by Tanja Cilia It Is a Business Model Built on Male Insecurity There is something deeply ironic about a movement that calls itself “red-pilled”.  The expression comes from The Matrix, the 1999 scie...

According to Pope John Paul II, “The Rosary belongs among the finest and most praiseworthy traditions of Christian contemplation. Developed in the West, it is a typically meditative prayer, c…

“Someone told me…” is usually how urban legends begin, or at the very least, how they are justified when facts prove inconvenient. It is not, one would think, the ideal preface for a public prayer …

San Gejtanu jwennes lil marid. “Ara tfal…” qalet Miss Marija, u bħas-soltu, meta tgħd hekk, it-tfal ikunu jafu li ‘ġejja xi ħaġa’, u ħadd minnhom ma jgħidilha li dik il-frażi mhux tajb…

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 numb…

When they finally tore down that building [the one everyone had been complaining about for years but nobody ever did anything about it], the workers expected crumbling masonry, dust, old wiring, an…

I’ve just signed up to contribute to the first-ever Commonwealth Quilt — a massive digital art project to celebrate creativity across the Commonwealth🌍. They’re looking for dancers, musicians, poets ...

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 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 Runner 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.

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.

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.

“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.

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.

David Marcus lumped all women 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.

A recent post on social media featured an empty waiting area at the Emergency Department of Mater Dei. The poster said it was ‘proof’ that people tended to avail themselves of the service ‘needlessly’, sometimes, and implied that the place was empty exactly for this reason. This, of course, put out the fire with gasoline, because the response was immediate.

Pastizzi vs. Tinnes Pasties Colour, texture, taste, appearance, ingredients… where do I begin? It was recently decreed that a tinned pasty is the same as a pastizz. Just like a candle is the same as the sun, or even a 1,000 watt bulb, and instant coffee is the same as Panama Geisha or Ethiopian Yirgacheffe. Actually, a tinned pasty and a pastizz are categorically different foods, and definitley not variants of the same thing.

''As I looked down at the garden hose, I smiled at the possibility for fun on this hot summer day.'' There were about ten of us ten of us , all under 10 years old. In those days we did not have computers, so we made our own entertainment, a hobby that often looked Death in the face, and laughed.

Fleur and Lee – Of Castles and Pies ‘“Look, children,” said Miss Marija, as she unfurled a poster with a picture of a castle floating between the sky and the sea. “Which would you rather have, a castle in the air, or pie in the sky?” Fleur’s hand shot up. “They’re both figures of speech, though!” she said. Julia sighed. “There she goes, clever-clogs…”

“The only person who can stop Trump is Pope Leo,” ran a recent The Independent headline. Really? Because they are both American, and powerful in their own way? If that’s the logic, what about the spineless gits paying homage to Trump as if he were the Second Coming? And whatever happened to the separation of Church and State? Or does that cease to matter when the Church is foreign, as in the Vatican?

The tin makes a promise. A woman with good posture and pioneer cheeks smiles from the label, holding out a pasty like a minor miracle. Canned Pasty. Fully Cooked. It says what it is. Or rather, it says what it wants to be. What it is supposed to be. What it is promised to be. This is where Katie Meluacomes in, humming “What It Says on the Tin” ever so politely.

When hydration turns into habit — and habit into harm This is not about fear — it’s about informed choice. It’s an uphill battle trying to explain why children should not be given “energy drinks” with their school lunches, just as it’s difficult to explain to adults why “diet” soft drinks can wreak more havoc on the body than sugar-laden ones.

The Armenian Apostolic Church observes Christmas on January 6. Advent is a Quinquagesima known as Hisnag, or Hisnak, from “fifty”; this period begins with the first of three periods of fasting for one whole week, as preparation for the Holy Birth -... 1 December 2009| Tanja Cilia |03 min readTimes of Malta The Armenian Apostolic Church observes Christmas on January 6.

Fleur and Lee were excited. Nanna Kitty’s old schoolfriend, the one who had given her the Vedas and Puranas books, had invited her for supper, and told her to take them along. The moon rose full and deliberate over Sunita’s garden, hovering over the almond tree, and silvering the leaves, as if it had an appointment it did not intend to miss.

