Malta! A Mediterranean Adventure
Yellow dust swirls from both sides of Allan Mulcahy’s sandpaper as he scrubs smooth the fossil-encrusted limestone beneath his palm. Five hundred years’ worth of urban grime are taking flight, one layer at a time. Mulcahy pauses from his work, red cheeks caked with chalky beige dust, to say hello to a group of passers-by. “Yes,” he responds to the query. He does speak english. And yes, the property belongs to him.Well, he amends, to him and his wife, actually.
Meanwhile, Jane Mulcahy calls downstairs, her voice resonating from deep within the stone interior of the ancient Norman rowhouse. She wants her husband to invite the visitors in.
For nearly a decade now, the Mulcahys have divided their time between a home in Nottingham, England, and this tiny 17-mile-long Mediterranean island where they have purchased a summer retreat: a stone house on a quiet byway in Vittoriosa, Malta, a village whose streets hail straight from the medieval age. Arching stone window casings jut above their spiral support columns, housing window frames large enough for a man or a woman to stand in. On the rooftop, yellow stones reach up from both sides of the street to meet the yellow caste of an evening sky. All around, television atennae clash with the rose colored domes of ancient churches; little wrought iron balconies and potted geraniums in wrought iron holders hang below.
Like everything else on these sub-tropical islands, this house was built — sandstone by sandstone — to last. Even the interior of the attached three-story exhibits the same sturdy pattern as the outside walls, fossil-entombed yellow block stacked upon block.
They won’t divulge what they paid for the place, but whatever it cost, the Mulcahy’s bought a package deal — from the captivating cinque-foil windows lining the inner courtyard walls to the enormous handhewn cistern shaped like a grecian urn that rests against the back wall of their slate-floored courtyard. Here, rainwater funneled through stone gutters from the roof collects for household use. So old is the Mulcahy’s summer place, in fact, that its stone stairways have grooves worn in their centers from the many footsteps that have come before. A careful eye can discern that once a long time ago, the middle portion of each stair was chiseled neatly away and repaired with a replacement limestone insert. Now these, too, have worn away. Time and progress erode even that which is set in stone.
Malta’s many monolithic fortresses, churches, and public buildings have been built by island-quarried stone. Erected in bygone eras, the edifices speak a language of old-world priorities. In fact, this particular building predates the 1530 arrival of Europe’s crusaders — the famed Knights of Malta — who for two centuries used Malta as a wayside rest on their way to do battle in the Holy Land. And for their part, the knights — like so many others before and after — did a bit of building here themselves. Indeed, no occupying presence in Malta, and there has been one every couple of hundred years or so, left without making its mark.Some invaders, of course, have been more solicitous of Maltese heritage than others. While a very few left behind more than they took with them, today’s Malta is filled with natives who are becoming progressively empowered, both culturally and economically. For that matter, the viewpoint of the average visitor is more enlightened today as well.
Faithful restoration, for instance, is of particular concern to the Mulcahys. Allan Mulcahy is an architect, and the couple is working hard to return their historical charge to its original state.
Except, Jane Mulcahy concedes, for the state-of-the-art water closet they have planned. “We just couldn’t,” she explains, “face the prospect of buckets in the yard.”
But even with Allan’s qualifications, the couple has their work cut out for them. Already, they’ve peeled back the layers indoors to expose the structure’s original low-beamed ceilings; they have restored most of the interior walls to the bare limestone. All the while, the weight of a nation’s heritage has lain squarely on their shoulders: In a front sitting room, Allan and Jane carefully sanded back successive coats of paint only to find a bit of middle ages graffiti. A lower-ranking knight once took these rooms, it appears, and with a knife claimed them for his own with a crude, child-like self-portrait cut into the soft stone wall.
In Malta, you never know what you’ll find next. To be sure, the Mulcahys are good-natured about their magnificent adventure — the expense, the monumental task still ahead, and, of course, the interruptions. “It’s OK,” Jane says reassuringly to visitors who apologize for interrupting. “When you’re about working, it’s easy to find yourself with a place full of 40 French people.”
