Police and Priests Are Human Too: Why Malta Needs to Rethink Its Hero Pedestals

**Police and Priests Are Human Too: Malta’s Unrealistic Expectations of Its Authority Figures**

In a nation where the parish priest still commands front-row respect at village festas and where a police constable’s whistle can clear a street faster than any traffic light, Maltese society clings to an old, unspoken contract: authority figures are supposed to be super-human. Yet this summer’s headlines—ranging from a young constable caught off-duty in a Paceville fracas to a beloved provincial pastor admitting burnout—have reignited a whispered conversation from Valletta coffee shops to Gozo farmhouses: “Kemm huma umani, wkoll.” They’re human, too.

The shock is partly cultural. For centuries, Malta’s tight-knit communities have relied on two pillars: the uniformed officer who kept the olive-press peace and the black-suited priest who kept the conscience. Both swore oaths that, in the public imagination, elevated them above ordinary temptations of rage, greed or loneliness. The result is a paradoxical island where Facebook comment sections swing from “kulħadd jagħmel żbalji” (everyone makes mistakes) to “dawn għandhom ikunu eżempju!” (they must be examples!), depending on whether the protagonist is a neighbour’s son or the man in the collar.

Dr. Graziella Borg, sociologist at the University of Malta, argues that the country’s rapid secularisation and diversification have outpaced collective expectations. “We imported Netflix morality but retained 1950s pedestals,” she says. “When a priest confesses he sees a psychotherapist, or when a policeman posts a TikTok venting about 14-hour shifts, the cognitive dissonance is louder than the church bells.”

Local impact is measurable. Police recruitment drives last year fell 18 % short of target, with applicants citing “social media crucifixion” as a deterrent. Meanwhile, the Metropolitan Chapter reports that five newly-ordained priests requested six-month sabbaticals before ever taking a parish, unprecedented in the 82-year history of the Maltese seminary. The fear is not theological doubt; it is digital pillory.

Yet some villages are experimenting with vulnerability. In Żabbar, parish priest Fr. Rene’ Schembri hosts monthly “Quddiesa u Qahwa” where he invites faithful to discuss everything from gambling addiction to marital boredom—his own included. Attendance has doubled. Over in St. Julian’s, the community policing unit launched “Walk a Beat in My Boots,” pairing teenagers with constables for a 5-a-side football tournament followed by candid circle-time about stop-and-search policies. Complaints against participating officers dropped 30 % quarter-on-quarter.

These micro-initiatives hint at a national reset. “Authority endures not when it’s perfect, but when it’s accountable,” observes retired Commissioner George Grech, sipping Kinnie outside a Sliema kiosk. “We taught generations to fear the uniform or the cassock. Time we teach them to trust the person inside.”

Still, the road is uneven. Government plans to introduce mental-health days for disciplined forces were met with opposition MPs fretting about “soft policing,” while a Catholic media editorial warned against “psychologising the confessional.” The subtext: admitting fragility could erode the very mystique that keeps order—or offering plates—full.

Perhaps the answer lies in Malta’s own history. When the Knights ruled, the Grand Master’s public confession of strategic error was considered a sign of strength, not weakness. Similarly, 19th-century parish chronicles show priests openly documenting bouts of “melanconija,” a Maltese term linking melancholy to spiritual growth. The island has survived plague, siege and recession precisely because it once accepted that guardians could bleed.

As autumn festa season approaches, the test will be visible. Will the procession pause if the band-leader is a recovering alcoholic? Will the community constable who sought therapy for panic attacks still marshal the brass band through narrow alleyways? If the crowds cheer anyway, Malta will have taken a small, Mediterranean step toward a healthier contract with its custodians—one that trades marble pedestals for shared, limestone pavements. Because on an island where everyone knows your surname, the most radical reform may be the simplest: allowing those who protect and preach to occasionally say, “Jiena wkoll.” Me too.