Mentioning an unspecified ‘her’, Ogden Nash , wrote “Her picture’s in the papers now, And life’s a piece of cake.” He chose not to write ‘a piece of pie’ – in any case, for whoever ‘she’ was, ‘the living was easy’. In the same year, British author Evelyn Waugh used it in his novel A Handful Of Dust. There are still some people, however, who insist that the idiom is connected with slavery in the American southern states, in the 1870s.

ĊELESTINU: U STELLA Stella: Ajma kif għajjejt, jaħassra! Ċelestinu: Jien ukoll, ta. Għandi l-ġwienaħ ma nistax inferfirhom iżjed. Stella: Anzi, sibnihom. Ċelestinu: Iva, vera. Jien kont ser nibda’ naqta’ qalbi... Stella: U jien kont ser nibda’ naqta’ nifsi... Ċelestinu: Dawk it-toroq kollha dojoq u jserrpu ta’ Nażżaret, għall-ewwel ma stajtx inisb irkaptu. Stella: Jien ma kellix problema, għax il-mappa studjata sewwa qabel ma tlaqna ’l isfel.

Getting at least halfway across the bridge was my only hope, but they were closing in rapidly. The taxi-driver was one of those garrulous ones who tells you what he would do if they were President, Pope, Prime Minister, or Dear Leader. I answered him in monosyllables, and laughed and sighed and grunted and exclaimed when he expected it of me.

Before I stepped through the Distortion for the first time, and found myself there, I would have assumed that the Catskills were somewhere in Shropshire or Lancashire. I mean, I knew that my granny was American, and that my father moved us back to Malta to be closer to his dd who was terminally ill- but I didn’t make the connection.

‘Listen up, Class,’ Miss Marija announced with an enthusiastic clap of her hands, ‘Would you like to explore the homes of our ancestors?’ ‘Oh, yes, please,’ said Rita. ‘My Nanna was from Qormi. They had a big, big, house, with all the rooms around a central courtyard, and to go to the toilet, you had to step out into the yard, even if it was raining…’

Il-Knisja Kattolika ma tridx li l-fidili jmorru għand min jaqra x-xorti. Dan imur kontra l-fidi u l-fiduċja f’Alla, u jagħmel ħsara spiritwali. Il-futur jinsab f’idejn Alla. Meta persuna tmur għand min jaqra x-xorti, tkun  qed tfittex tweġibiet jew sigurtà minn sorsi oħra minflok mingħand Alla. Il-prattiċi okkulti: qari tax-xorti, tarot, astrologija, spiritiżmu, u affarijiet simili huma tentattivi biex jinkiseb għarfien jew qawwa “moħbija” li mhux ġejjin minn Alla.

In the film Breakfast at Tiffany’s, the Cat does not have a name. I used to, but I forgot what it was, because the person I own has dementia, and she has forgotten too. Her children, if and when they visit, refuse to use it, because that would give me the pleasure of knowing they acknowledge my existence; I’ve heard them say this a zillion times.

It began with an ordinary Saturday evening, or so Fleur and Lee thought. Miss Marija had set a science challenge about the Moon, and the twins were on the roof of the apartment block where Nanna Kitty lives, sketching the grey and silver craters through the telescope. Lee adjusted the focus. “Look, Fleur! Doesn’t that ridge look like a doorway?” he said.

Friday, 8th January 2010 My friend collects antiques – specifically, anything that looks like a tea-caddy, preferably made of glass, china, ceramic or pottery (but if it’s a gift she will also accept wood and metal). The other day, as I was on my way to the dentist (oh, joy!) out of the corner of my eye I saw the smaller version of one that I had already given her.

Don’t do that. Stop that. Enough. Stop. Put that book away or you’ll throw up. How naughty you are. Push back your hair. That’s not nice. Stop fidgeting. Hold your bag properly. Stop playing with your hair. Close your mouth when you chew. Stop picking your nose. Drink some water. Stop moving your legs. Stop making faces. I will call your parents.

