The Market

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 “I took a deep breath of the crisp mountain air, preparing myself to find the most perfect ingredients here at the farmer’s market.”

The air tasted of thyme and woodsmoke. It carried the chatter of early risers and the soft thud of crates being set down on trestle tables. The market was already alive.

I held my list as though it were a sacred scroll; I had been entrusted with the creation of a Biblical Meal.

Not a themed dinner. Not a novelty evening with costumes and novelty goblets. A Biblical Meal; honest and reverent, reaching back through centuries with nourishment for body and soul.

I knew, vaguely, that in the desert the Israelites had longed for cucumbers; that curious, almost comic detail that makes ancient longing feel so human. Cucumbers. But when I looked it up, I discovered the longing had been more expansive, and more desperate. In the Book of Numbers, they moaned for fish, melons, leeks, onions, and garlic; foods they remembered from Egypt. “Our appetite is dried up,” they lamented, “there is nothing at all but this manna to look at.”

This manna. The disdain of abundance misunderstood. The tragedy of miracle mistaken for monotony.

How often do we tire of what sustains us, because it lacks novelty. The Israelites had freedom, divine protection, daily bread from heaven; yet they longed for the pungent bite of garlic and the sweetness of melons. They longed for taste, for memory, for familiarity.

My task was not to recreate complaint. It was to recreate covenant.

Scripture does not only record cravings; it also records commandments. There are foods that one “has” to eat; not in the sense of coercion, but in the sense of calling. Foods that shape identity. Foods that are both healthy and holy.

Wheat. Barley. Grapes. Figs. Pomegranates. Olives. Dates. The Seven Species בעת המינים, praised in Deuteronomy as the bounty of the Land of Israel; cucumbers were not listed.

That omission amused me as I paused at a stall piled high with glossy green cucumbers, their skins cool and taut. I ran my hand over them and smiled. Desire does not always align with destiny.

Each of these seven foods carries a distinct holiness, a spiritual resonance that mirrors its physical benefit. Not luxuries. Staples. Foods that shaped the rhythm of daily life: bread baked from wheat and barley, wine pressed from grapes, oil poured from olives, figs and dates dried for winter sweetness. Holiness as the discipline of gratitude.

There were sacks of whole wheat and barley, still fragrant with the field. The farmer, a broad-shouldered woman with sun-lined eyes, spoke of soil quality and rainfall patterns. I listened, imagining ancient terraces carved into Judean hills, farmers scanning the horizon for clouds. Wheat for structure and strength; barley, humbler and more resilient, for times of scarcity. Together they form bread, the staff and stuff of life.

Clusters of deep purple and pale green grapes, cascading over wooden crates like jewels. Fruit that becomes wine, that becomes blessing. In Jewish tradition, wine sanctifies Shabbat and festivals; it marks moments as sacred.

Figs; delicate, almost vulnerable, yet astonishingly nourishing. Pomegranates; their seeds a multitude. Olives; brined and glistening. I thought of olive oil; golden, luminous, used to light the menorah in the Temple. Oil is patience; it requires crushing to release its essence. Dates, sticky and amber, completed my collection. Sweetness concentrated by time and sun. Date honey, or silan, would bring depth and warmth to any dish.

My trolley grew heavy.

But I could not ignore the foods of longing. The cucumbers. The leeks, onions, and garlic… the fish and melons of Egypt.

Plump bulbs, papery skins whispering to me as I picked one up. Flavour anchors memory. Holiness is not sterile. It does not reject the pungent or the passionate. It sanctifies them.

I felt the project expanding beyond a single meal. What does it mean to eat in a way that was both healthy and holy? The Seven Species are not processed. They are whole, elemental, close to the earth. They require preparation; grinding, pressing, kneading; but they are not stripped of their integrity.

In a world increasingly crowded with packages and preservatives, perhaps the Biblical Meal was less about historical reenactment and more about return. A return to food that remembers where it came from.

By the time I reached the final stall, my list was complete. Wheat and barley for bread. Grapes for wine. Figs and dates for sweetness. Pomegranates for brightness. Olives for oil. Garlic; a nod to longing. And yes, almost mischievously, I tucked in two cucumbers.

Because even in covenant, we crave crunch.

That evening, as I laid the ingredients out on my kitchen table, they seemed to hum with possibility. We kneaded dough, feeling the elasticity of wheat and barley beneath our palms. We broke olives into oil, their bitterness yielding. We simmered figs and dates into a compote, their sugars deepening into caramel warmth. We scattered pomegranate seeds like rubies over a salad of greens and cucumbers, drizzled with olive oil and crushed garlic.

The meal was simple. Bread. Oil. Wine. Fruit. Fresh vegetables.

And yet it was sensational.

When we served it, the response surprised us. People did not merely eat; they lingered. They asked questions. They wanted to know the story behind the ingredients, the verses that praised them, the symbolism they carried. They spoke of their own longing for food that felt real; not engineered, not disguised, not endlessly modified.

From there, the issue grew and grew.

What began as a single entrusted meal became a movement of sorts. We began sourcing grains grown without chemicals, pressing olive oil in small batches, drying figs and dates under the sun rather than in industrial ovens. We told the story of the Seven Species. Not as relics of a distant past, but as living reminders that food can be both nourishment and narrative.

Today, we sell worldwide. Not only to Jews, though many find in it a reconnection to heritage and halachic mindfulness. We sell to anyone who wants “real” food; food that has not forgotten its origin, food that carries within it a whisper of mountain air and ancient promise.

Sometimes, at markets in cities far from that first crisp morning, I still take a deep breath before opening our stall. I watch people approach, curious. I see them taste a date for the first time and close their eyes in surprise at its richness. I watch children count pomegranate seeds, red juice staining their fingers.

And I think of the Israelites in the desert, standing between memory and miracle. I think of manna; mysterious, sufficient, misunderstood. I think of garlic and cucumbers and the complicated holiness of appetite.

The Biblical Meal was never only about ingredients. It was about attention. About choosing to see sustenance as sacred. About recognising that the land, any land, offers gifts that ask to be received with gratitude.

