I have lived in Marsa all my life. I celebrated all of my coming-of-age milestones in Marsa – my early school years, my first relationships, family weddings, family funerals. Although I am not much of an active participant in my town’s movements nowadays, except for my role in the Għaqda Storika u Kulturali Marsa , the people of Marsa seem to be part of my extended family.

My paternal grandparents were both from Marsa; my Nanna grew up on Triq Sant’Antin and her whole family was very much involved with the feast celebrations in Triq Zerafa celebrating the Holy Trinity, while my Nannu was from Marsa Road. My great-grandfather was a tattoo artist in Marsa in the late 30s and early 40s, and later on went on to open his own business, doing mosaic works. My Nannu followed suit, and we’re still known as ‘ta’ Ġiġi tal-Mużajk’ (of Ġiġi the mosaic layer) to this day. I have often been referred to by that nickname by people from Marsa whom I have never met before. My father’s lengthy involvement with the local Football club, as well as my uncles’ and cousins’ involvement with the local Scouts group mean that most of the people of my town know my family. The same can be said about most of the other families in Marsa. My father’s side of the family runs through a whole catalogue of Marsa nicknames whenever they get together. This is the way I grew up, this is what I know. This is home.

With Marsa being home, I am undoubtedly biased in some of my views. I have very strong views regarding to my hometown’s reputation, the rife drabness of the place, and other people’s opinions about it. While I felt I could complain about my hometown being unsafe and falling to pieces, I would react whenever I saw or heard a negative comment about Marsa expressed by somebody who had never lived there. I was also constantly searching for more material about my town, spending hours on internet searches in hope of finding a sliver of information I hadn’t come across before. Not much has been written about Marsa up to now, and literature pertaining to my town is sprinkled sporadically throughout history books.

It came as a complete surprise when I stumbled across a PhD thesis, written by Dr Sharon Attard De Giovanni, titled Banishing the Abject: Constituting Oppositional Relationships in a Maltese Harbour Town, in which she conducts fieldwork in my town, observing and interviewing Primary school children. I read the thesis from cover to cover, and discovered some powerful truths about myself and the people of Marsa. Dr Attard De Giovanni had lived in Marsa for quite some time to conduct her anthropological study, a feat which was seen as quasi-heroic by the Marsin she mingled with, since she hailed from a town North of the Grand Harbour.

Below are some of the most striking points I gathered from reading this thesis. This study affected me greatly, and I went through a whole rollercoaster of emotions during my reading. It also helped me understand myself better as a Marsija, and understand my fellow townspeople better too.

The concept of abjection

abject /ˈæbdʒekt/ /ˈæbdʒekt/ (usually before noun) ​terrible and without hope; poverty/misery/failure

As with Kristeva (1982), the abject is to be understood as a border and social boundary which both protects and threatens subjective identity and the integrity of the self, playing a fundamental role in social processes of constituting ‘otherness.’ In defining certain things, spaces, or people as abject, and subsequently distancing oneself from them, it becomes possible to define one’s identity in relation to what a person is not.

Banishing the Abject: Constituting Oppositional Relationships in a Maltese Harbour Town, Sharon Attard de Giovanni

While I was somewhat familiar with the term ‘abject’ I had never thought of it in relation to myself, my town, or to the people of my town. That was the first ‘wake up call’ throughout this study. Yes, people see Marsa as an abject town, a hopeless place of a lower social stature. Marsa, like some other harbour towns, is still considered as a no-go zone by most of the Maltese population. Whenever I mention my hometown, I always get an adverse reaction. We are seen as the socially marginalised, the low-status, the cast-off. And we know it.

Subconsciously, Marsa residents have internalised the feeling of unworthiness, of being ‘less-than’. I know that if I were to say that I am from Mosta, or from Birkirkara, I would get no reaction whatsoever. However, being from Marsa, I have to justify myself whenever I am asked where I’m from. I brace myself for the snide comments, for the disapproving looks and the glum turn of the conversation that inevitably ensues. The people of Marsa have to prove themselves “worthy” (of what I am yet to discover) before even being considered on level ground with other Maltese townspeople.

The concept of roughness

“A certain sense of ‘roughness’ and machismo is still prevalent amongst the people in Marsa, who take pride in being tough and strong-willed. However, this is not to preclude the collective qualities of humility and friendliness which they regularly displayed amongst one another, and which they held as important traits which identified them as down-to-earth people of Marsa, free from false illusions of superiority or grandeur which they often considered members of the upper classes to possess.”

Banishing the Abject: Constituting Oppositional Relationships in a Maltese Harbour Town, Sharon Attard de Giovanni

The people of Marsa are rough. They have had to be. Beginning from the coal-bearers who moved to Marsa at the turn of the century, the people of Marsa have suffered through Malta’s continuing progress by bearing the brunt of the island’s successes. I still remember my mother sweeping the copious soot from our front steps in the morning before going to school, deposited from the constant polluting cancer-machine that was the power station. Our beautiful, calm, creeks are replete with decaying sea-vessels. Rusty ships and tugboats well past their prime still pollute the sea surrounding Marsa, which has turned a disturbing shade of bright green. As kids, we used to joke that whoever falls into the sea at the Menqa would get leprosy. We are shockingly used to putrid smells and horrible air quality.