Allan is a bit less patient, but just as tactful. “It was quiet when we bought it about eight years ago,” he says of life in this little village just across the harbor from Malta’s capital city, Valletta. “It seems a bit more populated now!”
Indeed, the Mulcahys are as likely to be interrupted by German as well as French folk. Increasingly, tourists arrive to bother them from the U.S. and Canada as well. A group of five small islands, only the largest of which are inhabited, Malta consistently plays host to an average of 40,000 tourists at any given time. This is significant for a country whose overall population numbers about 360,000.
Mostly, visitors come here to tour Malta’s many Catholic churches, to take in noteworthy historic sites, and to discover the flavor of the nation’s diverse culture. A country whose topsoil has been sliding downward and outward toward the sea for centuries, Malta is self-sufficient but nevertheless imports goods heavily. Known for its fine silver artisans, for example, it is the intricate filigree sold here at reasonable prices that is Maltese — not the silver itself. The precious metal is shipped in from ( PLACE ); Malta’s primary industries continue to be tourism and manufacturing.
Indeed, so many European tourists have been bitten by the real estate buying bug while visiting Malta in the years since Allan and Jane Mulcahy came up with the fanciful idea of purchasing a summer home here that the normally hospitable Maltese government has decided to place some restrictions on such purchases. Just recently, a law requiring foreign investors to buy properties of at least $45,000 was passed. Similarly, buying a business is still possible for non-citizens, but today that business must include at least one Maltese investor as full partner. Still, Malta’s cities and towns remain filled with ancient, empty — and incredibly beautiful — apartments, their walk-out balconies needing paint but beckoning nevertheless, anywhere from one to five floors above street-level. The government’s plan, however, is to ensure that the bulk of these properties remains affordable first and foremost for its own citizens.
And so subsidies enable couples and young people to buy their first homes. Unlike the U.S., the Maltese comfortably intermingle Church and state authority. One Air Malta employee tells of returning from university in England, going to a bank for a loan to buy a car, and getting sent to his parish priest to obtain of letter recommendation. In Malta, if you don’t pay up, at least they’ll know where to find you. Indeed, parish life is central here; the island is more than 80% Catholic. Still, small numbers of Protestants and Jews and Muslims have always lived in Malta. Absolutism, it could be said, is anathema to the Maltese way of thinking.
Malta is an ancient cultural composite, and the Maltese people have known for centuries that variety adds to the spice of life. Some ancient ruins here, possibly dating back to 3000 B.C.E., are thought older than Stonehenge. The megalithic and neolithic structures themselves, the remains of ancient pagan temples, served the cult of a mother goddess.
Located 60 miles south of Sicily, Malta’s history of occupation by outsiders dates back to the copper and bronze ages. By 480 B.C.E, a host of invasionary forces had begun to overrun Malta: The Phoenicians, the Carthaginians, the Romans, the Aghlabite Arabs, Ottoman Turks, the crusaders, and, ultimately, Napoleon. Finally, by Maltese request, Admiral Nelson defeated Napoleon, who’d begun to plunder the place, and the island subsequently fell under British colonial rule in 1800. In 1964, Malta attained self-rule. As for the Maltese language, it remains a tongue that evidences the country’s north African, Arabic influence. English as a second language is commonly spoken as well.
If anybody understands Malta and its people, that person would be Gloria Mizzi. To the viewers of her top-rated television program, Ghandna Il-Lejla?, or What’s on Tonight? Mizzi is known on a first-name basis: An entire country calls her Gloria. Indeed, an afternoon in her townhouse in Sliema, just west of Valletta, is typically punctuated by phone calls from viewers throughout Malta. Each time the phone rings, Mizzi excuses herself, rises from the sofa in her simple but tastefully appointed home, and takes each call personally. The conversations are in Maltese.