I still carry the list in my pocket. It is creased and worn now. Wheat. Barley. Grapes. Figs. Pomegranates. Olives. Dates. Cucumbers in the margin.

Because holiness, like hunger, is a living thing.

The Numbers Game:

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Why Maltese Is Different

The opening lines of the song by David Azzopardi, “fil-klassi konna tnejn u għoxrin” (“in the class we were two and twenty”) is a perfect little example of the Maltese number structure.

It’s a simple count of pupils, but it carries a deep linguistic history underneath it. That “tnejn u għoxrin” is a Semitic grammatical skeleton wrapped in Mediterranean warmth, and Catholic imagery.

Unlike English (Germanic roots) and Spanish (Latin/Romance roots), Maltese comes from Arabic, specifically from Siculo-Arabic, which developed when Arabs ruled Malta and Sicily in the Middle Ages.

So Maltese numbers follow a Semitic pattern, not a Latin one.

Maltese Numbers 1–10 (for reference)

1 – wieħed

2 – tnejn

3 – tlieta

4 – erbgħa

5 – ħamsa

6 – sitta

7 – sebgħa

8 – tmienja

9 – disgħa

10 – għaxra

Numbers 11–19 in Maltese

In Maltese, the system is very systematic and transparent.

11–16 “unit + il-għaxra” (literally: “unit over ten”)

11 – ħdax

12 – tnax

13 – tlettax

14 – erbatax

15 – ħmistax

16 – sittax

These forms historically come from “unit + għaxra (ten)”, compressed over time.

Unlike English (which has special forms only for 11 and 12) or Spanish (which breaks at 16), Maltese keeps the same pattern from 11 all the way to 16.

17 – sbatax

18 – tmintax

19 – dsatax

These still reflect the same root idea: “seven-ten,” “eight-ten,” “nine-ten.”

So in Maltese:

There is no break like Spanish at 16 or French at 17.

The pattern remains consistent from 11 through 19.

In English, 11 & 12 are irregular (eleven, twelve); 13–19 use “-teen”; Germanic merchant origin explanation.

In Spanish, 11–15 fused Latin forms (once, doce, trece…); Latin origin. There is a break at 16; dieciséis (“ten and six”).

French & Italian break at 17.

In Maltese (Semitic origin), 11–19 follow one consistent Semitic construction, with no break at 16 or 17.  This system mirrors Classical Arabic: 11 = “one and ten”; 12 = “two and ten”; 13–19 = “three + ten,” etc.

Maltese preserved that Semitic structure, even though much of its vocabulary later absorbed Italian words [and words from other languages].

In summary, therefore:

English preserves old Germanic counting habits.

Spanish preserves Latin number fusion up to 15.

French and Italian shift later.

Maltese preserves a Semitic “unit + ten” structure across all teen numbers.

So Maltese is actually more regular than English or Spanish, in this range. At 20, 30, 40, etc., Romance influence starts to become more visible, mainly from Sicilian and Italian.

So the system has two layers: 11–19 have a Semitic structure, whereas 20 and above are Romance-based tens plus Semitic-style combinations:

20 – għoxrin

30 – tletin

40 – erbgħin

50 – ħamsin

60 – sittin

70 – sebgħin

80 – tmenin

90 – disgħin

These endings (-in) reflect an old Semitic plural form (similar to Arabic “-īn”), but their modern shape was influenced through centuries of contact with Sicilian/Italian pronunciation. So they are Semitic in structure, but have evolved phonetically in Malta’s Romance environment.

Maltese forms compound numbers;  21, 22, 23… (“One and Twenty”… etc)                   like this:

unit + u + ten

(u = “and”)

Examples:

21 – wieħed u għoxrin – “one and twenty”

22 – tnejn u għoxrin – “two and twenty”

23 – tlieta u għoxrin – “three and twenty”.

This is actually the same structure older English once used: “one and twenty” (still preserved in poetry: Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie). Maltese retains an older counting logic that English mostly lost.

30–99 Follow the Same Pattern

31 – wieħed u tletin

47 – sebgħa u erbgħin

58 – tmienja u ħamsin

99 – disgħa u disgħin

It is always: unit + and + ten; no inversion, and no structural change.

When it comes to hundreds:

100 – mija / mitt

200 – mitejn

300 – tliet mitt / mija

400 – erba’ mitt / mija

From 300 onward, it becomes: unit + mija;

Example: 356 is = tliet mija sitta u ħamsin – literally: three hundred six and fifty.  The same “unit + and + ten” structure remains inside larger numbers.

Thousands

1,000 – elf

2,000 – elfejn

3,000 – tlett elef

Again, Semitic roots dominate here.

What Makes Maltese Special

English; Germanic irregularity in 11–12;

Spanish; Latin fusion until 15, then shift;

French; break at 17;

Italian; break at 17;

Maltese; Semitic additive logic all the way through.

In many ways, Maltese is actually more mathematically transparent than most European languages.

Prompt: The forsythia and ornamental pear trees blossomed in colour, hopefully signifying the renewal Spring promised.

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The air smelled like wet earth and green things pushing up through thawing ground.

But the cat was dead. That much was obvious from the way its legs stuck straight out, stiff as twigs in winter,

Two houses down, Mrs. Bonnici leaned over her fence, squinting at the little tragedy. “Another one,” she muttered, wiping her hands on her apron. The fabric was streaked with flour; she’d been kneading bread when she heard the yowl.

The cat’s claws flexed against the linoleum, its back arching in a slow, luxurious stretch. The kitchen neon light buzzed faintly overhead [another thing Mr. Bonnici had been meaning to fix before he left, willy-nilly, for destinations unknown] and the cat blinked up at it with detached interest before padding toward the bowl left out on the floor.

Cream, thick and slightly off-white, pooled in the shallow dish. The cat didn’t care that it was bad for him. He never had.

Outside, Mrs. Bonnici was still staring at the stiff-legged thing in the grass. She didn’t notice the shimmer in the air behind her, like heat distortion over asphalt in summer. The fencepost beside her hand warped slightly, just for a second, before snapping back into place.