A certain roughness is also needed when walking the streets or interacting with the people of Marsa. It is not unusual for the Police station to be closed, therefore roughness is also valued as a way of self-defence. Relating to the idea of feeling ‘abject’, a tough skin is needed to be able to withstand the inescapable comments about being from Marsa. The presence of violence, drugs and prostitution on the streets also contributes to the ‘rough’ image projected onto, and subsequently adopted by, the people of Marsa. These factors also contribute to the attitude of ‘rajt ma rajtx, smajt ma smajtx’ (I see nothing, I hear nothing), a social norm understood at a very young age, supporting the concealment of illicit activity. This, in turn, strengthens the noxious image of ‘roughness’.

The concept of ‘taħwid’

Feigning ignorance towards the actions of others is thus a central concept in avoiding trouble, and it is also a crucial skill in dealing with “taħwid” – a concept that was often evoked in speaking about Marsa, and which I shall now turn to and describe in more detail. The term “taħwid” is a broad one, and literally translates into confusion or “a mix up.” It is frequently used to refer to a general departure from social order, such as in the case of somebody cheating or leaving a family, being corrupt, abusing drugs, being involved in prostitution and engaging in illegal activities, amongst others. The term implies that things are not as they ‘should’ be. It was by no means applicable to all families in Marsa (nor exclusive to Marsa alone), however those who did not “mix up,” so to speak, were still to some extent reluctantly forced to accept the presence of a degree of “taħwid” as a feature of local life.

Banishing the Abject: Constituting Oppositional Relationships in a Maltese Harbour Town, Sharon Attard de Giovanni

This thesis was published in 2014, and many things have changed since then. The concept of ‘taħwid’ has not changed per se, but it is nowadays much larger than the Marsa area and encompasses the entirety of the island. Given the political atmosphere of these past years, the above-mentioned ‘taħwid’ is a reality in a lot of Maltese towns and villages, and has maybe been this way for much longer than presumed – it was just better hidden. We all know that corruption is rife throughout the islands, and illegalities have almost become a way of Maltese life.

The concept of ‘taħwid’ as highlighted in this thesis relates to moral conduct, with the more ‘taħwid’ there is, the less moral the situation. However, ‘taħwid’ is very closely linked to that which opposes it, and is intrinsically related to the ‘ideal’ social order. At the time of writing, in 2023, the ‘ideal’ social order in the Maltese islands is rapidly deteriorating in front of our eyes, and therefore the very meaning of ‘taħwid’ is also changing. If the majority of society exhibits signs of social pollution, then those who were brandished as polluted do not really stand out that much anymore. The 2023 definition of ‘taħwid’ would constitute much more than what Dr Attard de Giovanni highlighted in her work – would precarious jobs be considered ‘taħwid’? Starting demolishing and building works before the permits are even applied for, let alone issued? Accepting envelopes stuffed with thousands of euros under the table? Planning and executing the murder of a public figure? Things come full circle here, as the executors, the ones whose hands got dirty, were indeed from Marsa.

The high-profile murder that shook the Maltese islands just a few years ago, and which further engulfed Malta into a tar pit of corruption and illegalities, did indeed involve a couple of brothers from Marsa. They were not the masterminds, they did not gain an outstanding amount of money for the horrendous crime they committed. They only served a purpose, of doing the dirty work for the high and mighty. I think this is a perfect allegory for the way Marsa has been viewed and treated by the rest of the country over the years. Everybody gains from the exploitation of this town – yet nobody wants to set foot in it, nobody wants to invest in the regeneration and the cleaning of its harbour, nobody cares about its residents. There is no incentive for young couples to move to Marsa, in the hope of re-energising a population which is getting older and older. Marsa exists to serve a purpose, and only to serve a purpose.

This is maybe due to its excellent geographical location, right at the innermost part of the Grand Harbour, where the water is only ever disturbed by the North-Easterly wind, and its vast bordering area which comprises the industrial estate right up to Luqa. Marsa is Malta’s servant, a very willing and loyal one at that, but head bowed down in shame nonetheless.

Reading about my town and the people from my town from the point of view of an anthropologist was eye-opening, heart-breaking, and estranging. It felt like ogling animals at a zoo, only the animal I was curiously looking at was myself, my childhood and my family life, and the lives of my ancestors before me. Marsa is intricately interwoven in the fabric of my being, and will continue to be so until my last breath. I hope that in my lifetime, I manage to see her, if not celebrated and exalted, at least respected for all she has had to give up so that the rest of the country could thrive.

Disclaimer: All views expressed above, unless otherwise stated, are the author’s own.