“I’m having a problem with my husband…” a caller might say. Or, “I’m getting married, and my inlaws and I cannot agree on whom to invite…” Quite possibly, somebody has a concern about fashion. Other times, there’s been a fight in the family. Somebody decides to call Gloria to help settle it.
What does she tell them? To the harried bride-to-be, Gloria might say: “It’s OK to draw a line with the guest list.” (The inlaws won’t like it, she explains, but it’s not their wedding!)
Family feuds are her most common challenge. “We are very family oriented here,” Mizzi notes, explaining that the extended family is alive and well in Malta. Indeed, Mizzi’s own mother lives here with her. It’s a good thing, Mizzi believes, to have one’s family close by. But such arrangements also present unique problems. “The fact is,” Mizzi explains, “I have to be very careful because sometimes what I say on the phone goes. In the United States,” she points out, “you live in one state and maybe your in-laws live three or four states away. But here, everybody lives three or four miles away from one another.” It’s not unusual for Mizzi to counsel such individuals to consult their parish priests for guidance as well.
Do priests often mediate family disputes? “A lot!” the auburn-haired Mizzi says, vigorously nodding her head. The Catholic parish is nothing more than an extension of the Catholic family. But even the Church is something of a hybrid in Malta. Thousands of years of different cultural traditions, and even superstitions, make up the modern milieu.
“We don’t question if people are Catholic or not,” Mizzi says. In smaller towns, this may be because people assume everybody is Catholic, even today. Or it may be because the Maltese have lived under the domination of others often enough to know what matters. Certainly, it’s not that faith isn’t a serious business. It is so central to Maltese life, in fact, that even routine matters, such as the dignity of a town’s patron saint, can spawn big controversies. “At one time,” Mizzi explains, “St. George was removed from the calendar of the saints. When a comedian in Gozo passed off a remark about St. George, saying, ‘well, you know, he doesn’t exist anymore… ’” Her voice trails off pointedly.
To the audience, it was no joke.
“They rushed the stage,” Mizzi says of the St. George parishioners in attendance at the show. “Once when I was in Gozo,” she adds, “some people I knew discussed the incident. They were still angry. And, from the look on their faces, they were saying, ‘say what you want, but don’t mention St. George, because that’s where our friendship ends.’ It is not a joking matter at all.’” To make fun of somebody’s patron saint is like making fun of somebody’s mother. One could say that saints are celebrities in Malta. And at festa time, a day of fanfare in a particular town when homage is paid to its patron saint, a parish may choose to maintain its own patron’s dignity by refusing to march the statue down a rival parish’s street.
This mixing of secular life and spiritual fervor is equally apparent in popular media culture. On an ordinary program, for instance, Mizzi is as likely to have a Jesuit priest discussing psychology as she is to host her own cooking demonstration or present a consumer affairs advocate or a father-son team of pigeon racers.
But whatever the topic, as 2 p.m. nears each Wednesday, Gloria Mizzi begins to focus. As she does so, she heads to the studio at Television Malta where she’ll tape another episode of What’s On Tonight? In spite of 30 years in the business, not even this host of her network’s most popular TV show is immune to butterflies. “I feel a bit edgy before I start,” she confesses. “Yes, I still do.”
With the guest of the day standing by, Mizzi has already decided how she will approach her topic. But she does not rehearse with guests. “If you rehearse a person,” she says, “when you’re actually recording they’ll say things like, ‘As I told you before …. ’”
And that doesn’t sit well with Gloria Mizzi. Fresh is what she’s after. Consequently, no subject or person is off limits. “I don’t have a favorite subject,” Mizzi says. “I’m always looking for something new. I’m curious.”