The cream lapped at the edges of the bowl, trembling slightly as the cat’s rough tongue dragged through it. He purred, satisfied, and he growled when the light above him flickered… not the weak buzz of a dying bulb, but a sputter, like a film reel skipping frames. The air smelled different; not of kitchens and old linoleum, but as the air would have, if a thousand candles would have just been blown out. The cat paused, ears twitching backward, as the shadows in the corner of the kitchen stretched too long, too thin, before snapping back into place.

Outside, Mrs. Bonnici finally tore her gaze from the stiff-legged cat in the grass. She shuddered and rubbed her arms, though the sun was warm on her shoulders, and turned back toward her house.

The screen door whined as she pushed it open, and she was surprised to see that the cupboards on the far side of the room were covered in a haze. She blinked, and saw that they were not. She didn’t see the way the light bent around her, just for a second, as if the air itself had taken a sharp, indrawn breath.

The cat lapped at the cream, the tip of his tail twitching lazily, completely unaware that in another world [an alternate version of this very kitchen, this very house] his stiff-legged corpse was being nudged by Mrs. Bonnici’s toe as she sighed over yet another lost creature. Here, though, the linoleum was warm under his paws, the hum of the fridge and dehumidifier a familiar comfort.

The cream was rich, almost cloying. He swallowed greedily, leaving delicate whisker-drips along the rim of the bowl. 

Outside, the forsythia bushes trembled, though there was no wind. The yellow blossoms quivered as if plucked by invisible fingers, then stilled. Mrs. Bonnici, halfway through kneading her dough again, paused, her fingers sinking deep into the floury mass. A prickle ran down her spine. Not fear, exactly, but the uneasy sensation of being watched. She turned her head sharply, but the kitchen was empty save for the cat, now grooming his paws with meticulous care.

The cat’s claws clicked against the linoleum, a sound that shouldn’t have been possible; not in this world, where rigor mortis had set in hours ago. But here, in this version of the kitchen, the cat’s tail curled in smug satisfaction as he nudged the bowl with his nose, sending ripples through the cream. The liquid pooled in a way that seemed almost deliberate, forming concentric circles that didn’t dissipate as quickly as they ought to have done.

Mrs. Bonnici’s dough sat abandoned on the counter, her fingers still buried in its sticky depths. She didn’t move, didn’t breathe, as the sensation of being watched intensified. The cat paused mid-lick, his pink tongue suspended in the air, and turned his head to stare directly at her. His eyes, usually a dull, indifferent gold, glowed faintly, like embers banked in a dying fire. The light overhead flickered again, not the erratic faltering of a failing bulb, but a deliberate pulsing, as if signalling something.

The cat’s claws left miniscule, faint, crescent-shaped marks on the linoleum as he padded into the kitchen, his tail curling at the tip with smug anticipation. The bowl was there, just as it always was… shallow, ceramic, slightly chipped on one side from when Mrs. Bonnici had dropped it last winter. The cream inside was fresh today, glistening under the flickering kitchen light. He didn’t question it. Cats never did.

Across the street, in the yard of a house that mirrored Mrs. Bonnici’s in every way except for the peeling paint and the broken shutter, another version of the cat lay stiff in the grass, its fur matted with dew. A man who looked almost like a clone of Mr. Bonnici, squinted at the body through the kitchen window, his coffee gone cold in his hand. He didn’t move to bury it. He never did.

Tomorrow, he too would leave, as Mr Bonnici had done.

Prompt: The Stadium

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The stadium was bright and empty, but in a few hours, I knew it would be something special.

It wasn’t the kind of special that came with roaring crowds and foam fingers or the thunder of a championship game. No, this was a quieter special. Stranger. Tender in the way only history can be tender when we remember the good things that happened.

The seats, patterned in reds and blues and yellows, like a mosaic of sunlight on water, waited patiently beneath the open sky. Two dark screens hung above the pitch like closed eyelids, resting before the moment of waking and flickering open. The grass was trimmed, manicured even, with ceremonial care, the centre circle perfectly drawn, as if the planet itself was holding its breath.

In the middle of that circle, engineers had placed a landing mark; subtle, silver, almost delicate. A starship did not need a stadium, not really. But we did. Because we wanted somewhere big enough for gratitude.

They were coming back today.

The first children to leave Earth. The brave, impossible dreamers who boarded colony ships with raucous laughter in their mouths and silent fear tucked behind their ribs. They went to a planet so far away that time stretched thin between here and there. They built cities under an alien sun. They planted gardens in strange soil. They raised families in domes of glass and hope.

And now… now they were returning as grandparents.

Not because they wanted to. But because their grandchildren had decided they were no longer useful. The colony had become efficient, modern, sharp-edged. There was no room for slow hands or old stories. The elders were shipped away like outdated equipment, their heroism archived, their bodies inconvenient. So they were sent back to the cradle of humanity.

To Earth. To us. To this stadium.

We had prepared apartments for them, small and bright, with soft beds and warm kitchens and windows that looked out onto parks instead of endless red dust. “All mod cons,” the mayor kept saying, as if comfort could patch the wound of exile. As if you could furnish away rejection.

But we could do something else. We could welcome them.

By noon, the stands filled… not with sports fans, but with families holding banners painted in careful, childish letters: THANK YOU. WELCOME HOME. HEROES.

The air shimmered with anticipation. Somewhere, a choir and a band did their dress rehearsal. Many old people clutched photos of their siblings, who had left fifty years ago.

Then, at last, the sky changed.

A shadow passed over the stadium, and every face tilted upward. The starship descended like a slow miracle, engines humming low, almost respectful. It settled onto the grass with a sigh of displaced air.

For a moment, there was silence. Then the doors opened.

And the heroes stepped out; wrinkled, silver-haired, smaller than the legends we had made of them, but carrying the weight of worlds in their posture.

The stadium erupted. Not in noise for a game. But in joy for a homecoming.

In reverence for those who had once been children brave enough to colonise the stars… and who deserved, finally, to be held close again.

