Return to Żejtun

"We're at Merħba," my father declares.

It is Good Friday and we are on a bus to Żejtun, where my father was born. It is towards the end of our stay and any remaining illusion that Maltese would return to my father faded at about this moment. The effort to fit into Australia by my grandparents was so complete that the only time my father recognised Maltese was when a woman strictly told her young son to "sit down".

I glance at my father quickly in amazement before madly looking backwards to see the sign he had read. Merħba means "welcome"; it was the "Tarxien" below it that was important for my navigational duties. Thankfully, this meant we were right where we should be to get to Żejtun.

I was unsure whether or not anything would even be open on Good Friday. However, the buses ran as usual, as did many restaurants, cafes and small shops. While useful, I wondered, as I do about Australia, if more shops should be closed and time spent with family at this time of year.

Żejtun could have been any smaller town in Malta. A massive Catholic Church, dedicated to Saint Catherine of Alexandria, is the dominating structure in the middle of town. The multi level school looks like some sort of institution. The houses are the standard, thin, long and tall limestone structures.

A store was titled "Cassar Store," my grandmother's maiden name. Throughout my visit to Malta, I found myself looking at names on signs and thinking "hey, that is a Maltese name," before remembering, embarrassingly, that I was in Malta. I had learned over the years to identify a number of Maltese names, mostly as a response to people identifying that my own name has Maltese origins.

Triq Kantur, or Kantur Street, the street where my father was born, was quickly found. Unfortunately, we had no idea what number on this sizable Maltese street was the old family home. We knew significant changes had taken place in the last 54 years, but there were so many houses that we stood no chance of identifying the place. Still, there was an eerie feeling from walking the path that so many family members walked all those years ago.

We found the Żejtun cemetery, but were mysteriously locked out of the second half. Malta is so compressed for space that cemetery space is at a serious premium. We found a gravestone that may have been my fathers uncles Michael and Gryzu. There was no trace of my four uncles and aunts that died as babies, including the one that shares her name with my baby girl, Rosemary Fenech. My father nearly become one of them, saved by being one of the first in Malta to receive penicillin.

The pub near the church was small and dominated by cigarette smoke. A number of men sat, relatively quietly, smoking while playing a version of gin rummy involving betting money. As I take this in, I catch the eye of a man of around seventy years of age, his eyes indicating that I am an unwelcome intruder. My grandfather Anthony, no fool with a pack of cards, could well have cleaned the floor with the man two generations ago. My grandfathers older brothers played music in the local clubs.

We chose Good Friday to visit Żejtun to coincide with the Easter procession, one of 16 or so occurring throughout Malta on this day. Small wooden chairs were placed precariously close together all around the path where the procession would occur. They looked lonely and empty earlier in the day, but ended up full with hundreds of people also standing.

My Uncle and Aunt arrived by the 5pm commencement, having been given a lift by relatives. A total of about 14 relatives congregated near Saint Catherine's Church for the procession, including a long lost Fenech cousin of my fathers. Incredibly, the procession went for nearly two hours, finishing just before 7pm.

The procession itself was unlike anything I had seen before. All of the statues and displays from inside the church were removed and paraded through the streets. There were all sorts of musicians and costumes, many of which appeared Roman. The people taking part in the procession all had solemn, serious looks on their faces. This was the story of the crucifixion and surrounding events in great detail, enacted by volunteers with a clear sense of duty.

At one stage, my Aunt pointed out that one of the procession floats had gained more characters. There was great doubt, until one of my father's cousins confirmed the accuracy. It had been 54 years between processions for my Aunt, yet differences could be spotted. Despite clearly changing little every year, people continue to come out in droves to watch. It is a tradition as much as it is a procession.

It is a tradition touched with a slight sadness. A house with a great view of the church and procession was once my grand grandmother's. In turn, it became the house of my great-aunt's family. The family used to watch the procession from the roof, but no longer since these generations are no longer with us. The external face of the house had changed little in the last 54 years.

Triq Kantur, Żejtun



Żejtun Easter Procession