Malta is experiencing sporadic heat waves, accompanied by equally sporadic energy crises and blackouts. It’s not like summer is a surprise to anyone. It’s not like summer, with its stifling heat exacerbated by an equally stifling population explosion, is somehow an unexpected event. It rears its heated head every year, and every year the population melts under a sun unprotected by anything resembling a tree or in buildings built for the harsh Mediterranean sun.

Those of us who were born and raised in Malta some half a century ago remember hot summers when one could fry an egg on the sidewalk. Sans air conditioners and equipped with common sense and indigenous building ingenuity, we not only managed to survive but to thrive. What happened? What was the catalyst that has brought misery to this once vibrant, wonderful “pearl of the Mediterranean”?

In the early 1970s, the island was transitioning from a British military fortress to an independent country facing economic challenges. During this period, tourism was prioritized as a key resource to establish the country as a tourist destination for the rest of Europe. Initially, the primary visitors were mostly expatriate British tourists. However, with the emergence of five-star hotels and improvements in infrastructure, along with the establishment of a national airline (Air Malta) that expanded routes beyond the typical destinations of Britain and Italy, tourists began arriving from Germany, France, and other European countries.

Unfortunately, rather than embracing the cultural heritage of our ancestors, the governments of both political parties strayed from this path. This shift led to a decline in the island’s character, charm, and sensible development practices. They opted for cheap entertainment and quick monetary gain instead of focusing on historical significance and quality tourism.

The older Maltese homes were built of limestone for a purpose. They kept out the heat. Wooden shutters that sealed the houses in the summer cooled the homes naturally. This, combined with cool tile floors and high ceilings, allowed fresh air to flow through the homes and enabled cross-ventilation between rooms and floors. Even balconies had wooden shutters, as did schools and offices.

Modern architects made significant changes to housing designs by removing balconies and wooden shutters and replacing them with glass and aluminum. They lowered ceiling heights and eliminated heat-resistant features in homes. Additionally, they substituted traditional Malta stone with cement and steel, which resulted in houses that felt excessively hot, like rotisseries. This shift created a demand for air conditioning in residences. The introduction of glass elements increased heat retention, particularly in high-rise buildings, and the consequences of these changes are well-known today.

The destructive transformation of the island has continued. Over the past decade, the government has adopted the belief that larger, taller, and louder structures are better. An island that should have a population of around 350,000 has now surpassed half a million residents. This number does not include the several million tourists who visit each year. The effects of unchecked development have transformed many areas, especially in the densely populated eastern regions, into concrete jungles devoid of trees and green spaces. There are even rumors that the government fears the growth of grass, believing it could overtake these barren landscapes!

As the population grew, traffic congestion, air pollution, and noise increased, compounding the already sweltering summer heat and raising temperatures both outside and inside homes. This situation was further exacerbated by the widespread use of air conditioners, which hum persistently through neighborhoods, expelling hot air and noise.

The final building block of a grid that cannot support population growth is the electric car. The issue of blackouts is compounded by vehicles being plugged in for hours, supposedly to reduce air toxicity and improve the environment. This raises a crucial question: Where will the electricity come from to charge these vehicles for extended periods? If you answered fossil fuels, you are correct. The strain on the grid does not account for the increased fossil fuel consumption needed to generate the electricity for electric cars, which are intended to help us move away from fossil fuels. This paradox is rarely addressed by environmental activists who promote these misguided ideas without acknowledging the underlying truths.

The blame game between political parties is disingenuous because both are at fault. The “modernization” of Malta began under the Nationalist Party after the British left and has continued to oscillate between parties up to the present day. The current Labor government has exacerbated the situation by introducing a foreign labor economy and promoting growth in the building sector under the guise of tourism and economic development. However, a decade of unchecked development—much of it questionable—has turned Malta into a landscape marred by construction and environmental degradation. This has contributed to rising mental health issues and summer heat exhaustion.

We have reached a point where ministers are telling a frustrated and fed-up population to tolerate the annual summer blackout situation by suggesting that blackouts occur not only in Malta but in other countries as well. However, this is little consolation for a population that is already struggling for personal space, clean air, unpolluted beaches, and dealing with constantly under-repair infrastructure. Such a justification for incompetence is unprecedented. It is not as if summer takes Malta by surprise.

The opposition party has condemned the blackouts, but they have not offered any viable solutions. Neither the government nor any political party has produced sustainable answers to a problem that causes significant distress every year. A few weeks ago, in an interview with the Times of Malta, the Prime Minister claimed that the Maltese people are doing well because more boats and cars are being purchased. This statement comes at a time when many are facing serious issues, such as horrific traffic that results in long delays over just four miles and air pollution from exhaust, construction dust, and the unpleasant smell of diesel motors in the bays and shorelines where people are trying to relax and escape from the chaos created by him and his associates.

The situation is possibly dire because the damage is so severe and beyond repair that no solutions remain. Emotions are running high, as demonstrated by an incident where a man nearly killed two police officers. He first attempted to set fire to a scaffolding with workers on it and then proceeded to shoot at the police. This event did not happen in a vacuum; it reflects the growing frustration of a population desperate for change and accountability, which they feel they have not received.

One could argue that people get what they vote for. The last election serves as a prime example of a majority that prefers partisanship over intelligence. Instead of choosing the best candidate, they vote strictly along party lines. Even when their party leads them to disaster, they remain loyal, all while risking the destruction of Maltese heritage, culture, and sanity. The elections were conveniently scheduled before the peak of summer heat, a time when blackouts have become a common issue for the most densely populated areas of the island. So, the “get what you deserve” mantra is not far off the truth. There was a choice and it was obviously taken in the dark.

For those of us who left the island decades ago with the intention of returning for retirement and tranquility, we are beyond disappointed. We are shocked by the complete ruin of what was once a beautiful island. The stunning views of the surrounding Mediterranean and the abundance of fields and greenery have disappeared, replaced by concrete and towering buildings. There is little, if anything, to come back to. The Maltese charm of small cafes, grocery stores, and the peacefulness of quiet afternoons is gone.

While other countries are reclaiming their indigenous cultures to attract tourists, Malta appears to be moving in the opposite direction and risking the loss of its heritage. Islands like Sicily are now focusing on sustainable authenticity, promoting tourism that emphasizes nature and landscapes. They refer to this approach as ¹”mindful tourism.” This concept is gaining traction among other Mediterranean countries as part of a Blue Tourism Initiative, which seeks to celebrate the beauty of nature and the charm of small village life, all while harmonizing with local culture and heritage.

From Morocco to Tunisia, Mediterranean nations are actively countering unchecked tourism that undermines the image they wish to present. ²These destinations are drawing visitors who are looking for a culturally enriching and environmentally friendly experience that is both historically significant and mentally rejuvenating. Unfortunately, Malta seems to have overlooked this valuable opportunity.