The Runner – Prompt

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There must be a metaphor somewhere in the image of a runner in the snow, but I couldn’t think of it.

So I will stick to the truth, and nothing but the unvarnished truth.

He runs because running is the only way his thoughts behave. They line up, fall into rhythm, stop nagging and shouting. Snow needles his face, the kind of cold that wakes the blood. His breath ghosts ahead of him like something trying to escape him. He tells himself this is about fitness, about lungs, and legs, and the slow redemption of a body neglected by grief and convenience. He tells himself a lot of things while running.

The road is empty except for him and the snow and the future, which always feels just out of reach, thinning the air. He is late, he knows that too, but lateness has become a permanent condition, like a limp. He does not even know what he is late for; perhaps to expectations, to anger, to himself. Running is his apology, his bandage.

When the church comes into view, it arrives without warning, crouched at the edge of the road like a thought he’s been avoiding. Cars line the street. People stand in small, tight knots, dark coats buttoned up to their throats, faces turned inward. A funeral. He slows, irritation flickering… the road will be blocked, of course it will. People will look at him. And then he sees them properly.

Names surface before faces do. His sister’s posture. His old neighbour’s hat. The way his uncle still stands as if bracing for bad news, even when the worst has already happened. He stops running.

Snow keeps falling. It does not care.

They see him then. One by one, like dominos tipped by disbelief. A mouth opens. A hand flies up, as if to shield the eyes from a trick of light. Someone whispers his name, not loudly, but urgently, the way you speak to ghosts in case they spook.

The coffin is closed, polished, unbearably solid. It contains a version of him… paperwork, certainty, a mistake made official. He understands it all at once, with the calm that comes when shock burns through confusion and leaves clarity behind. The car. The cabin. The borrowed keys. His friend, who needed the car more than he did, who had laughed and said, “You’re a hermit now, anyway.”

He had gone to the woods to disappear gently. To get fit. To breathe without witnesses. To become lighter, maybe enough to forgive himself for surviving things other people didn’t. He hadn’t meant to vanish like this.

Someone is crying now. Someone else is laughing; a short, hysterical sound that snaps in the cold. He doesn’t step forward immediately. He feels like an interruption, like a footnote that refuses to stay at the bottom of the page.

Running brought him here, but it didn’t prepare him for this: the knowledge that you can be mourned honestly, loved fiercely, and still be completely wrong about who you are to the world. He was loved. He was missed.

Eventually, he lifts a hand. Proof of life is a small thing. Just skin and bone and heat. But it’s enough.

Tomorrow, he will run again. Not away. Not late. Just forward.

The Snowman – Prompt

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He appeared on a night when the snow finally got it right.

Not the thin, apologetic flakes that vanish on contact, not the dry powder that squeaks beneath boots and refuses to cling to itself… but the heavy, breathing kind. Four inches at least. Wet. Willing. The sort of snow experts talk about with authority, the sort that knows how to hold a shape.

No one saw him being made.

One evening the park was empty except for the trees, their branches stitched with frost, and the amber streetlights humming softly to themselves. The next morning, there he was. A snowman standing just off the path, slightly crooked, twig arms spread as if he’d been interrupted mid-sentence. Coal buttons. Carrot nose. A round head tilted in thought. He looked less like a decoration and more like a decision.

People stopped.

They took pictures. They circled him, looking for footprints, for evidence of hands, gloves, a trail of intention. There was nothing. The snow around him was smooth, untouched, as though he had risen straight out of the ground.

“Who made you?” someone asked, half-joking, half-uneasy.

“I did,” the snowman said pleasantly.

Phones dropped. Someone laughed too loudly. Another person swore.

“I mean,” the snowman added, “the snow did most of the work.”

He could hear them, he explained. Sound travelled strangely through snow… muted but intimate, like a secret pressed into the ear of the world. He had been listening long before anyone noticed him. Listening to boots crunch, to distant traffic, to the soft complaints of winter.

Children approached first. They always did. They asked him questions that mattered.

“Do you melt?”

“Yes.”

“Are you cold?”

“No.”

“Do you know Santa?”

“I know of him,” the snowman said. “We move in similar seasons.”

Adults came closer once the fear loosened its grip. Someone whispered that there had to be a speaker inside him. A prank. An art installation. A radio buried in his belly.

“That would explain it,” a man said, relieved.

“Would it?” the snowman replied.

They argued quietly, as if he couldn’t hear. Someone tapped his side. Another knocked harder, listening for the hollow truth of machinery. The snowman stayed still, smiling with the patience of something that had nowhere else to be.

To pass the time, he told jokes.

“What do you get when you cross a vampire and a snowman?” he asked.

A pause.

“Frostbite.”

Groans. Laughter. Someone clapped despite themselves.

“What type of candle burns longer?” he continued. “None, they all burn shorter!”

By then, a small crowd had gathered. The air felt charged, brittle with disbelief. He went on.

“What do you get if Santa comes down your chimney when the fire is ablaze? Crisp Kringle.”

A woman shook her head, smiling despite herself.

“What is the difference between the Christmas alphabet and the ordinary alphabet?” the snowman asked, eyes bright. “The Christmas alphabet has No L (Noel).”

The jokes were bad. That was the point. They were comforting in their predictability, like traditions that survive not because they’re good, but because they’re familiar.

Still, the idea of a talking snowman made people restless.

“If there’s a radio,” someone said, “we’ll find it.”

They pushed.

Snow gives way easily when you don’t want it to stay. The snowman fell apart without protest; head rolling gently to one side, body collapsing into itself, arms dropping like discarded thoughts. Coal buttons disappeared into the white.

They dug. They searched. Gloves scraped through slush and silence.

There was nothing.

No wires. No speaker. No explanation waiting at the bottom. As the last shape of him softened, his voice came quieter now, closer to the ground.

“I didn’t have a radio inside me, and now you know it.”

By morning, the park looked ordinary again. Just snow. Just trees. Just the faint sense that something had listened, and spoken, was made to leave, and had chosen not to return.

The experts would say the conditions had changed.