Mizzi characterizes Maltese life as “quiet.” Her daughter, 33, lives nearby and routinely brings Mizzi’s two grandchildren by the townhouse on Isouard Street for informal visits. When the children come running in, everything stops while Gloria gives them her undivided attention. A son, 30, lives with his wife in Switzerland; having studied in Lyons, he works in the hotel business. His wife, Mizzi says proudly, is expecting. Gloria’s husband Frank, who once handled press relations for the president of Malta, is retired.
Malta itself is not immune from modern woes, Mizzi acknowledges. A spiritual decline among youth, falling church attendance, a small but growing drug problem — these problems are real, and a substance-abuse treatment program is up and running here. Across Malta, however, one is struck by the number of people doing volunteer work: for the government, for the Church, for civic groups. “People help each other here,” Mizzi agrees. “Don’t think we’re all saints, but when it comes down to the crunch, the faith here is very strong.”
In fact, when there is real trouble in Malta, it can take the nation by surprise. Take the case of the stolen Caravaggio. A tourist came into St. John’s co-cathedral in Valetta one day in ( DATE ) to have a look at Caravaggio’s only signed work, The Beheading of John the Baptist.
Though she looked and looked, however, the woman couldn’t find the painting. “Where,” she asked a guide, “can I find the Caravaggio?”
The guide patiently explained that the cathedral housed not one, but two such masterpieces. “Yes, yes,” the tourist impatiently said. “But I want to see both of them. Where’s The Beheading of John the Baptist?”
“It’s in the next room,” the guide said, gesturing.
“Well I didn’t find it!” the tourist said. Whereupon the guide patiently walked with her to a side chapel — and looked aghast at the empty four-by-eight space above the doorjamb.
“Oh my goodness!” he exclaimed. “The Caravaggio is missing!”
It had been stolen in broad daylight from one of Malta’s most noted cathedrals in the nation’s capital city on a Saturday morning. For two years, it went missing. But then somebody told somebody something, and that person told somebody else. As it turns out, the well-known painting had never left Malta. The thief needed money, but had trouble finding a buyer. And so the man’s relatives — once they discovered the painting’s whereabouts — saw that the masterpiecce was returned. Apparently, the thief hadn’t considered a crucial fact. “It was,” a Maltese guide recently remarked drily, “a little hard to get rid of.”
Much has been written about the Maltese sense of humor. But inherent in the Maltese perspective is something more than humor. The Maltese possess the ability to name things as they are, and so Malta is a country without pretentiousness about the bottom line. Across the island, for instance, one occasionally happens upon a windmill. But the Maltese do not call them windmills. They are Chicagos, because the first windmill erected in Malta was imported from Chicago, Illinois.
And while the stamp of the modern world can be found everywhere in this little country, plenty of old world Malta remains. Any school child, for instance, can tell you the meaning of the red flags flying outside the low-slung, flattopped buildings in the verdant countryside. The flags are warning signs. Rising ominously from green, flower-speckled Maltese hills that have been cut into neat sections by stone fences of stacked yellow boulders, the message is meant to be a clear one: Keep away! Fireworks inside!
Why so many fireworks factories? The Catholic underpinnings of this society are encompassing. Invariably, state holidays and celebrations mark holy events. And the country’s many festas — there are well more than 100 of them annually — are happening affairs.Streets are packed with bodies, back-to-front and side-by-side. Confetti flies from balconies and children ride on their parents’ shoulders above the crowds.
And naturally, there are fireworks. Who, after all, could put on a decent festa without fireworks? In Malta, the making of fireworks for the nation’s festas — like so many other Maltese institutions — is a homespun, family industry; the art is handed from generation to generation. As is the love of a good and proper festa.
Of Malta’s five islands, only Malta, the largest, and Gozo are inhabited. (A third island, Comino, is habitable but harbors only a few residents.) To be sure, one has not visited Malta without visiting Gozo as well. In fact, it’s worth taking the ferry from Malta to Gozo just for a day’s worth of shopping and food.