Is it too late? Perhaps. On the other hand, there is still time to put quotas on cars entering the country, deferring development for five years, and putting the brakes on a tourism sector that creates more problems than benefits. Stop the cheap flights that bring garbage disguised as tourism to the island. In the past weeks, residential areas have been plagued by the cheap tourist industry of youth whose mission in life is pervert behavior that creates mayhem and destruction of property. Add to the list curtailing development in seaside localities, which causes overwhelming stress on infrastructure such as drainage. The Sliema/St. Julian’s swimming areas have been plagued by foul smell and seeping drainage for the past several years.

The Maltese residents living in various tourist locations have often been overlooked, to the point of being considered irrelevant and, at times, a nuisance. Paceville, which was once a popular summer destination for many Maltese city dwellers half a century ago, has now deteriorated into a hub of clubs, noise, trash, crime, and violence.

³Comments made by Phillip Fenech, Chairman of the Paceville Town Center Management team, in December 2025 to the Times of Malta reflect a narrow-minded political perspective in the face of a glaring crisis. Mr. Fenech believes that Paceville is a national success story, but such a blatant disregard for the reality facing local residents is not only unethical; it borders on corruption.

While Katy Perry performed on stage at the Floriana bastions under bright lights, the rest of the Maltese population sweltered in the heat and remained in darkness. This situation reflects a “let them eat cake” attitude from the government, demonstrating a clear disrespect for citizens who endured days without electricity. The Minister of Energy’s attempt at justifying the blackouts by claiming that other countries also experience them shows a lack of understanding of the situation. I want to inform Ms. Dalli that I have lived in Germany for 41 years, enduring both freezing winters and July heatwaves, and I have never experienced a blackout. Such disregard for constituents is reminiscent of a third-world authoritarian regime, where the ruler lives in luxury while citizens are expected to accept their dismal circumstances.

I feel sorry for the younger generation who will never experience the Malta that we once knew. We enjoyed wonderful summers on clean beaches, walked barefoot on cool tiles in our Maltese homes, and cherished quiet summer afternoons when we closed our shutters to escape the heat and the world. Those moments provided a sense of mental serenity that we all loved, but sadly, that has been lost forever. Unless the vicious cycle of greed and destruction is stopped, this once idyllic island will cease to exist in its indigenous state. A painful prediction from those of us who left and always dreamed of returning.

¹Sustainable Sicily: authentic villages and mindful tourism – Visit Sicily

²Rethinking tourism in the Mediterranean – Story | IUCN

³A strategic response to Paceville

Today is a Bavarian holiday and also a public holiday in Poland. It is the feast of the Three Kings. A feast embedded in Catholic tradition is embraced by Bavaria and our neighbor, Poland. It is celebrated to its fullest in Bavaria, because this German state, which proudly proclaims itself “free,” has unabashedly continued to follow traditional Catholic religious feasts and make them public holidays. The Three Kings feast is celebrated only in Bavaria; the rest of Germany, which is either predominantly secular or non-Catholic, goes to work!

I have lived in Germany for 41 years, across three of its states. However, Bavaria has been my favorite so far, not only for its natural beauty but also for its unapologetic commitment to itself, its culture, and its traditions. Last year, a controversy arose in Bavaria when public offices and schools displayed the cross on the wall. Leftist politicians and activists tried to remove it, citing, of course, the now all too familiar “tolerance” narrative to stifle freedom. However, this is Bavaria, and its president, Markus Söder, is a devout Catholic who stated that nobody is forced to live in Bavaria, so if the cross offends anyone, they might consider moving because Bavaria is and will remain a Catholic state.

This week, my Bavarian friends had an interesting question for me. If Malta is so Catholic, why does it not celebrate most Catholic feasts? I gave them a brief historical overview of my country’s slow, deliberate separation from the deep culture and traditions that define us as Maltese. As a child in Malta, I celebrated the feast of the Epiphany and did not return to school until the day after. But slowly and gradually, under external secular influence, the Maltese have been denied their heritage in both their faith and their traditions. Why would anyone allow that? was the next question.

Why indeed! In the meantime, inane and irrelevant events like Halloween and St.Patrick’s Day replaced what grass-roots Maltese culture was. A combination of faith-related and historical, often medieval, celebrations that served as the glue for a nation that experienced invasions, slavery, wars, hunger, and colonialism. Throughout all this, the Catholic faith sustained the country. That has been replaced with secular entertainment and non-stop retail without rest. There is no day of rest on the island. That piece of civility is gone.

Progressive idealism crept into the island’s psyche through Hollywood and academia, accompanied by a heavy dose of activism against traditional values and faith-based moral principles. Add the EU’s socialist agenda to the mix, and the once-staunch Catholic island has been reduced to a pretense of tolerance propaganda that dismisses the island’s core heritage and identity. Even the Maltese language has been pushed to the back seat in favor of English and anything else in between. Malta’s identity has been systematically eroded, fostering contempt for tradition, culture, and faith.

Bavaria’s pride in its Catholic heritage, traditions, and culture keeps it rooted politically and socially. Bavarians still wear dirndls and celebrate their identity in communities as large as Munich and as small as my town, Weiden. They love beer, churches, religious holidays, and wurst. It is who they are, and they celebrate it without pretense. Bavaria does not compromise its cultural freedoms for the sake of a few who, instead of assimilating into communities, want to change them.

Malta’s destiny is bleak. From the destruction of heritage to overdevelopment to the elimination of faith-related feasts, the island has accepted its fate. It seems to be heading toward the complete annihilation of its language, cuisine, culture, and traditions. Many decades ago, Malta was called the “pearl of the Mediterranean.” Now it looks more like Grandma’s unfinished quilt, colorful, tacky, and coming apart at the seams.

As I cherish a quiet day in Bavaria, where all shops are closed and neighborhoods are serene and peaceful, I long for the Malta of my youth. Sundays were dedicated to church, family dinners, and an afternoon walk on the promenade. Religious feast days were still observed, and Maltese was heard and spoken in public establishments and on the streets. When the Maltese took pride in their heritage and country and did not sell out to the highest bidder. When moral values were still important, not just a “choice”.

Sadly, it took foreigners to bring to my attention what Malta has lost. Why would a beautiful island with such a rich history of self-preservation give it all up for consumerism, secularism, and pluralism? Maltese individuality has been lost in the run-of-the-mill fast-food joints, shapeless buildings, and social experiments that have turned the island into a reality show. What does tomorrow’s generation of Maltese kids have to look forward to? Who will answer for the destruction of their Maltese identity and culture? Who is to blame? Will politicians, parents, grandparents, and educators who contributed to the destruction of the island have the guts to answer? I doubt it.

“I do better with food”, a favorite quote from my favorite movie My Best Friend’s Wedding. Explaining excellence in terms of food is difficult especially to this generation bent on a fast life, electronic gizmos, and not much interest in anything which takes more than a finger flip to operate. A sad testimonial apparent in increased obesity and diseases. But amid this sustenance chaos are individuals creating culinary marvels through the inherent love of the kitchen, the land, and heritage. That’s what Heute Cuisine is all about. Elevating food to an experience.

On the small Mediterranean island of Malta, a myriad of men and women are creating dishes inspired by the island’s culinary heritage which spans back to the Phoenicians. They are elevating their country’s Mediterranean cultural dishes into Michelin Star quality creations. These young chefs have taken their local ingredients and family recipes to another level of flavor, texture, and sophistication. They are also taking the island by storm.