Fl-aħħar kienet reġgħet waslet il-fiera tal-Artiġjanat tal-Imdina. Fleur u Lee kienu ilhom jafu biha, u li n-Nanna Kitty kienet sejra mal-grupp ta’ Mrs Marie… u li jekk ilestu l-ħomework kollu sal-Ġimgħa filgħaxija, imorru magħha. Għal xi ħaġa hekk, Lee ma kienex jitnikker sal-aħħar minuta. Is-Sibt filgħodu, sebħu joqomsu bl-eċitament. Missierhom wassalhom sal-Barrakka t’Isfel, u bil-mod il-mod bdew jinġabru dawk kollha li kienu applikaw biex imorru.

Is there a link between school shootings and domestic violence? Or school shootings and ethnic backgrounds? The jury is still out, but I am, thinking the verdicts will be a resounding ‘yes’ to the former and ‘no’ to the latter questions. Many researchers and practitioners have pointed out significant connections between domestic violence (DV) and school shootings. There isn’t a single cause of school shootings; however, domestic violence frequently appears as a risk factor.

The Bechdel test is a simple, but not entirely foolproof, measure of women’s representation in a film or other work of fiction. It is based on three criteria: it must have at least two women whose names we know; the two women must have a conversation with each other; and that conversation must be about something other than a man.

Kikkri simili imma differenti li jirrakuntaw l-istess storja. Mela darba kien hemm mara li kienet iġġemma’ il-kikkri u plattini antiki. Ftit minnhom kienu jiswew ftit ċenteżmi, iżda kellha uħud li kienu jiswew il-mijiet ta’ €wro. Kull meta tara Charity Shop, jew ħanut tal-antikitajiet, jew House Sale, kienet tmur tara issibx xi kikkra – imma jekk ma jkollhiex il-plattina pariġġ, ma toħodhiex!

Minn bejn ix-xquq tal-blinds kien beda’ dieħel id-dawl tal-għabex. Iżda t-tewmin kienu ilhom imqajma, għax illum kienet ġurnata speċjali. Kienu diġa ħadu tazza ħalib u sandwich. Il-jum ta’ qabel kienu marru jġarrbu l-ħwejjeġ li kienu ser jilbsu għar-reċta tal-Milied, u llum kellhom imorru jiġbruhom. Kien ser isir presepju ħaj fil-ground tal-football ta’ Fleur de Lys, u huma kienu ntagħżlu bħala paġġi tas-Slaten Maġi.Kemm kienu ferħanin u kbirin biha din-il ħaġa.

Il-Kap tal-Iskola dejjem kienet tagħmel fiera għall-ħabta tal-Ewwel tas-Sena. It-tfal kienu jġibu kotba, ġugarelli, fajjenza… u din il-fiera tant kienet saret popolari li saħansitra nies minn barra Fleur de Lys kienu jiġu bi ħġarhom. Il-qliegħ kien imur għall-karita. Sebaħ jum sabiħ minn dak li jaf jagħmel Jannar. Anzi, biex inkunu għedna kollox, kienet ser tkun ġurnata mill-isbaħ għax… …din is-Sena, Miss Marija kienet ftehmet man-Nanna Kitty biex ikun hemm banka tal-ikel magħmul mit-tfal stess, bl-għajnuna tagħhom.

Think; why does someone want to burst your bubble? When someone wants to burst your bubble ...maybe they see you as a threat. Maybe they are fed up of being on the outside, looking in, and seeing what is going on inside your bubble. Perhaps they’re uncomfortable with the way your happiness reflects their own unhappiness back at them. Sometimes, people try to burst your bubble not because of anything you’ve done, but because your light makes the shadows they’re carrying feel more obvious.