The islands are not mirror images of one another. In contrast to Malta’s steep hills, Gozo’s hills plateau. The island’s sandstone shops offer fine hand-blown glassware, delicate lacework, and paintings as well as pottery, sculpture, and baskets.
And in Xaghra (PHONETIC SPELLING), there’s Gestner restaurant. Reservations are recommended, for the nondescript automat decor here belies a reknown that includes glowing write-ups in London’s Evening Standard and Sunday Express. German and French reviewers have praised the enterprise as well, the handiwork of two sisters who bustle about in cotton-print aprons, rushing meals to formica-topped booths and never tiring of questions about the menu. Indeed, their menu is their masterpiece. Changing daily, an ordinary offering might begin with the diner’s choice of fish or vegetable soup, followed by entrees of lamb casserole in gravy mint sauce, rabbit (the national dish) in wine broth, veal with cheese and mushrooms, chicken cacciatore, or beef in wine.
Particularly popular is the locally made sheeps’ milk cheese, rolled in cracked black pepper corns that accentuate its tangy taste. Whole cloves of garlic, fresh herbs grown on-site, and brown sauces finish each dish. (And whatever you do, don’t miss the anise and cloved coffee served afterward.)
No matter where you go in Malta, the fish will likely taste as if it’s just been pulled from the sea. Chances are, it has. In the fishing village of Marsaxlokk (Marsh-a-shlok), on the eastern end of the big island, one can see firsthand in the outdoor market early each Sunday morning the vast array of sea fare available. Here, Maltese fisher-folk still make their own nets and entrust their livelihoods to the waters that lap at Malta’s rocky shores.
Old world fishing boats, their sterns bearing bold colors — yellow, blue, red, green — denote their villages of origin in Marsaxlokk harbor. And in spite of the country’s firm Catholic faith, the eye of Osiris, Egyptian netherworld ruler and god of fertility, continues to be painted on each boat’s mustacci. It serves as a warning to the inhabitants of Neptune’s domain that generations of Maltese fisher-folk know all too well the whims of the sea. A boat’s appearance conveys other messages as well: A black mustacci, for instance, indicates the death of a fisherman or someone in the family. The high-rising sterns of the ships themselves bring to mind a Phonician influence; it could also be said that the picturesque vessels are not unlike gondolas.
Fishing in Malta — like festas and fireworks — is a family endeavor. And Josephine knows all about fishing. She has lived in Marsaxlokk all her life. In fact, she’s never left Malta, having worked in the fishing business since she was ten. That’s when Josephine began helping her mother make her father’s fishing nets.
“My mother worked at this end,” Josephine says, gesturing. “And I work from the other end. Like this ….”
Weaving a spindle-like bobbin, Josephine and her mother, carefully keeping up the tension on the cotton lines stretching between them, moved the fine homespun cords back and forth, in and out, forming the mesh that would pluck fish from the sea to feed the family. “You feel it,” Josephine explains, showing how one guides the process through sense of touch. Proudly, she turns up the palms of her hands to show the casual observer what she means.
Forty years of cotton and nylon netting have etched themselves into the storied palms of Josephine’s hands. Forty years of calluses line her fingertips and stiffen the joints of each hand. These are her battle scars, her own tale of dueling daily with the sea. As an observer exhibits surprise at the evidence left behind by the knots of many nets, her smile breaks wider, an expression triumphant.
Today, Josephine is retired. She continues, though, to sustain herself by doing her own fishing, making her own nets for this purpose. “Just last week,” she says, “I make net for fishing. Very small holes, like this.” Josephine holds up her pinkie to indicate how small are the holes. It is, she says with a grin, a shrimping net. This is a net merely for catching bait.
“Then,” she says, casting an imaginary rig with a flourish of her arm and a flick of her wrist, “I go with the rod. For a good time!” She laughs heartily at the prospect.