Lately, my family took a journey into the magical culinary creations of Executive Chef Clint Grech, and Head Chef Gabriel Caruana at their Michelin Star restaurant De Mondion, in the old and silent city of Mdina, Malta. Located in the iconic Xara Palace, the restaurant overlooks the Mdina Bastions and the valleys below. The menu features Maltese staples like “ftira” a Maltese flat bread, octopus, homemade pasta cooked in the traditional Maltese fish soup “aljotta”, and local herbs like marjoram, and goat cheeses blended expertly into butters and sauces.

The delicate balance of flavors that are all inspired by the Maltese islands and their history, literally blow your taste buds to the next level of pleasure. A combination of cheese and smoked eel transformed a Binet into a symphony of flavors one hardly associates with the fried bread. A warm and crunchy thin crust, once bitten, it releases the savory, salty and sweet flavors that unexpectedly burst in one’s mouth. A blast of unexpected euphoria in one small bite.

This was not an evening where one eats and run. This was an evening of slowly tasting and enjoying each flavor as it hits the pallet from all directions. Coupled with an impeccable service and a knowledgeable staff we felt like we were on a culinary journey that was being created just for us. Each dish had a story, and each story interpreted in often whimsical finesse through local familiar ingredients found in traditional Maltese kitchens.

Malta boasts of five Michelin Star restaurants, all run by young executive chefs who created food as an extension of themselves, their lives, and the abundance of local resources. Executive Chef Victor Borg of Under Grain restaurant in Valletta takes inspiration from the tradesmen and merchants who had occupied Valletta. Executive Chef Jonathan Brincat founder and co-owner of the Valletta restaurant Noni, blends traditional flavors and creates his dishes from mercantile Malta of the past. Executive Chef Eoin Smith of restaurant ION Harbour overlooking the Valletta Grand Harbour hones in on Maltese flavors and colors found in local fresh vegetables and proteins. Executive Chef Tyrone Mizzi of the Corinthia Palace Hotel Restaurant in Balzan, combines the beauty of the historical surroundings with the tastes of the past, present, and the future. Last but not least is Executive Chef Clinton Grech of the beautiful De Mondion in the Xara Palace, Mdina. Amid the setting of historic beauty and elegance, the restaurant grows fresh herbs and ingredients on its property, where traditional Mediterranean dishes are elevated to an unforgettable culinary experience.

The inspiration and drive behind these chefs are their love of cooking and their urge to create quality local food as a tribute to Malta and what it has to offer. Their goal is always to respect the ingredients and showcase them in ways that give relevance to local cultural and historical traditions. Their passion started when young. Their vision combined hard work and talent which they harnessed for the sole purpose of sharing it with the rest of us. They cook from the heart and create from a deep desire to bring out the very best in simple everyday ingredients that are the heart and soul of every Maltese dish cooked by someone’s mother.

Like most famous chefs, Chef Clinton Grech of De Mondion, started his culinary journey as a teen. His passion for cooking took him out of the sink and into the kitchen. He worked long hard hours to learn and develop the skills that are required to create dishes that are unique and elevated into the world of Michelin Stars. But it was his love of cooking that compelled him to take the long road to success.

Michelin Criteria includes quality ingredients, mastery of cooking techniques and harmony of ingredients, personality of the chef through his menu and cuisine, value for money, and consistency of the food across the menu or menus. All five Michelin chefs in Malta have met this criterion and must strive even harder to keep it. A Michelin star can be taken away as easily as it is given. Michelin Star chefs do not stop creating at the first star, but their objective changes to keeping the first and gaining more. This is an exercise in self-discipline and self-motivation to be and remain the best.

For Malta to achieve not one but five Michelin stars is unbelievably incredible, especially since its cuisine has often been panned as undefined. Colonization impacted Maltese traditional cooking and eating habits. The Maltese are still tightly tied to typical British food traditions especially at Christmas time. Christmas Pudding, trifle, mince pies, are some of the traditional deserts still eaten, bought, and cooked. But young Maltese chefs are now bringing back the flavors of chestnuts, goat cheese, citrus, figs, and other local ingredients indigenous to authentic Maltese cuisine. Through their love and respect of local ingredients, they are bringing back old cooking traditions and tastes long forgotten.

Malta, smaller than some major cities in the world, has accumulated a treasure of culinary talent normally found in Paris, Rome, London, New York, and other major cities in the world. Malta and the Maltese should not only be proud of these upcoming chefs, but supportive of what has become a billion-dollar industry. Chef Grech and others are an inspiration to those who wish to pursue a dream, talent, or art that requires sacrifice, hard work, and ultimately success. They are pioneers in their own right, taking on the ordinary and transform it into the extraordinary. They are bringing back the spirit of entrepreneurship and courage that has been slowly disappearing in our culture and society.

There are other wonderful restaurants and creative chefs in Malta, and I am sure that going forward, we will be seeing more Maltese Chefs on the Michelin radar. In the meantime: thank you Chef Grech for a wonderful Michelin Star experience.

I woke up this morning to a less kind, generous, humble, strong, elegant, loving, and compassionate world. A woman who I have known since I was born left my world in a sudden void of what I considered traditional no-nonsense values we so lack today. A woman so far removed from my personal life yet so entangled and part of it that I find myself very sorrowful and sad.  It’s like a long friendship has suddenly been rudely severed.  An unexplainable ache for the familiarity was taken away without a chance to get used to the void.

Last week I had a strange dream that left me very unsettled because I could not explain it. It was a comforting dream. I woke up in a warm state of mind but utterly confused. A week ago, I dreamt that I was at Buckingham Palace for tea. A concept as foreign to me as even thinking of being inside Buckingham Palace, period. But there I was on a huge soft sofa sipping tea from a delicate cup watching people without faces murmuring across the room. Someone sat beside me and to my astonishment it was Ma’am herself. In blue. We sat silently until she turned to me to remark that today’s generation are soft.  I took the bait. “They have no grit” I replied. She softly took my arm and the next thing I knew we were walking through London waving at people.  I woke up feeling as warm as the imaginary tea I drank in my dream. Last night, my dream friend passed and left the streets of London quiet with sorrow.

Elizabeth was crowned a year after I was born. One could say that I have known her all my life. I grew up a colonist in the smallest colony of the empire, but the one that Elizabeth and Philip chose to visit and bring their children to for rest and relaxation. In her lifetime, Elizabeth always spoke fondly of Malta. They were the happiest two years of the newlywed’s lives. A Navy wife who could roam around the island unhampered and without care. Malta and the Maltese carry warm memories of the Royal Family as they routinely passed through the island with love and joy.

What was special about this woman? Brought up by strong traditional parents, she was taught at an early age the importance of responsibility and service. Her father took on the kingship against his will but with stoic determination for the good of the country. In turn he taught his daughter that service outweighs personal desires and choices. When Elizabeth took on the role of queen, her first broadcast was a promise to the nation that she would always be of service to the people she was chosen to take care of.