But some people swore they still heard a whoosh in the air when the snow was right.

Prompt: The Deflated Balloon

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As I looked down at the ground and saw the deflated balloon, I said out loud, “I wonder where this came from.”

It lay there with an air of having given up, collapsed into itself as though embarrassed by its own presence. I had the strangest notion that the balloon had been waiting for me to notice it.

The texture was wrong for a balloon. That was the first thing I noticed. It wasn’t rubbery; it wasn’t translucent; it didn’t have that faint shimmer that balloons usually make when they collapse after having been expanded. This one was matte and thick, the surface faintly creased like a water-skin that had seen desert weather. When I nudged it with my toes, it didn’t bounce or slide away. It resisted, soft but stubborn, more like leather than anything else. It was warm, too, which startled me enough that I jumped back.

I remember thinking, very clearly, this doesn’t belong here.

The garden was ordinary in every other way. A sagging fence, the apple tree that never bore fruit, the compost heap my father promised would one day become soil and never did. Mulch that had dried out. The balloon sat in the middle of it all like a mistake that had decided not to correct itself.

Shall I pick it up? The thought arrived fully formed, immediately followed by another, less reasonable one. Maybe it’s poisoned. I had recently learned the word ricin from a documentary I wasn’t supposed to be watching, and it floated up now, important and dangerous. Maybe touching it with my toes was already enough to kill me. Maybe it was one of those things you only read about later, after the damage is done.

Or maybe it would explode. I imagined mines buried just beneath the skin of the earth, waiting patiently for the wrong foot, the wrong hand. The balloon could be a trick, a soft invitation masking something violent and precise. I stood there for a long time, arguing silently with myself, the way children do when they don’t yet know how to trust either their instincts or their bravery.

In the end, I compromised. I always did. I still do.

I found a stick. It was dry and snapped easily from the hedge, light enough to drop if something went wrong. I poked the balloon once, gently. Nothing happened. I poked it again, harder this time, and the surface gave way with a sound like a sigh finally released.

The balloon burst open.

Not popped; opened. The side-seam split neatly, as if it had been waiting for permission. From inside, something unfolded itself with great care, stretching arms and legs as though waking from a cramped sleep. An elf climbed out, brushing bits of golden lining from his hair, which stuck up in earnest, unhelpful directions.

He looked at me and smiled, entirely unafraid.

“I am,” he said, with the seriousness of someone announcing a very small but very firm truth, “the modern version of the genie of Aladdin.” I waited. Even then, I understood there was meant to be more. “But,” he continued, raising one finger, “I don’t grant wishes.” This seemed important. I felt an unreasonable disappointment anyway. “I help with maths homework,” he said. “Specifically yours. Since you are in great need of such a thing.”

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again. He wasn’t wrong. “I will also give you private lessons,” he added, “so that you will get at least a B in the next test. Not a D.”

The way he said D made it sound terminal.

And sure enough, he did.

Henry, because that was his name, though I don’t remember asking, came to live quietly in my room. We made him clothes from old socks and scraps of fabric I got from buying clothes from the charity shop [Janet assumed they were for my dolls, and I didn’t gainsay her], and he insisted on buttons, which I made from dried tangerine pips, and sewed on badly, and often crooked. He ate little, mostly bread and fruit, and claimed cracker crumbs were his favourite food because they were already humble.

Each afternoon, he sat with me at my desk, legs swinging, explaining fractions in ways that made sense, drawing tiny diagrams in the margins of my notebooks. He was patient without being kind about it, which turned out to be exactly what I needed. When I sulked, he waited. When I tried, he nodded once, as if ticking something off an invisible list.

I kept him a secret. Not because he asked me to, but because he felt like the sort of magic that would vanish if spoken aloud. Secrets, I learned, can be a form of shelter.

Years passed. Tests came and went. I grew. I got a Doctorate in Applied Mathematics. Henry stayed the same, ageless in the way small, necessary things often are. He mended his own clothes, hummed unfamiliar tunes at night, and sometimes stood at the window, looking up, as if listening for something very far away.

Twenty years ago, though it feels like both yesterday and another lifetime, I woke in the middle of the night to a soft creaking sound. In the garden below, illuminated by moonlight, a big golden leather balloon rested on the grass. This one was whole, its seams shining, a bag attached to its side, like a promise.

Henry stood beside my bed, dressed neatly in his best clothes.

“It’s time,” he said, not sadly.

We didn’t hug. We never did. He waved once, jumped out of the window, climbed into the basket, and the balloon lifted itself with quiet confidence, floating up and away, clearing the apple tree with ease.

I watched until it disappeared.

Now that I am grown, I remember these things fondly. Not with disbelief, but with the calm certainty that some help arrives exactly when it is needed, takes an unexpected form, and leaves without applause.

Sometimes, when I struggle with something that feels too large, I look down at the ground, half-expecting to see another deflated balloon, waiting patiently to be noticed.

Murder in ICE-Cold Blood

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“When the Police say ‘Stop’, you stop. That is all.”

Victim-blaming statements like this, are being used to justify murder.

ICE officers are not Police, albeit ICE has been granted the same level of secrecy as the FBI. The distinction isn’t just semantic; it shapes how the public understands power, accountability, and the limits of authority.

Under U.S. law and policy, when deciding whether to shoot, or chase and arrest, there are clear delineations.

Local police and federal agents, including ICE officers, are required to use the least amount of force necessary, and may only use deadly force [shooting] when they reasonably believe there is an immediate threat of death, or serious bodily harm, and no safer alternative is available.

In situations including vehicle encounters, the correct procedure is to avoid shooting, and, rather, pursue, contain, or arrest, using non-lethal tools when possible.

Many agencies now prohibit or severely restrict firing at moving vehicles, because it rarely stops them, and often increases danger to bystanders. Officers are trained to move out of the way, instead of shooting at wheels or windscreens.

The praxis is to emphasise de‑escalation and containment, through using distance, cover, and communication, whilst calling for backup.

ICE is held to the same constitutional standards as local police regarding deadly force. However, their internal policies differ.

