Baħrija bloodshed: Court hears chilling confession in Malta’s rural double murder

Court hears how suspect described Baħrija double murder to arresting officers
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Valletta – The silence that normally settles over Baħrija at dusk was shattered two weeks ago when two gunshots echoed across the vine-laced valley. On Tuesday, a magistrate’s court learned exactly how the man accused of pulling the trigger allegedly explained those shots to the officers who arrested him minutes later: “I killed them both. They were stealing from me.”

The confession, delivered in matter-of-fact Maltese while the suspect sat hand-cuffed on a limestone wall, was relayed to Magistrate Marse-Ann Farrugia by Inspector Kurt Zahra, the lead investigator. Around the courtroom—an airy 18th-century hall overlooking Grand Harbour—villagers from the tiny western hamlet squeezed onto wooden benches, many clutching rosary beads or wiping away tears. For a country where the annual homicide tally rarely exceeds four, a double murder in a population of 515 000 feels less like a news bulletin and more like a family funeral.

Baħrija, population 180, is Malta’s westernmost settlement, a scatter of farmhouses famous for russet sunsets, honey-coloured rubble walls and the 17th-century chapel of St Martin. Farmers still sound the traditional “għana” folk verses at village festas; neighbours leave car-keys in ignitions; doors go unlocked. “We boast that we know every dog by name,” sighed Marlene Falzon, 62, whose family has tended vines there since 1897. “Now we will be known for blood.”

According to the prosecution, the victims—Mario Spiteri, 48, of Żebbuġ, and Kevin Micallef, 52, of Siġġiewi—drove to the isolated valley to recover what they believed was stolen agricultural tubing. The suspect, 63-year-old retired mason Carmelo “Nenu” Camilleri, had recently reported several thefts of brass irrigation fittings. When the pair knocked at his farmhouse door after 8 p.m., Camilleri allegedly opened fire with a vintage 12-bore shotgun normally used for hunting quail. Spiteri was hit in the chest, Micallef in the head; both died at the scene.

Defence lawyer Giannella De Marco did not contest the arrest account but argued her client acted under “grave provocation and cumulative fear” after months of break-ins. She requested bail and a psychiatric evaluation, insisting Camilleri posed no flight risk: “His roots are deeper than the carob trees.” Magistrate Farrugia denied bail, citing the gravity of the charges and the risk of evidence tampering.

Outside court, the victims’ families traded accusations with Camilleri’s neighbours. “They were good men trying to help,” sobbed Spiteri’s sister, Rachel. “Now my brother is in a freezer.” Countered one farmer: “Nenu fed half the valley with his vegetables. If you keep poking a sleeping dog, don’t cry when it bites.” The polarised reactions mirror a wider Maltese debate over property rights, self-defence and whether centuries-old rural habits can survive 21st-century pressures.

Malta’s crime rate may be among Europe’s lowest, but the island has seen a 40 % rise in reported rural thefts since 2019, according to police data. Drought, inflation and a booming black market in scrap metal have driven thieves to strip abandoned farmhouses, irrigation pumps—even bronze church bells. Farmers complain that stretched police resources prioritise tourist zones over remote valleys like Baħrija. “We feel abandoned,” said Anthony Borg, president of the Għaqda Bdiewa Attivi farmers’ association. “People are sleeping with shotguns under their beds.”

The government has promised to increase rural patrols and is considering a “citizen guard” scheme modelled on Sicily’s agricultural cooperatives. But critics argue deeper social fractures are at play. “When neighbours become vigilantes, community itself is the casualty,” warned sociologist Dr Maria Grech. She points to Malta’s lightning-speed development: in the past decade, 7,000 new residences have mushroomed across the western outskirts, pricing young farmers off the land and eroding traditional conflict-resolution networks once mediated by the parish priest or village “ħutna” (godparent).

Back in Baħrija, the chapel bell tolled at noon for the victims’ souls. Farmers halted tractors; tourists paused selfies. Someone laid two white wreaths against Camilleri’s weather-beaten door—an act of contrition, or perhaps a warning. Whatever the court’s eventual verdict, the valley’s carefree silence has already been sentenced. As Marlene Falzon put it, cradling a bundle of freshly cut girasol stalks: “The sun still sets, but now we watch it through a broken window.”