Elizabeth knew her role as a monarch to be without bias or political leanings. She lived through 15 prime ministers, some she liked, some she could do without. But she was the strength that often gave her prime ministers the counsel and advice that helped them lead through the eyes of a woman, mother, and queen. She never shirked from her family role of a mother. She ruled as a mother and later, grandmother. The various tragedies, scandals, challenges, and pain that hit her family did not change her approach to what is right and wrong. She rode the wave of popularity and unpopularity with calm and conviction. Two attributes so lacking in all of our leaders today.

As a woman, Elizabeth was a role model of strength and determination without apologies. She was the ultimate feminist when feminists were still a thing of the future. She was the glue that held a family together even when ready to split apart. She had the strength to reprimand, rebuke, and even “punish” family when needed. But at the end of it all, it was her love of God, country, and family that led her to continue to serve. And serve she did. From WWII as a mechanic to ruling for 70 years, Elizabeth served with honor, integrity, and most of all, love.

As Paddington put it so succinctly: thank you ma’am for everything.

One time I asked my mother what it felt like to be 97, and in her stoic noncommittal way she answered “tiring”. This will be the sixth anniversary of my mother’s death. She died a few months shy of 100! We have a strong female gene in our family, the women hang on, but the men tend to drop like flies. A combination of female resistance to the mundane and a compelling urge to keep on going just because we can. We can be stubborn (very non-committal here) overbearing, loud and opinionated, but shirkers we are not!

My mother was born in Malta in 1916. The beginning of the most tumultuous century in world history. She was born at the onset of the Great War (WWI) and the influenza pandemic that proliferated through the awful trenches of WWI in Europe, and later transported to the rest of the known world.  Malta’s strategic location smack in the middle of the Mediterranean made it an attractive crossroads to trade activity from North Africa, the Middle East, and Asia,, to the rest of Europe. The pandemic travelled these routes and eventually found itself on the island. Historians have written very little about the 1918 pandemic in Malta, but it was a turning point for life on the island.

365 churches stand on an island the size of Manhattan. Some older than the US by several hundred years. Internal church burials under coveted mosaic and marble chiseled floors were the norm. When the 1918 pandemic broke out, the Catholic Church in Malta stopped the practice and started building cemeteries outside the confines of the churches. Internal burials ceased for health reasons.  Besides traditional Catholic cemeteries, Malta has a Muslim Cemetery, British Forces cemeteries overseen by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission, and a small Jewish Cemetery. The first burial outside a church was in 1872 at what is now the State-owned Cemetery Addolorata, but it took the pandemic to get burials out of the church and into the cemetery. This is the world that my mother was born into.

The lives and survival of our parents is a combination of wonder. A generation that moved from one life challenge to the next matter-of-factly without the imminent need of ‘safe spaces”, counselors, and the self-inflicted psychoanalytic crap of today. They faced trauma reasonably unscathed and left themselves open to the possibility that when one door closes another will open. Some cynics might call it a cliché, but my mother’s generation lived by it.

 In August 1920, my grandfather left Malta to the other side of the world to find a better life for himself and his family in the New World. New York City to be exact. A man who looked toward the future and wanted more for his family than the life a small island had to offer. Out of the ravages of WW I and the pandemic, he realized that things will not be very easy in Malta. He wanted more for his family. For the next eight years he set up a career and a home in NYC before asked the rest of the family to join him. In August of 1928, my grandmother, my mother then eleven years old, and her brother then eight years old, travelled to NYC to start a new life in mid-town Manhattan and an area fondly known as Hell’s Kitchen.

In her last years of her life my mother could care less whether she remembered what she ate for lunch, but she could name every store, church, and neighbor who lived between 47^th and 50^th in her NYC neighborhood.  After graduating from High School, and in her late teens, my mother accompanied her mother, my grandmother, to Malta to settle family affairs. While in Malta, she met a handsome man with twinkling green bluish eyes, and I want to think that it was love at first sight. They corresponded, my mother from the US and my father from Malta. In December 1938, they got married in Malta.

During WW II, Malta suffered the brunt of both the Italians and the Germans. It would not cave in to the constant bombings that the Luftwaffe threw at it in an attempt to bring the British to their knees. Malta located between Italy and North Africa, was imperative to the Germans to continue their dominance in the Mediterranean and North Africa. But Malta was not going down without a fight. This was to be my mother’s early married life.

My parents, newlywed and young, spent most of the war underground in a shelter. Malta was sieged from the air and the sea. By 1942, the British could neither sustain the attacks nor feed the island population bombed to its core without fuel and food.  The British tried for months to get supplies through to Malta but without success. Finally, in August 1942, a convoy with much needed supplies limped into the Grand Harbor, but not before sustaining the loss of several merchant ships, a cruiser, and a destroyer. The rest of the convoy so badly damaged that the Maltese still consider it a miracle that it made it through at all. Convoy day is still celebrated today. This was my mother’s world as a young bride and a mother.

My elder sister was born in 1941, smack in the middle of this horror. She spent most of her infant years with underneath the ground in a war shelter. Up until she died, my mother refused to eat “bully beef” a British take on Spam, and the only reasonable staple during the war, if one was lucky enough to get it. She also tended to hoard supplies if a hint of war was anywhere in the world. She hated the sound of sirens because they reminded her of air raid warnings. Nowadays they call it PTSD. She called it “not wanting to live through another war again”.

My mother was the poster child for motherhood. She raised seven of us in conditions that today’s generation can neither emulate nor wish to. Our parents managed to raise a family on one bread winner, one car, one phone line, one radio, much, much, later in life, one black and white television, one bathroom, and several other single amenities of the day, quite common to the early 50’s and 60’s households. We thrived, we grew, we left home, none the wiser and none the worse. An era when all families faced the same challenges of raising children without the excess of today. We didn’t know any better because all families we knew were leading the same lives. We took pleasure in simplicity.  Swimming until dusk in the summer, playing marbles on a newly washed marble floor, sleeping outside on Malta’s terraced roofs on hot summer days, and letting our rolled-up hair dry naturally in the hot Mediterranean sun. Nobody locked their front doors, and everyone watched out for everyone else.

Throughout our childhood, our mother was the first to rise and the last one to sleep. Frankly, I never remember her getting up because when we got up, she had already been up several hours, and peeling vegetables and preparing lunch. I don’t remember her going to bed either.  She was the last one to put her head down from what I assume by today’s standards would be labeled a “stressful” day.

Our mothers didn’t have microwaves, electric coffee pots, dishwashers, or often washing machines. These were the proverbial super women. Eventually their arms developed muscles like Schwarzenegger from washing clothes, wringing clothes, hanging clothes, carrying kids, and lugging everything in between. They managed households of nine and more without a single trip to a life counselor, psychiatrist, stress manager, or life guide. A breed of women who went through wars and life challenges without drama or blame. They gathered their strength through their own upbringing and sense of responsibility. Our mother never attended “birth” classes before giving birth to my sister in 1941. She didn’t have to be taught to be a mother or a parent. It was common sense. What sets women like my mother apart is not only their resiliency, but their intrinsic ability to raise families sans books, child psychologists, or how-to manuals.