In the meantime, Josephine supplements her budget by selling shells she collects from Marsaxlokk harbor. The smooth cowry snail, whose shells once were used for barter in Africa, she recommends for carrying in one’s pocket, along with spare change. Doing so, Josephine assures a potential buyer, is thought by the Maltese to bring one luck in finance. Turrid shells, spiny tritons, and chalky jewel box oyster shells lay spread before her as she discusses island affairs. The woman in the booth next to Josephine’s, Maria, is selling fish brought from the sea by her husband Leonard. They have five children, Josephine explains, responding to questions put to her. And Leonard has just bought himself a new boat. “But only two go with him,” she adds. The other children are too young to accompany Leonard in deep waters.
All around Josephine, throughout the marketplace set up at the mouth of Marsaxlokk bay, rests the bounty of Malta’s waters: Wet-looking clams, their smooth shells striped gray and brown, sharp-finned red Pandora fish, blue and yellow and red Painted Comers, Dusky Groupers, slick fresh-water eels, rubbery slabs of squid, beefy-looking hunks of salmon, orange-tipped giant prawns. Tourists and natives fan past the makeshift tables, sort through the vegetables and produce, let bolts of lace fall through their fingers.
Most of Josephine’s relatives are fisher folk, she says, now generously offering information about her beloved Marsaxlokk. “You are investigating the Maltese, eh?” she asks. Certainly, this is something she understands. A reporter from New Zealand spent three months here last year, she recalls. The fishing village of Marsaxlokk is of interest to journalists, naturally.
Josephine’s own children, however, are not involved in the local industry: Her daughter lives in Canada; one son works in a nearby dockyard; one is in the army, and one works at the airport. But the children of Josephine’s sister — all ten of them — well, that is a different story. Every one fishes for a living. “Very big boats,” she says. “They go eighty miles away.”
And Josephine is sure of something else: She definitely prefers the Maltese climate to the North American snowstorms her daughter has told her about. Besides, she has many friends here — even among the English tourists who come to Marsaxlokk. “Thousands of them,” she adds. Josephine ought to be sure of the number. She made shopping bags for these tourists. It happened this way: She’d made a bag for herself, and one day a woman asked Josephine to make one for the woman, too. It was the beginning of a whole new cottage industry for Josephine. She made tote bags for English women until she simply had had enough of bag making. Now, she insists with an elfin smile, she really is retired for good.
But Josephine likely will never tire of coming to the market at Marsaxlokk, of gathering seashells, of striking up conversations with people she has never met before and sending away each one as a newfound friend. “Don’t forget my name,” she calls after as her latest acquaintance walks away. “Remember Josephine….”
Even as she speaks, the sea breezes sweep up from behind her, and carry Josephine’s words away — up and over the waves that crest across Marsaxlokk Bay.
For more information, write: Malta National Tourist Office; Empire State Building; 350 Fifth Avenue, Suite 4412; New York, N.Y. 10118; Or phone: 212-695-8229.
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Fortress on the Sea
VALLETTA — Dome-roofed watchtowers with vigilant eyes carved into their sandstone parapets rise over the massive ramparts of the walls that surround Malta’s capital city. Built by the Knights of St. John in the 16th century after a frightful encounter with Suleiman the Magnificent’s army, the magnificent fortress-city of Valletta stands as a monument to one of European nobility’s earliest stabs at modern city planning.
Throughout this urban capital can be found remnants of a crusaders’ heyday. From the long, dark corridors of the knights’ government hall, suits of armor standing like metal skeletons on duty, to the knights’ dormitories, strategically positioned in different quarters of the city to guard against attack, one takes a curious step back in time on walking through Valletta’s great city gates.
Named after the grand knight who commissioned its construction, Jean Parisot de laVallette, the city was planned by Italian military engineer Francesco Laparelli, a colleague of Michelangelo.With streets that follow a grid pattern similar to Manhattan’s, Valletta offers in contrast steep hills with stone steps that challenge even a jogger’s calves. Add to that a bit of continental charm, and it’s a city custom-made for vigorous walking tours.