ICE has not adopted some of the modern restrictions and best practices that many police departments use, especially regarding shooting at moving vehicles. This is obvious, given the recent controversial shootings.

Local officials and eye-witnesses claimed the shootings appeared reckless, and inconsistent with modern police policy. Experts noted that many police departments explicitly forbid the tactics ICE use.

ICE is a federal immigration enforcement agency, not a general law‑enforcement body. They do not have the same mandate, training, or community‑oriented responsibilities that local police departments have. Therefore, when media or officials casually refer to ICE agents as “police” it blurs important boundaries. Police enforce criminal law and serve the general public, whereas ICE enforces civil immigration law, and focuses on deportation and detention.

Police departments are typically accountable to local governments and communities. They provide services such as welfare checks, traffic control, etc.

ICE is accountable to federal executive agencies, and has no community‑service role. Their mission is enforcement, detention, and removal.

Calling ICE ‘police’ creates fear and undermines trust in actual police. It gives  ICE officers an aura of authority they do not legally possess; indeed, some of them appear to believe that appearance confers legal status. Some cities even have explicit policies telling their officers not to cooperate with ICE precisely to maintain this distinction.

Why do ICE agents often wear uniforms that resemble police gear? Why do their vehicles have lights and markings similar to law enforcement? Why do they conduct raids or arrests that look like police operations? Is this meant to blur the lines, if only in the people’s perception?

The legal mandates of ICE vs. Police are completely different.

The police [Local/State Law Enforcement] enforce criminal law, protect public safety, and respond to emergencies. They investigate crimes, arrest suspects, and maintain community law and order. They operate under state law, local ordinances, and the U.S. Constitution.

ICE [Immigration and Customs Enforcement] enforces federal civil immigration law. It focuses on deportation, detention, and immigration‑related investigations. Most importantly, it operates under the Department of Homeland Security (DHS), and has no general policing mandate.

When it comes to arrest powers, the police can arrest someone for any crime (be it a felony or a misdemeanour), committed in their presence, or with probable cause, just as they can detain individuals temporarily, and frisk them, based on reasonable suspicion (Terry stops, which are lower than probable cause, but higher than hunches). They can execute arrest warrants issued by courts.

ICE can arrest individuals only for immigration violations, or specific federal offenses related to immigration fraud, smuggling, trafficking, etc. However, immigration violations are usually civil, not criminal. ICE is not a general law‑enforcement body. It cannot enforce state or local laws.

They can arrest without a warrant only if they believe the person is likely to escape before a warrant can be obtained. Otherwise, they must use administrative warrants, which are signed  by ICE supervisors, not by judges.

Police need a judicial warrant to enter a home, unless the homeowners consent, or there are exigent circumstances; the destruction of evidence, danger, a crime being committed, etc. Their warrants are issued by neutral judges.

An ICE administrative warrant does not give ICE the right to enter a home without explicit consent, or a judicial warrant, which they almost never have. ICE’s own administrative warrants do not authorise forced entry.

Police jurisdiction is local: city, county, or state, because their authority is tied to the community they serve.

ICE jurisdiction is national, but limited to: immigration enforcement, customs violations, and some cross‑border crimes.

Police and ICE may appear similar, but  their legal powers, responsibilities, and accountability structures are fundamentally different. Distorting the line between them erodes public trust.

Understanding this distinction is essential for any discussion about enforcement, rights, and the limits of state power.

Fleur u Lee – Il-Mappa

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Id-dar tal-Belt li darba kienet tan-bużnanna Lina kienet ilha aktar minn tletin sena ma tinfetaħ.  Minflok ċavetta, in-Nanna Kitty kellha muftieħ daqsiex.  Saħansitra mill-isprall tal-kantina kien qed jixref il-ħaxix ħażin.  X’riħa taqsam ta’ umdu ħarġet meta nfetaħ il-bieb!  L-għamara kienet kollha mgħottija b’lożor daqs dinja, li darba kienu bojod, iżda issa miksijin bit-trab. 

Fleur u Lee ħassewhom li kienu fil-film Ghostbusters, u f’kemm ilna ngħidu, telgħu u niżlu mis-sular ta’ kif tidħol, sa fuq il-bejt, u sal-kantina, xi tliet darbiet.

Kellhom subgħajhom jikluhom biex jaraw x’kien hemm taħt il-lożor.  In-Nanna Kitty qaltilhom, ‘Neħħuhom bil-mod għax inkella jtir ħafna trab.’

Daħlu fil-kamra tas-sodda, li kellha t-tieqa tagħha tagħti għal fuq il-baħar. Fleur u Lee żammew il-lożor mit-truf, u twewhom flimkien bil-galbu biex it-trab ġie n-naħa ta’ ġewwa.

Lee, ta’ kurjuż li kien, beda jiftaħ il-bibien tal-gwardarobbi u l-kxaxen tat-twaletta u tal-armarji.  Induna li r-raba’ kexxun, dak ta’ isfel,  tal-gradenza ma setax jinfetaħ. Għalxejn ġebbed u ġebbed … kien weħel.

Fleur, bil-ħlewwa kollha, reġgħet għalqitu, tatu xi żewġ skossi ħfief, u ppruvat tiftħu… u din id-darba nfetaħ. Indunat li kien hemm invilops mitwija pulit fih.  “Ara! Għalhekk kien qed iżomm, mela!” qalet.

In-Nanna Kitty fetħet l-invilops u fih sabet mappa. Pjanta ta’ dik l-istess dar, u salib aħmar kbir bil-kelma ‘Hawn!’ ħdejh. X’ħin raw il-mappa, It-tfal bdew jaqbżu bl-eċitament. Flimkien, ippruvaw isibu l-post fejn kien jidher bil-kelma ‘‘Hawn’’ ħdejh fuq il-mappa, iżda kien kollu għalxejn.  Fejn suppost kien immarkat li hemm armarju, ma kien hemm xejn ħlief ħajt vojt.