To this generation blaming my parents’ and our generation for everything from climate change to the economy, here’s news for you. My mother never went shopping without carrying a reusable shopping bag. There were no plastic bags. She went shopping for fresh groceries and fruit every morning, she didn’t spend money on microwave crap and didn’t spend money on junk food either. I remember her peeling potatoes and slicing them in thin fine slices to make us potato chips. She didn’t use plastic cups, plates, or cutlery. We went on picnics or had parties and ate on china plates with real cutlery. We also had cloth napkins at table not paper. She walked or took the bus and found no need to either buy a second car or drive. We were taught to turn off the light as soon as we leave a room to conserve energy. We were also taught not to waste water. At Christmas we expected one gift not the entire Amazon truck under the tree.  She made us school lunches neatly tucking a fruit for desert and not expecting the school to feed us. A phone was for an emergency not to give an opinion or take pictures. We ate everything she put on the plate because her kitchen had a set menu, and because if we didn’t we would have gone hungry. We didn’t suffer from ADD or any other alphabetic ailments so prolific among kids today. If we misbehaved in class, in church, in public, the ADD was quickly slapped out of us by some adult in authority, and if there was any ADD residual it was immediately removed by either parent as soon as we got home. We didn’t have allergies we can’t pronounce, and riding a bike was an adventure that often meant getting bruised, which we wore like a badge of honor and which our mother took care of with a swab of alcohol that burnt like the dickens and a band aid. Playground equipment was mounted on gravel or concrete floor. We learnt pretty quick not to be stupid. We played games like hopscotch, hide and seek, four corners, and various other games we made up on the spot. We weren’t fat because we had a life. My mother’s generation did with less and achieved more.

In her twilight years, my mother remembered as much as she forgot, or at least said she forgot. Sometimes I think it was a ploy to change the subject. Her hands fragile and bent from acute arthritis didn’t stop her from still puttering around until her late 90’s. She had very little patience with the nonsense the current world was gradually falling into. When I visited her during her last few years of her life, I began to realize that there was more to this woman than we siblings ever realized. Her life was a tapestry of color and time that spanned almost a 100 years. She lived through most of what we read about in history books. But she never uttered one word of regret. She regretted loosing her husband my father, so soon in her life. They were married 40+ years and when he passed at 73, he left a void in my mother’s life she could never fill. She missed him till the day she died.

On my many visits to my mother’s assisted care facility, and speaking with other female residents my mother’s age, I discovered the communality between these women; they all had a story. Remarkable stories. Like my mom, most were war brides raising children in shelters or bombed out homes. As they recalled those years, they weren’t angry, spiteful, or even regretful. They were of the same mind that they did what they had to do. Their stories might have varied but their courage was across the board.

My mother has been gone for six years. A few months shy of a 100 she left the world as quietly as she had entered it. A woman of so many complexities and dimensions that we often mistook for old age.  Her mind was as sharp as a tack, and in later years her tongue matched it. She was pragmatic to a fault. She connected the dots with clarity. On one of my later visits, she sat next to me listening to a conversation of a young first-time mother visiting her grandmother at the assisted care facility. The young mother bemoaned her lack of personal time because she had a job and a child. It was stressful. Without missing a beat, my mother looked at me and said: “Why did she bother wanting a child if she couldn’t take care of it?”  Who can argue with that? A difference in generational needs: one wants it all, gets it and bemoans it, while the other did what had to be done with grace and fortitude. I miss my mother.  I miss the connection between her past and my present. Her legacy is not found in any library, it is buried within the DNA of me, my siblings, and our children. I know that there is a little bit of my mother’s tenacity, resilience, and courage in me. Her legacy is in a blessed memory of a woman who never asked for much but gave so much of herself willingly and unconditionally. “God could not be everywhere, and therefore he made mothers.”  Rudyard Kipling

May my mother’s memory forever remain a blessing.

Until I was 15, my national anthem was “God save the Queen”, and my passport was British.  Malta was a colony of Great Britain for 200+ years. Yeah, the Brits could be stiff, arrogant, and a general pain in the ass. BUT they gave us the best education in the world when subjects like Math, English, Literature, and writing in impeccable cursive mattered. When passing as many GCE (General Certificate of Education equivalent to a High School Diploma but 100% harder) subjects also mattered. The GCE was given to Secondary School leaving students by Oxford, London, and Cambridge Universities.  Students could choose one university or sit for exams from all. Competition was high. Finding a good job either on Malta or abroad meant getting the best GCE results

So, I will let you on my little secret. I still have a soft spot for Britain, especially the Queen. The Queen personifies everything a woman should be. Strong, determined, assertive, but also caring and loving. Throughout her 70-year-old reign, this woman endured failed economies, dorky Prime Ministers, and often dorkier relatives. But forward she literally marched with courage and a stiff upper lip that she learned from her mother, father, and grandparents. The Queen was raised to be strong. 

Eventually, the British Empire disintegrated into a Commonwealth which meant very little to anyone. Symbolic in nature, it combined the yearnings of an era when young Royals travelled, waved, and smiled at people they often had very little interest in. Colonies were strategic or resource assets. When in the late 20^th century, colonies started getting antsy and wanting independence, British Parliament and the Crown were simultaneously nervous and relieved. Basically, Britain could not afford the colonies any longer. However, Malta was not so easy to let go because of its historic strategic presence in the Mediterranean, especially post WWII and during the Cold War.

Post WWII Malta headquartered the Allied Forces Southern Europe Command for many years. Former NATO headquarters are still visible in Floriana, and now open to the public, one can appreciate the role Malta played in the Empire and in NATO. After Malta’s Independence, NATO re-organized and eventually moved to Naples, Italy. But the British influence remains strong on a small island barely the size of the town I currently live in Germany. An island historically rich and amazingly diverse. Barely 60 miles off the shore of Sicily and 180 miles north of Libya, Malta remains an island with the best natural harbor and the best shipyards in the world.

Malta’s British heritage is imbedded in the island and its inhabitants. English is the second official language, we drive “on the wrong side of the road”, we serve British food, we have a shitload of pubs, we have the largest Manchester United fan base outside the UK, and we enjoy British holiday traditions. The Maltese incongruently eat, drink, drive, and celebrate like Brits. One can go for a full English breakfast in the morning, a Maltese meal of pasta and Mediterranean fish for lunch, a Guinness in the evening, and a fusion of chips and Maltese entrees for dinner. Cuisine influenced by Italy, north Africa, and Britain makes eating in Malta a culinary experience.

But nothing says Britain more than at Christmas time, when Maltese homes are filled with aromas of mince pies, Christmas cakes, Christmas puddings, trifles, and perfectly roasted potatoes. Christmas dinner may start with baked macaroni, but followed by a roast bird of some kind, roast potatoes, and occasionally Yorkshire pudding. Desert is a toss between Christmas Cake, trifle, or a beautiful Mediterranean almond cake.  A compellation of tastes, traditions, and heritage very few places on earth can boast about. You can take the Brits out of Malta but not Malta out of Britain.