Meta kienet għadha tifla n-Nanna Kitty, kienu ‘moda’ il-penfriends. Kellha wahda miċ-Ċzechoslovakia, pajjiż li ma baqax jeżisti mill-31 ta' Diċembru, 1992, ‘l quddiem, għax inqasam fi tnen - is-Slovakkja, u r-Repubblika Ċeka. Imma Zuzana Kováčová u n-Nanna Kitty baqgħu ħbieb, tant li dan l-aħħar giet taraha, u ġabitlha ikona ta’ San Pietru u San Pawl. Meta rawha, Fleur innotat is-simetrija u d-dettalji, u Lee beda’ jgħadddi l-kummenti dwar id-dehra tal-qaddisin.

Lee’s shoelace had come undone again – for the third time. He scowled at it, kicking his foot against the sand, as if that might magically re-tie the knot. Fleur rolled her eyes and crouched down, fingers already working the lace into a tight, double-looped bow. “You’re hopeless,” she said, grinning up at him. “In any case, we’ll soon be taking off our shoes…”

Il-pupi tal-kaxxa kien ikollhom bott imdeffes f’hofra f’dahrhom. Meta xxaqleb il-pupa, kien joħroġ ħoss li suppost kien ta’ tarbija tibki, iżda iżjed jixbaħ lil nagħġa tinbee. Wara gew ġugarelli li meta tiġbdilhom spaga, ‘jitkellmu’, u oħrajn li jirrepetu dak li tkun għedt. Oħrajn kont iddeffsilhom diska ħoxna tal-plastik, u jkantaw. Il-ġugarelli li jagħmlu l-ħsejjes, jew li jitkellmu, m’humiex xi ħaġa ġdida.

The only time I ever utter the words “Quiet, Piggy” is when Matilda, my Vietnamese pot-bellied pig, decides to serenade the entire neighbourhood with her squeals of impatience, because lunch isn’t ready the moment she thinks it should be. If you’ve ever lived with a pig, you know exactly the kind of performance I’m talking about; an operatic blend of outrage, anticipation, and dramatic flair that somehow manages to be both demanding and endearing.

Fleur was the first to notice it… she always was. Lee insisted it was only because she walked faster, and looked down when she walked, but Nanna Kitty insisted it was because Fleur had ‘eyes that see, not eyes that look’; eyes that saw not just what was there, but what might be. Either way, that morning at Wied Għammieq, while Nanna Kitty went off toward the cemetery with flowers, and candles, and a sigh that belonged to some private part of her, the two children lingered at the tideline.

Għandna niffokaw wisq fuq id-dehriet esterni... Pauline insistiet li t-tpinġija ġġib is-saħtra, u min jagħmilha jkun qiegħed jagħmel dnub mejjet. Kienu bosta li qalulha li l-Knisja Kattolika ma tipprojbixxix espressament it-tatwaġġi, u li m’hemm l-ebda silta speċifika tal-liġi kanonika, jew fil-Katekiżmu li tipprojbixxihom għal kollox. Il-gwida morali tal-Knisja iżjed tiffoka minflok fuq l-intenzjoni u t-tifsira wara t-tpinġija, kif ukoll jekk tirrispettax id-dinjità tal-ġisem, it-tempju tal-Ispirtu s-Santu.

The children of Miss Marija’s class made over-the-top snuffling and sniffling noises. “I smell vanilla!” exclaimed Jael. “I smell almond, too, though,” said Marla. “I smell furniture polish,” commented Fleur. “I smell musty, decaying, paper…” sighed Lee. Miss Marija smiled… until she noticed the beady eyes of the Librarian upon her, wordlessly asking her to tell them to stop. So Miss Marija clapped thrice, which was the signal for the class to be quiet.

According to The New York Times, women are ruining the workplace. But since fairness is fashionable, let’s talk about how men are perfecting that very art; one coffee cup, aftershave cloud, and midnight email, at a time. The Mansplainer-in-Chief Every office has one. He’s the man who believes that every woman in the building has been waiting all her life for his pearls of rehashed wisdom.

If I were coffee,you’d say I was too strong —too bitter,too stark.The kind that tells the trutheven when you’d rather it didn’t. You’d flinch at the aftertaste;that moment when what I saidsinks in…the words you can’t unsay,the truths you can’t unhear. I’d answer in monosyllables,like a ristretto;short, sharp,leaving more silence than sound.