Malta’s Mailboxes Blow Open on May 19
Ink on the Wind: A Blustery Day in Malta’s Mailboxes
As the sun peeks over the ancient walls of Mdina, the postman, Mr. Zammit, starts his daily round. Today, however, is not just another day. Today, the wind is up, and so are the letters. The 19th of May, you see, is when Malta’s letter-writers let loose, their pens fueled by a year’s worth of pent-up thoughts, ready to be unleashed in the ‘Letters to the Editor’ section of the Times of Malta.
Weathering the Storm
Mr. Zammit, a seasoned postman, has seen it all. But today, he’s extra vigilant. The wind, a gusty north-westerly, is playing havoc with his route. Letters, usually neatly tucked into their red post boxes, are now scattered like autumn leaves along Triq San Pawl in Rabat. He collects them, one by one, shielding them from the wind with his weathered hands. “It’s like herding cats,” he chuckles, “but it’s a good day. It means people care.”
Voices from the Street
Back at the Times of Malta office, the letters are being sorted. Topics range from the usual – politics, traffic, and the state of the national football team – to the unexpected. There’s a passionate plea to save the last remaining orange grove in Żebbuġ, a heartfelt letter about the struggle of living with a rare disease, and a tongue-in-cheek rant about the lack of decent pastizzi in Paceville.
Among them is a letter from Mrs. Camilleri, a retired teacher from Birkirkara. She’s been writing every year on this day for the past decade. Her letters, always handwritten in neat, looping script, are a mix of nostalgia, wisdom, and a healthy dose of wit. Today, she writes about the loss of Malta’s traditional festa culture, her words as poignant as the wind outside.
From Ink to Pixels
The letters, once sorted, are scanned, edited, and uploaded onto the Times of Malta website. The print edition, however, still holds a certain charm. It’s a tangible connection to the past, a time when news wasn’t instant, but thoughtful, considered. It’s a time when people took the time to put pen to paper, to express their thoughts, their hopes, their grievances.
As the sun sets over the Grand Harbour, painting the sky with hues of orange and pink, Mr. Zammit ends his day. He looks at the stack of letters he’s collected, a smile playing on his lips. “Tomorrow,” he says, “is another day. Another wind, another story.”