Coming to my point: like the millions around the world, I watch all Royal weddings and find myself standing when “God save the Queen” is being played. So here I now sit watching the 70^th Jubilee of the Queen with a box of tissues because I intrinsically feel the joy of these celebrations as if I was still a colonial. I tell my American and German friends as they raise their eyebrows questioning my emotional state, that for a chunk of my youth “she was my Queen you know”. That says it all. She was my Queen and this weekend I feel that she is still my Queen. The woman in the picture who adorned all our classrooms, government offices, and often our homes those many years ago is still part of my life. I can still sing “God save the Queen” in harmony with the best of them just as I remember singing it in primary school every morning.

I am a mish mosh of allegiances and emotions. Holding two passports, one Maltese/EU, and one US, I appreciate my past as a British subject. The British with their often-insufferable stiff upper lip taught us discipline in our lives and our establishments. With a smug we secretly enjoyed passing more GCE subjects than they did. Most Maltese students sat for 8-11 subjects the majority from Oxford University, and passed them effortlessly. We competed with British students and the rest of the Commonwealth at the same June time frame. We had to write in ink pens when ink often melted on our papers in the Maltese summer heat No student names were allowed on our often-three-hour long papers, just our student numbers. The universities were oblivious as to the location or nationality of the student. We were all graded as British. But its this effort and competitive spirit that instilled in us the urge to do well in school and our lives. A concept our current politicians and school reformists seem to miss entirely today.

The colonial in me will continue to watch the celebrations and secretly wish I was in London with the throngs waving flags and singing “God save the Queen” or some other patriotic ditty I may remember from childhood. I want to party hearty and enjoy 70 years of an incredible female who didn’t need a movement to make a difference, or activists to tell her how to determine her destiny.

At 26, Elizabeth took on her role as monarch with strength, fortitude, grace, and very little drama. Elizabeth knew her responsibilities just as she also knew that her life would change forever. She reigned with poise and an intrinsic deep sense of duty she learned from her father. Attributes which future princesses like Sarah Ferguson, Diana Spencer, and Meghan Merkel seem to lack or have lacked in their world of ego centric expectations and entitlement. Queen Elizabeth never doubted her role or her position in life. She embraced it through an unconditional love of family, country, and empire. The Queen always knew her “place” constitutionally and morally.

As Queen Elizabeth, Lilibeth, (fondly referred to by her father), slowly fades into her much deserved royal sunset, we nervously ponder on the future of the monarchy and Britain without her. Her image on currency and official photos morphed with age, but her spirit as a monarch remained young. As we celebrate her 70^th year as a monarch, we inadvertently celebrate our own youth, heritage, and traditions. Memories of the British forces on the island, their parades, royal visits, and pomp and circumstance are still fresh and etched in my mind. Yes, Your Majesty, you were and for the next few days, still are My Queen. God save the Queen.

Whatever and whoever we may condemn in the Catholic Church, many nuns have dedicated their lives to the wellbeing of children, mothers, families, and neighborhoods. The Ursuline order in Malta has been providing shelter for “unwanted” children for over 119 years. The Sliema Creche has been an integral part of the neighborhood and that mission for over 70 years. Out of the two “homes”, one in Gwardamangia and one in Sliema., the latter I am most familiar with. Nestled in a corner of Dingli Street adjacent to St. Patrick’s Church, Salesian Hall and Theater, these women were angels to children who needed them the most.

The news of the closure of the Ursuline Creche in Sliema hit home. In the 60’s, I was part of a girl’s organization called “helpers” of the Creche. We helped several days a week with the babies and toddlers the nuns were bringing up. We loved it.  We were inundated with a sense of “good” and charity at an early age. We were part of a special group of people who saw the love of a group of women dedicated to making children’s lives better up close and personal.

The creche depended on private donations. So, we held annual concerts and entertainment at the Salesian Hall around the corner to raise money for the home.  Names like Johnny Navarro, a local famous comedian, made appearances and brought with him his comedy routine and colleagues to perform and raise the roof in laughter and much needed funding. All pro bono. I participated in these concerts and entertainment. Still have wonderful memories of being on stage with Johnny Navarro.

In an interview with Times of Malta, Sister Magdalene Cauchi recounted how in the late 50’s early 60’s, nuns were sent to the UK to train and learn about modern childcare.  They were pioneers. The concept was to develop an environment as close to a home as possible with age specific group space and resources. Sister Cauchi recalls stories of babies left on their doorsteps at all hours of the day and night, some under odd circumstances, but the nuns were not concerned where they came from only that they had to be taken care of. I personally recall those times, when on various occasions new babies appeared in the nursery overnight.

These formidable women judged no one. They knew that problems existed especially among young girls, who often found themselves pregnant facing hostility within and outside their families and neighborhoods and left with no other choice but to give their babies up. With smiles and love, the nuns asked no questions but took in every child as if their own and as a blessing.

My happiest times as a young girl were spent there. The nuns taught us basic child care. They were big on cleanliness and safety. Only a few of us were allowed to feed the babies and change their nappies. But we were also happy to assist with the daily chores of cleaning the nurseries or just entertaining the children.  We also took the babies out in prams for walks and fresh air. I never witnessed any stress among these brave women, only unconditional love.

The EU in its wisdom and lack of consideration to individual countries and their needs, have established policies to de-institutionalize children under three. They should be with a family they argue. Well go figure. In the meantime, what does one do with unwanted babies or abused children? I don’t think the EU has gone that far in thinking that through yet. The nuns have been taking care of both problems for decades.  Without asking any questions or demanding payment, they raised children of poor families who could not afford another child. They raised children of prostitutes who had neither the resource nor wanted a child in the environment and situation they found themselves in.  In recent years, addiction, abuse, and mental health were the main reasons children were placed in their protection. To comply with the EU, the last three kids have been transferred to the home in Gwardamangia. I guess there was still no “happy family” for these three tikes.

The EU is oblivious to its policies’ consequences because it exists within a bubble of bureaucracy and political ineptness compensated by opinion miles away from the source. A tunnel vision body of policy makers without a clue. If it sounds good, it must be good. This one shoe fits all thinking is outright inane. In today’s world of so much mental illness and inadequate assistance to single mothers and domestic abusive families, one would think that any governing entity would be happy to have an organization that not only assists but is good at it. Assuming that children under three are going to find a happy home right away is absurd. But then the EU is absurd on so many levels it is hard not to just nod and accept this policy as another self serving attempt at “over reach” into a country’s individuality and specific needs.

Going forward, the Ursuline Creche in Sliema will turn into a Day Care Center. The nuns are happy to continue caring and loving children.  Their love of children draws from their love of family. The nuns lived like a big family. As a young “helper” I was part of that family. I wore an apron and shared in the joy of taking care of those that couldn’t take care of themselves. These women never asked for anything in return. They gave to those in their care unconditional love and attention. They didn’t pick or choose who to take in, their door was open literally at all hours. Donations came from private organizations and companies. They made do with what they had.  