Lin-Nanna Kitty ħebbritha qalbha, u ħabbtet ħelu ħelu mal-ħajt.  Il-ħoss tat-taħbita wera biċ-ċar li dak ma kienx ħajt solidu tal-ġebel, iżda njam miżbugħa eżatt bħat-tliet ħitan l-oħra, biex kollox ikun pariġġ. 

In-Nanna Kitty xejret daqtejn ta’ siġġu mal-ħajt.  Għamlet toqba kbira bid-daqqa li tat, għaliex bl-umdità l-injam kien sar tabakk. Neħħew il-bċejjeċ minn madwarha, sakemm deher biċ-ċar li l-kamra tas-sodda, qabel kienet ħafna akbar.

Kien hemm armarju moħbi wara t-taparsi ħajt, li fil-kxaxen kien fih ħafna boroż b’muniti li t-tewmin qatt ma kienu raw bħalhom. Kien hemm borża mmermra tal-ħarir li fiha kien hemm ħafna ċrieket u ċpiepet u msielet tad-deheb, imżejna bil-ħaġar prezzjuż.

Kulħadd baqa’ ssummat. Ħadd ma qal xejn. Kien jinstema’ biss il-ħoss tal-baħar ta’ taħt is-sur, donnu kien irid ikun jaf x’qed jiġri. In-Nanna Kitty u t-tfal ħadu kollox fuq is-sodda.

“Din… din mhux xi ħaġa li taqbad u toħodha, qisek sibt €2 barra,” qalet bil-kemm tinstema’. Għajnejha mtlew bid-dmugħ, għax ħasset il-piż li waqa’ fuq spallejha.

Fleur, li kienet sensittiva għall-bidliet fil-vuċi tan-nanna, resqet eqreb lejha. “Imma nanna… issa li d-dar hi tiegħek, dawn ukoll tiegħek, hux hekk?”

In-Nanna Kitty tbissmet tbissima ċkejkna, għaqlija. “Mhux dejjem hekk jiġri,  qalbi.”

Qagħdet bilqegħda fit-tarf tas-sodda, u ħadet nifs ‘l ġewwa. “F’Malta, jekk issib teżor, speċjalment jekk hu qadim ħafna, jew jidher li għandu valur storiku, il-liġi titlob li tinforma lill-awtoritajiet. Mhux għax iridu jeħdulek kollox, imma għax dak li hu antik, hu parti mill-istorja ta’ kulħadd.”

Lee fetaħ għajnejh beraħ. “Allura ma nistgħux inqassmuhom lil min irridu?”

“Lanqas inbiegħuhom, kieku?” żiedet Fleur, b’leħen aktar kawt.

“Ma tarawx,” wieġbet in-Nanna Kitty bil-ħlewwa. “Skont il-liġi, kull skoperta bħal din trid tiġi rrappurtata fi żmien qasir lis-Sovrintendenza tal-Patrimonju Kulturali. Jekk dawn il-muniti u l-ġojjelli jkunu antiki biżżejjed, jistgħu jitqiesu li huma teżor nazzjonali.”

Waqqfet ftit, u mbagħad kompliet, “Imma l-liġi mhix bla qalb. Normalment, min isib dik li jgħidulha “trovatura”, u min hu s-sid tal-post, ikollhom dritt għal kumpens, jew premju. Mhux dejjem bil-flus biss… kultant bl-għarfien li tkun għamilt dak li hu sewwa.”

It-tfal ħarsu lejn xulxin. L-eċitament kien għadu hemm, imma issa kien imħallat ma’ rispett ġdid, u forsi xi ftit diżappunt, ukoll.

“U l-bużnanna Lina?” staqsiet Fleur. “Għaliex ħbiet kollox?”

In-Nanna Kitty ħarset lejn il-ħajt imkisser. “Min jaf? Forsi kienet għaddejja minn żmien  diffiċli. Qatt ma tat ħjiel ta’ xejn. Forsi kienet qed tipproteġi dak li kellha. Kien x’kien, illum, ir-responsabbiltà hi tagħna.”

Qamet, u għalqet il-kxaxen tal-armarju bil-mod. “L-ewwel nagħmlu dak li suppost. Mhux illum, imma, għax ma nħossnix sew, bil-qatgħa li ħadt. Imbagħad naraw x’se jsir. It-teżor veru,” qalet, waqt li poġġiet idejha fuq spallejn it-tewmin, “hu li nafu nkunu onesti, anke meta ħadd ma jkun qed jarana.”

U l-baħar ta’ taħt is-sur donnu ħabbat mal-blat b’ritmu iżjed kalm.

L-għada filgħodu, id-dar tal-bużnanna Lina kellha awra differenti. Mhux għax laħqu naddfuha mill-għanqbut u t-trabijiet, iżda għax issa kienet taf li s-sigriet li kienet ilha ġġor bejn erba’ ħitan, kien inkixef. In-Nanna Kitty qamet kmieni ħafna, u reġgħet marret fid-dar. Perrċet it-twieqi beraħ, u ħalliet id-dawl jidħol fuq l-għamara, fuq it-trab, u fuq il-ħajt miksur li kien żvela kollox. Ftit wara, waslu t-tewmin.

Bil-kalma tagħha tas-soltu, għamlet telefonata. Leħinha kien ċar u sod. Kellmet lil min kellha tkellem, u spjegat x’sabet, fejn, u għaliex kienet temmen li s-sejba kienet importanti. Ma għaddiex wisq ħin qabel ma qalulha li kienu se jibagħtu lil min jifli s-sit.

Malajr waslu ż-żewġ uffiċjali, wieħed b’fajl mimli dokumenti, u l-ieħor b’żewġ kameras mdendla ma’ għonqu. Fleur u Lee reġgħu ħassewhom qishom f’film. Din id-darba, però, ma kienx hemm Peter Venkman, Ray Stantz, u Egon Spengler, għax din kienet storja ta’ vera.

L-uffiċjali investigaw, kejlu, ħadu r-ritratti ta’ kull borża, u ta’ xi uħud mill-muniti, u kitbu ħafna noti twal. “Dawn, araw, huma ta’ perjodi differenti,” qal wieħed minnhom. “Xi wħud jistgħu jkunu ta’ valur storiku kbir.”

