payment and acceptance depend on operational trials, not just delivery paperwork. Build penalties and incentives into contracts that reward availability, not just delivery dates. Require vendors to support the platform through an initial operational period so the buyer isn’t left alone with a complex system they can’t run.
Finally, diversify presence. Invest in smaller, cheaper assets and unmanned systems that can be deployed quickly. They won’t replace a patrol boat, but they keep the lights on while bigger fixes are made. That way, a single grounding doesn’t translate into a full loss of presence.
Some might read this and think it’s all obvious. Maybe it is. But obvious problems repeat because they’re easier to ignore than they are to fix. The real test is whether the people in charge learn from this and change the way they buy and sustain capability. If they don’t, the next headline will look the same, and the public will rightly ask why top brass keep making the same mistake.
A grounded boat is a visible failure. The invisible failures that let it happen are the ones that matter most. Fix those, and the next new asset will actually protect the sea it was bought to guard.
A single 21‑mile waterway moves 20% of the world’s oil every day. Iran just passed a law to charge $2 million per ship. Then a U.S. leader said, “We won. We’ll take it instead.” Stay with me — what happens next rewrites global power and the price of everything.
Why this matters now: The decisions being made in and around Hormuz will affect energy prices, trade routes, and geopolitical alignments for decades. This is not a regional dispute; it is a structural change to how the world moves energy.
The Cons's Nook: www.ivanmconsiglio.com 
From Heritage to Hustle: Malta Should Avoid the Colosseum‑Style Street Gimmicks
Am seeing this issue shared here on Maltese timelines, and I think it deserves a calm but honest word. Malta has a rich Roman heritage and several dedicated groups who work hard to present it accurately, respectfully, and in a way that genuinely educates the public.
That’s why it would be a real pity if things start drifting into the kind of street‑corner gimmicks you find around the Colosseum in Rome, where costumed individuals hassle tourists for cash in exchange for a photo.
We don’t need that here. Malta is small enough that once something starts, it becomes “normal” very quickly. Better to address it now, before it turns into a free‑for‑all that cheapens both the history and the public spaces we all share.
There’s a big difference between proper historical re‑enactment and someone throwing on a random “Roman” outfit to make a quick euro.
One is cultural work; the other is opportunism. And if people are approaching passers‑by for money under the guise of “Roman soldiers”, then it’s fair for those who actually safeguard this heritage to speak up.
This isn’t about attacking anyone. It’s simply about keeping standards, protecting authenticity, and avoiding the slippery slope that other countries have already experienced.
Malta deserves better than turning Triton Square into a carnival sideshow.
Nip it in the bud now, before it becomes another headache we all complain about later.
https://www.facebook.com/share/p/1HuWjJmNEB/?mibextid=wwXIfr
Tul dawn l-ahhar gimghat, wasluli diversi rapporti dwar individwu jew individwi li qed ikunu l-Belt, biswit il-funtana tat-Tritoni liebsin taparsi ta’ Rumani ikellmu n-nies. Zammejt milli nikkummenta minhabba li kont u sa certu punt ghadni ma nafx id-dettalji kollha dwar dak li qed jaghmlu.
Jien inhobb naghti l-beneficcju tad-dubju lil dak li jkun bit-tama li jitranga kif ukoll biex nigbor kemm nista informazzjoni qabel niehu decizjoni fuq il-kaz. Kelli t-tama li forsi kienu qed jirreklamaw xi produzzjoni teatrali jew inkella xi esebizzjoni temporanja li b’xi mod forsi tirrelata mal-istorja Maltija Rumana. Izda kull ma jmur, qed jidher li m’huwiex il-kaz.
Bhala President tal-grupp Legio X Fretensis – Malta, fid-dmir li nghid li l-ewwel nett dak l-ilbies missu qatt ma nhiet (ahseb u ara kemm ghandu jintlibes) ghax bl-ebda mod ma jirrapprezenta l-ilbies militari Ruman. B’responsabbilta’ nghid li jekk hemm xi entita’ wara dak li qed jaghmlu dawn l-individwi, ikun ahjar jekk ikellmu lilna biex nirreferuhom ghal ilbies kif suppost.
Barra minn hekk, jekk inhu l-kaz (kif l-evidenza s’issa qed tindika) illi dawn l-individwi qed imorru fuq in-nies bl-iskop ta’ qligh monetarju bl-iskuza ta’ ritratt, nikkundanna bla rizervi din l-imgieba. M’inix ser niddetta x’ghandhom jaghmlu l-awtoritajiet ta’ dan il-pajjiz – dik hija responsabbilta’ u kompetenza taghhom. Izda minn naha tieghi u fil-vesti ta’ President tal-UNIKU grupp storiku Ruman f’Malta, nappella sabiex dawn l-individwi jirregolarizzaw ruhom kemm dwar din l-imgieba kif ukoll dwar ir-rapprezentazzjoni tal-istorja.
Ahna ma nilbsux kostumi. Ma nilbsux biex indahhku nies. Ma nilbsux biex niffastidjaw nies. Ma nilbsux biex naghmlu qliegh personali… u ma nilbsux imbarazz.
Nilbsu lbies, armi u armaturi reali – kopji fidili lejn is-sejbiet storici. Nilbsu biex naghtu l-hajja lill-istorja. Nilbsu biex nesperjenzaw l-istess kundizzjonijiet li l-ilbies ta’ elfejn sena ilu kien jissuggetta lil kull min libes l-istess affarijiet. Fuq kollox, nilbsu biex nitghallmu u biex nedukaw lill-pubbliku dwar l-istorja Rumana u iva, ta’ pajjizna wkoll li tahthom qatta l-itwal hakma fl-istorja tieghu. Ghalhekk ma nitfaccawx fil-Gimgha l-Kbira biss.
Mill-gdid nappella sabiex tixtarru u tgharblu l-istorja vera u awtentika minn semplici karnivalata (bla ma nonqos mir-rispett lejn id-dilettanti tal-Karnival, ghax l-espressjoni ggib hekk).
Keith Cauchi
President – Legio X Fretensis – Malta
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