They are the unsung heroes who quietly changed lives for the better. They went beyond taking in children, they also helped poor families by providing resources like prams, cots, and other baby accruements Never ask or asked for anything in return. The EU didn’t have to tell them to do good, they did it because they were and still are exceptional women. They are courageous and dedicated to their mission.

Many of the Sisters I knew as a child have long since been gone to a better place. Their legacy was taken over by those who came after them. They were the pioneers of women’s rights because they understood the plight of women and instead of shunning and judging, they embraced and helped. My memories of those years helping the Ursuline sisters raise babies and toddlers are edged in my heart and mind. They taught most of us the joy of caring and of motherhood as most of us went down that road later in life.  

““We cried. We consoled each other. But, with a past like ours, when you think about how many babies and families benefitted from our services, it is not something to cry about, it is something to celebrate,” Sister Magdalene Cauchi May 23, 2022

Amen Sister!

Watch: End of an era… Ursuline crèche in Sliema closes its doors (timesofmalta.com)

As I sit at my computer trying to type and wipe my nose at the same time, I reflect on the past year of COVID hysteria and unprecedented dumb. I have been jabbed three times. This coming from a woman who does not take the flu shot and would rather drink a hot cup of tea than take drugs. I never get the flu, and normally while good flu-shot citizens drop like flies around me, I survive winter after winter flu-less and cold-less. Not this year.

Christmas Eve my throat tickled and Christmas Day it became a full blown sore throat. But I marched on with a fabulous dinner and bore it stoically. As Boxing Day approached I had swallowed a large frog. As much as I despise going to doctors, I had to pull myself together and go. My doctor’s office was closed for two weeks. Of course, we’re in Germany. How dare we get sick on Christmas. What was I thinking? But I digress. I masked and covered myself burqa-like and made it to a doctor’s office, who in the most prudent manner made me wait outside in the snow because of COVID. This is where stupid hits me like a bag full of nickels. We are all masked but we can’t go inside. And we must maintain distance. So what’s the point of the mask? So I waited with who it seemed half of my town. They are German, they comply.

The doctor irritated by the fact that he was the only one in the area open for business was not exactly Dr. Marcus Welby M.D. He wouldn’t look at my throat but he lifted up my sweater and poked my back with a cold statoscope. He gave me a decongestant and cough medicine and as I rose to leave, he told me to stand by the open window, and true to the script and before I knew it, I was poked in my throat and both nostrils for a COVID test. Again, another moment of stupid occurred at least by my standards; I had to wait up to 12 hours for the test result but I was sent to the pharmacy next door to get the medication and then home. So I guess, COVID does not even hover while waiting for the result. The result a few hours later came negative. I had to download a COVID test AP from the Koch Institute. What happened to Apple downloads just for funky music?

As the days progressed so did my condition which got blown into a sinus infection from hell. So once again I drag myself to the good doctor who was more amiable this time realizing that he had fucked up three days ago. He gave me antibiotics. Had he done that three days before I would not have had to go back to see him. But the new generation of “woke” doctors are now reluctant to make you feel better immediately in case you get addicted to meds like antibiotics. You might start demanding them and they will ruin the liver or whatever. Instead, I took medicinal crap for three days that obviously I really didn’t need. Of course, the fact that my face was swollen and I looked like a cabbage patch doll did not leave much to the imagination. No COVID poking this time. I guess even Marcus Welby realized that being sick in 2021 does not eliminate the common flu, cold, or seasonal winter crud.

Israel just announced an unseasonal rise in flu and flu hospitalization. This made headlines like it’s something out of the ordinary. According to the CDC the number one cause of death in America is heart disease. WHO also places heart disease as the number one cause of death worldwide. Cancer comes in second, and in 2020, COVID came in third. We have no statistics for 2021. Between October 1, 2019 – April 4, 2020, 39-56 million came down with the flu, 410,000 – 740,000 were hospitalized, 24,000 – 62,000 died, and 195 children died. My point: get over ourselves. There are serious diseases out there that kill more people than this virus. Get a grip.

Announcing having a cold or the flu is like announcing a robbery at Tiffany’s. Gradually those around you disappear like rats on a sinking ship. I announced my cold to my family on Sunday. Faces contorted and I could literally hear their thoughts. “Oh my God, she has it.” I had to remind everyone that there is still the common cold around. A lot of people I know came down with COVID despite the vaccines. According to politicians and COVID groupies everywhere they were the good citizens. They took the jab and most probably announced it on FB with a cute picture and sign “I took the Booster”, like they had just saved the world from destruction. Obviously, we’re going to be boosting till doomsday because whatever is in that jab is not doing much good. People are still getting sick. Yes, but they must be going around without a mask, say the COVID aficionados. They wore masks say them. They must not have disinfected their hands. Really? On a normal day we touch door knobs, shopping carts, and a million other public items that have more germs than a petri dish in Wuhan.

I believe that there are those among us who are reveling in the COVID era of restrictions, control, and shame. They follow case numbers as religiously as they follow sport scores. They are social media’s superheroes. They are the righteous, the conformed, the committed (in more ways than one), the COVID warriors. They are the COVID elite. They wallow in self-righteous condemnation of the unworthy. The unvaccinated, the only twice vaccinated, the mask refusers, the rebels of society who should be dragged out into the street and quartered. We have created a COVID club where smug masked vaccinated tyrants pass judgement armed with ignorance and scientific information from talk-show hosts. They are almost disappointed if one is sick with the flu, surely one jests.

COVID is around and will remain around forever because the genie was released from the bottle. In the meantime, big PHARMA is making a killing on “vaccines” that seem to loose their fizz every three months. I’m sure we’re in for the 4th and 5th booster because the virus will again mutilate. The last version is very mild and those who had it suffered less than what I’m going through right now with the flu. But having the flu is almost disappointing to some. A friend of mine just called me and on telling him I was sick with the flu he asked me if I was sure it wasn’t COVID. My confirmation was under whelming. “Oh, so its only the flu”. And just like that my swollen face, my blocked sinus, and runny nose were dismissed like yesterday’s bad lunch. COVID is now a status symbol.

As I pick my nose off the ground where it has fallen from my last three sneezes, I realize that I haven’t had the flu for years. I always prided myself of being healthier than most of my employees half my age. Now I joined the ranks of the flu season sick. Evil conspiracy thoughts have entered my mind, possibly because I have been binge watching Upstairs Downstairs and the Golden Girls for the past week. I feel vulnerable. Did the three vaccines screw up my immune system and I will be subject to the crud every season? Is this a conspiracy by big Pharma who never made a cent from me and are now getting their revenge? Am I a pawn in this big game of subversive government and political control? Come to think of it, am I a pod person? How would I know? Something is definitely wrong with me because I only have the flu. I’m almost disappointed in myself.