Lee ma felaħx ma jistaqsihx, “Allura se teħdulhom kollha?”  

L-uffiċjal ħares lejh u tbissem. “Nieħduhom biex jiġu studjati u protetti. Imma dan ma jfissirx li min sabhom ma għandu ebda dritt fuqhom.”

Aktar tard, meta l-uffiċjali telqu, u fid-dar reġgħet waqa’ s-skiet, in-Nanna Kitty qagħdet bilqiegħda fuq is-siġġu tal-kċina, b’tazza te quddiemha. Wiċċha kien seren, għax kienet għamlet dak li kellha tagħmel.

Ftit ġimgħat wara, waslet l-ittra. Parti mis-sejba kienet ġiet iddikjarata bħala teżor ta’ importanza nazzjonali u kienet ser tinżamm fil-mużew, b’nota ċara li kienet instabet fid-dar tan-nanna Lina. Oġġetti oħra, li ma kellhomx valur storiku dirett, setgħu jerġgħu lura għand in-Nanna Kitty. Kien hemm ukoll kumpens; mhux xi eluf kbar, imma biżżejjed biex ifakkar li l-onestà għandha wkoll rikonoxximent.

Fleur u Lee għenu lin-Nanna Kitty tqassam ftit mill-ġojjellerija. Brazzuletta lil Katrin, munita antika lil Ċikku… “Hekk, il-ġid jinqasam,” qaltilhom. Fleur u Lee għażlu ċurkett kull wieħed.

U d-dar, li għal tant snin kienet magħluqa, bdiet terġa’ tieħu n-nifs. Tindifa papali, purtieri ġodda… u post ieħor fejn jiltaqgħu flmkien meta jkun il-waqt.

Civil Disobedience: Righting Wrongs

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David Marcus lumped all women [well most of us anyway] into ‘organised gangs of wine moms’ who ‘listen to too many true crime podcasts’. He thought he was subtle, but he may as well have said winos. 

Hell hath no fury like a woman. It is acceptable to go beyond peaceful protest in response to ICE enforcement, and we believe in civil disobedience as way more than an art form.

He said the women are cos-playing; an unfortunate choice of word, seeing that t-shirts and pants are our ordinary habille. He calls us wannabe revolutionaries, and warns [threatens?] that Renee Good will not be the last to die. He forgets that women are the heart and spine of society.

As civil disobedient, we accept the legal consequences of what we do. But not when the law is made more malleable than chewing gum. A broken chair, is not for a person who is blinded for life, or a person with  a disability  dragged out of a car, or a pregnant woman who is knelt on, or cold-blooded murders.

We have tried boycotts and land occupation. They have tried coercion and force. They have tarred civil disobedience and criminal lawbreaking with the same brush. Women are victimised for being serious, sincere, selfless, and fighting for the underdog.

We have learned from the best; women refusing to comply with police orders have been rubber-stamped “troublemakers”.  Over the years, women have used civil disobedience strategically, deliberately, and often at great personal risk. The global tradition of refusal, courage, and strategic disruption is nothing new. Neither is publicity-as-visibility.

In the United Kingdom, the Suffragettes used escalating civil disobedience; protests, property damage, and hunger strikes, to demand voting rights. Their motto was “Deeds not words”, and their actions included lawbreaking and hunger strikes, resulting in brutal force‑feeding. They were mocked and lampooned as  “hysterical women” They achieved what they wanted.

In Iran, the Woman‑Life‑Freedom Movement created a civil‑disobedience front by refusing to wear the mandatory veil, even under threat of arrest, violence, and execution. They are called “lawbreakers”. This movement intensified after the killing of Mahsa Jina Amini in 2022.

Feminist civil disobedience in communities of colour is evident in modern feminist movements. They use sit‑ins, boycotts, and public disruption to challenge racial and gender injustice. These actions are part of a long tradition of nonviolent resistance, and yet, they are called “agitators”.

Rosa Parks is one of the Big Four. Her refusal to give up her seat  on the bus wasn’t spontaneous; it was a calculated act of civil disobedience that ignited the Montgomery Bus Boycott.

The Women of the Civil Rights Movement; Diane Nash [who led sit‑ins and Freedom Rides; Ella Baker [who organised grassroots resistance]; Fannie Lou Hamer [who used nonviolent protest to challenge racist voting laws] led the way for today’s activities.

Kudos must be given to the women of Standing Rock, the Indigenous women who led peaceful blockades and prayer camps to resist the Dakota Access Pipeline. Ironically, they were called ‘trespassers’.

The Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo (Argentina) defied a military dictatorship by marching weekly to demand the return of their disappeared children.

We also see women like Kathrine Switzer, who was the first woman to run the Boston Marathon. It was not forbidden in the rules – simply because no one had the foresight to expect that someone would attempt it.

I would say that, with the current emphasis on mental health, David Marcus stopped short of labelling women as ‘insane’, and resorted to another insult instead. He decided that these women could not be allowed to get away with being called harmless eccentrics; they have to be criminalised.

Historically, women who engaged in civil disobedience have always been mocked, physically attacked, dismissed as hysterical, labelled immoral, and treated as criminals rather than political activists. So when modern American women refuse to comply with police and get labelled winos, this fits into a long pattern of gendered framing. Women’s resistance is trivialised as lulz-seeking… unless it becomes impossible to ignore, in which case, it needs to be squelched.

Civil disobedience, nonviolent resistance, or satyagraha… it has often been crucial role in obtaining justice, and  social and political change. Fighting for ‘rights’ means that there have been ‘wrongs’, too.

We have seen the actions of women deliberately misinterpreted. Rep. Ilhan Omar’s words, “You all have insisted that this resistance is not one that can be intimidated.” Have been flagged as an incendiary call for insurrection.

In a democratic society, civil disobedience is not a crime. Technically, someone is not punished at law for “civil disobedience” per se, but for other charges, such as trespassing, damaging property, disturbing the peace, and so forth.

“This madness needs to end, and it needs to end right now.” Wise words indeed, David Marcus.