Wandering around Valletta on a Sunday morning, strollers might peek in on an informal Legion of Mary Mass, hosted by youths whose voices are backed by an electric guitar. Ten yards away, the boisterous sounds of an early morning pub crowd filter out to the street. Cigarette smoke chokes the doorway as glasses clink and laughter sounds inside. Just off Republic Street one can find St. John’s Co-Cathedral. The Latin Mass starts at 9:45; tombs of the Knights of Malta are inlaid in the church floor, their colorful marble inscriptions testifying to both pedigree and heroic deeds.
Farther along, at the city’s northern tip, between Grand and Marsamxett Harbors, Fort St. Elmo still bears the bruises of cannon balls fired through the ages. Its latest assault came as recently as this century, when the Axis powers battled the Allies for the little island that might make or break the fight for North Africa. The deadly seige wreaked havoc all over the island.In fact, for their bravery under fire, the people of Malta were awarded England’s highest honor, the George Cross.
Belying a valiant city’s strife-torn past, sleepily tucked away in the city’s southeast corner are the Upper Baracca Gardens, a peaceable interlude of arches, palms, and flowers also built by the knights. Not too far away, St. Paul’s Shipwreck Church, located between East and Merchant Streets, houses relics of the evangelist.
The city’s east and west boulevards offer harbor views; shops that dot the streets between offer artisans’ silver filigree at reasonable prices. Little cafes abound, but beware: In Malta, virtually everything, including museums, closes down on Sundays and holy days. One can always, however, stroll about enjoying the architecture. And don’t forget to note the brass door knockers on the houses; dolphins, the eight-pointed Maltese Cross (chosen by the knights to represent the virtues of temperance, prudence, justice, and fortitude) and lion’s heads are popular adornments.
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Where St. Paul Walked
RABAT — In this village on the west side of Malta, one can actually trace the footsteps of St. Paul the apostle. According to the writings of St. Luke in the Acts of the Apostles, Paul was being taken to Rome for trial when his ship was dashed against some rocks by a Northeaster in what is now St. Paul’s Bay on the northwest coast of Malta.
The year was about 59 A.D. Welcomed by the natives, St. Paul spent three months living and praying in an antechamber amid the extensive underground cemeteries of Rabat. Today, a walk through these hand-chiseled subterranean tombs offers visitors the experience of a lifetime. One can actually touch the walls of St. Paul’s cave (indeed, Pope Paul IV once prayed here himself on a visit to Malta). The air within these close, caverous bowels feels wet; it is fleshy smelling. And the hammered gouges of countless primitive chisels can readily be seen as one weaves through dank, narrow, seemingly endless corridors, examining a variety of tombs: canopied, saddle-backed, simple wall depressions, the small encasements that once held the bones of babies.
While catacombs did exist in pagan times throughout southern Europe, they became much more than chambers of interment for dead bodies during the Christian era. After curing the Roman governor Publius of a serious illness, Paul found himself with many converts, Publius among them. Virtually the entire island eventually converted. And once the Maltese came to believe in everlasting life, the catacombs were altered accordingly. Chambers for preparing bodies for burial and for hosting farewell feasts and Masses quickly were added to the interlinked network of underground tombs.
Such catacombs riddle Malta, but St. Paul’s and St. Agatha’s Catacombs in Rabat, along with St. Paul’s Grotto where Paul actually lived and prayed, are of particular importance. It is said the St. Agatha catacombs take their name from the saint herself, who took refuge in Malta to dodge the unwanted attentions of a Roman emperor or governor (sources vary) around AD 250.
Though many believe the catacombs were a life-saving refuge for early Christians during Roman persecutions, more likely they offered inconspicuous opportunities for worship in those troubled times. Only more recently have they served the purpose originally ascribed to them: During World War II, the now empty caverns frequently offered the citizens of Malta temporary respite from the merciless shelling of Hitler’s Luftwaffe overhead.
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