On November 2, 1861, Union Col. Richard J. Oglesby of 18^th Co Illinois Infantry Regiment stationed at Birds Point, a small Missouri town across the Mississippi River, received orders from General Grant to take command of an expeditionary force against rebel opposition troops in Stoddard County, Missouri.  Allegedly, Col. Oglesby arrived in Bloomfield, Stoddard County, on the morning of November 8^th.  Forward detachment Union troops had looted abandoned homes and businesses prior to the Colonel’s arriving, compelling him to order the looting to stop, and the soldiers to remain in “garrison” aka tents. In the meantime, ten Union Officers found the abandoned printing offices of the Bloomfield Herald, and that night decided to publish a “newspaper” for their troops. Excerpts from a diary by Captain Daniel Brush of C. Company, 18^th Illinois Infantry Regiment, described the effort, and how the next morning, soldiers were given the unprecedented task of naming their new “paper”. The soldiers decided unanimously on Stars and Stripes.

Fast forward to several other wars and deployments across the globe, and the one certainty for every active-duty military member and his or her family remains the morning edition of the Stars and Stripes.  We were one of these families and I am one of those subscribers who still enjoys my home delivered Stars and Stripes with my proverbial “cup o’ Joe”.  Unfortunately, technology and “paperless” activism or some other equally pseudo eco cliché has led to the gradual demise of the paper edition and consequently, my home delivery of the Stars and Stripes. 

I joined the ranks of military wives in 1969. Vietnam was in earnest, the Beatles were on top of the charts, and man had just made a “giant step for mankind” on the moon. Thrown into a life of PCS (permanent change of station) moves for the next 21 years, and giving birth on different continents and countries, certainties in the military remained few and far between. However, amid the constant change in location and country there still remained a few certainties that withstood the test of time long after uniforms were put in moth balls and new lives started anew.  In our case, when the uniform was put away, we both started serving as DoD (Department of Defense) contractors/civilians. We both gave another 25 years in service to the military and the country. Throughout these years of service, the Stars and Stripes remained the sole means of connection within the global military family we spent 50 + years in.

During the 2003/2004 deployment to Iraq, Stars and Stripes reporters and other news agencies were imbedded with our troops who had deployed from Friedberg, Germany. I served those troops as a DoD contractor with the Overseas Military Banking Program. My job was to manage the small banking facility on Ray Barracks, Friedberg.  Ray Barracks hosted Sgt. Elvis Aaron Presley from 1958-1960. In the late 90’s it became home to the 1^st BDE, 1^st AD.  These were the soldiers who in 2003 deployed to Baghdad. During that deployment, my staff and I created “News from the front”, daily Stars and Stripes stories directly involving our brigade and deployed soldiers which we painstakingly cut and glued onto a flip chart which stood in the entrance to the bank lobby.  A throwback to past wars, The Stars and Stripes became a conduit between loved ones down range and military families that remained at “home” in Germany.

The Stars and Stripes is delivered free of charge to overseas deployed troops, most overseas PX’s (Post Exchanges), Commissaries, and other garrison/base establishments.  Subscribers like me, pay a modest $52 a year subscription for home delivery.  The paper also has an online version which put the final nail in the proverbial coffin of congressional funding, making it difficult to justify paying delivery personnel and thus sustain the home delivery service I got accustomed to and enjoyed.

What folk in the US fail to understand, including current pinhead politicians, is the impact the paper has on the lives of those stationed overseas, aka active duty, DoD civilians, and retirees.  The Stars and Stripes is unlike any other daily newspaper one is accustomed to because it was and still is specifically created and published for those who serve or have served. It is non-partisan and gathers the majority of its articles and reporting from major news outlets like Reuters, Associated Press, Washington Post, Bloomberg, Boston Globe, Los Angeles Times, and Stars and Stripes reporters. Opinion columns are balanced on either side of the political spectrum. Most important: military news is gathered from the Pacific, European, and US theater of operations. It is a vital link between branches of services across the globe and their military activities.

In Germany, where we served, retired, and now volunteer, there are approximately 50,000 troops, DoD civilians and families living on various garrisons and bases. The Stars and Stripes paper edition as of date, has 200 home delivery subscribers. None are active duty. All are either retirees or DoD civilians. Years ago, Army promotion boards found it necessary to ask those up for promotion to assess and discuss articles they had recently read in the Stars and Stripes. The paper was considered a pseudo-obligatory read to maintain a high level of general knowledge on world affairs and military developments imperative to leadership skills in lead positions. This “tradition” has gone by the wayside together with daily “formations” and starched uniforms. Social media like Facebook and Twitter have replaced First Sergeants and face-to-face communication between soldiers, commands, and units. A breakdown in traditions have contributed to the lack of intellectual conversation and reading deficiencies.  Unfortunately, in a survey conducted a few months ago, Stars and Stripes discovered that the subscription readership was in the 40+ age group. The younger generation are content with getting their news from rapid digital sources.

I have just received notice that as of November 30, 2021, I will not be receiving my morning edition of the Stars and Stripes in my mailbox. I need to activate the Digital edition for my daily read. Somehow, a “cup o’ Joe” and my mobile do not conjure up a warm morning reading routine. The joy of unfolding the paper even the smell of fresh print is now history. A lazy afternoon with the Stars and Stripes Crossword is also a thing of the past.

A morning newspaper is more than news in print, it’s a ritual in individuality.  I personally love to read the headlines first, then work my way quickly into the paper to get a glimpse of all the articles before I peacefully sit down with my coffee and start reading. I keep the newspaper for several days, going back to it perhaps as a source for a blog, or to reread an article that I might have missed or had come up in conversation at work.  This personal relationship with a newspaper is sacrosanct and it galls me to think that it has been set aside in lieu of the impersonal digital world.

I have kept many significant copies of the Stars and Stripes. The most notable being the one published on September 12, 2001. The front page had one picture and one headline: the Twin Towers in flames and the headline: U.S. attacked. This edition was followed by many others that I kept leading to the invasion of Afghanistan and Iraq. Losing the printed version is losing another important tradition. History and tradition are being slowly and deliberately eroded with little regard to consequences to future generations. The Stars and Stripes is the one substantial voice to all those who served and still serve.  Some may say that progress and change is inevitable. I say that change is not always progress just change.

This generation of tweeters and texters are missing out on the basic discipline of patience found in gently turning the page of a book or newspaper. They are also missing out on the joy of keeping significant newspapers and cuttings like we did, and our parents and their parents before them did. The treasure trove of historic information that has been located in family attics and basements has proven invaluable to all of us. The current penchant of living in the now without viable context to the past is the unfortunate cause of so much historic misinterpretation that leads to the visceral division so prevalent in today’s society. To be fair, one can access Stars and Stripes archives digitally but the thrill of having such an archive at home is lost in the impersonal habit of online browsing. Those of us who kept important editions were part of the headline. We remember. We know the truth.

Alas, my countdown to the last delivery has started. 52 years of the familiar will soon vanish into Login and digital passwords. I already miss the smell of the printed paper, the swish of pages turning, and reaching for my second “cup o’ Joe” while I slowly turn to the Opinion page, a daily ritual perfected to utter contentment. Thank you Stars and Stripes for the many faithful years of early morning delivery and thank you for allowing me to be part of your history. The Union soldiers chose well. In print or digital, the Stars and Stripes remains true to those who served and still serve.