At age eight or so, we used to sit at our desks and learn long lists of idioms. Idioms like « silence is golden » and « our lips are sealed » are not just idioms or songs by The Tremeloes and The Go-Go’s. They are golden nuggets of truth to which we cling in order to make sense of the world. « Face the music »: not in fact related to music, but it resonates very well on our small island (Malta), packed as it is with sounds (not of the pleasant kind), noises (at times the most unbearable ones) and music (as loud as it can be). There’s nowhere to escape. Noise is the norm, not the exception.

Construction work sprouts from every nook and cranny in each and every town or village. The morning rush hour starts at 6am and persists until 9.30am. The second wave commences at about 3pm and carries on till at least 7pm. Honking and hooting, shouting and swearing, singing and whistling. Lord Byron is commonly said to have referred to the Malta of two hundred years ago as « an island of yells, bells and smells ». The bells are straightforward. « The religion of Malta », as declared in Article 2 of The Constitution of Malta (written in 1964), « is the Roman Catholic Apostolic Religion ». So: 365 churches with around six hundred church bells. Yells? Aside from the aforementioned audible yelling, there’s visual loudness too: most of our holy headquarters scream with over-the-top decor and commotion, over-imposing statues and larger-than-life paintings. And smells? Mostly exhaust fumes and burning rubber tires.

Today, Byron would add: libels, revels and decibels. Every summer, starting June and closing off in September, there are two or three traditional Maltese village festi per week. No thick walls can protect us from the dissonant band marches — known as marċi — in honor of a patron saint until 2am. No double or triple glazing can shield us from the loud bangs and whistling noises of kaxxi infernali, suffarelli and murtali tal-fjura in the long and scorching summer days and nights. A cacophony.

In August of 2023, at the Malta Mediterranean Literature Festival held annually in the capital city of Valletta, Palestinian novelist Adania Shibli’s interview was cut short due to fireworks lit to close off a nearby wedding. While Shibli was sharing her views about the possibilities of language and the perils of war, her words were drowned out by loud blasts. Valletta residents have pushed local government to reconsider the legal notice that permits outdoor music until 1am, citing concern about noise that exceeds the limits set by the World Health Organization. To avoid hearing impairment and maintain auditory well-being, the WHO suggests an annual exposure limit not exceeding 70dB over a 24-hour period. Church bells, with their resonance reaching 100dB and beyond, already pose a challenge.

Why fear silence? It could be that we actually fear loneliness or boredom, it could be that we fear hearing our innermost thoughts and feelings. It could also be small island syndrome: a continuous need to be seen and heard. When we Maltese go to the beach, we usually don’t open a book, we don’t sit and stare at the open sea, we don’t listen to music through our earphones; rather, we talk and shout, we put our speakers on as loud as possible. When we go for a picnic in the little countryside we have left, we don’t listen to the chirping of birds or the rustling of leaves, we don’t simply enjoy the cool breeze. We share our stories with everybody, we make sure everyone hears our voice, whatever we have to say — like it’s a right. At night, while sitting in front of the television, windows open, letting in a soft breeze, volume turned up in such a way that we watch whatever we are watching with our neighbors.

What about those who like peace and quiet? Silence can be bought if you can afford it. You can soundproof your house. You can travel to quieter places every so often. You can simply leave the country. « Let us have the luxury of silence, » Jane Austen writes in Mansfield Park. Is silence a luxury, or a right? If it is a right, what are our leaders doing to preserve it? To achieve it? To create it?

The Maltese language is full of onomatopoeic words reflecting everyday reality. Language crystallizes the sounds of a culture in onomatopoeiae, which consequently become a comment on that same culture. Onomatopoeic words in Maltese tend to be quadrilateral verbs derived from Arabic. And many onomatopoeiae relate to three of the four elements: air (venven), water (gelgel) and earth (ċaqċaq). There are also animal sounds, like those of reptiles (zekzek), birds (pespes), mammals (ħamħam) and insects (żanżan), the human voice (qaħqaħ) and body (ċapċap). And the sounds of instruments, be they musical (żafżaf) or mechanical (tartar). Words like zekzek and pespes can represent both animal and human sounds — perhaps this registers the closeness we once had with birds.

In contrast, we do not have a lot of onomatopoeiae related to vehicles. The first ever registered car appeared in Malta in 1904, and the island was under British rule until 1964. Nowadays our roads are overcrowded, but our language did not keep up. Speaking of which, the word for « overcrowded » in Maltese — ħanaq — is polysemous: it means « to make hoarse » but also « to strangle » and « to suppress ». Overpopulation, overpollution, and overbuilding diminish citizens to a mere number.

We know all too well the sound a bomb makes. « Boom » and « kaboom » in English, have seamlessly integrated into Maltese to echo the explosive sound: « bumm ». Back in the turbulent 1980s, Malta grappled with political violence, street clashes, shootings and targeted car bombings. Bombs had evolved into potent political weapons aimed at individuals’ cars or front doors. Fast forward to today, and the unsettling reality persists — bombs continue to be employed as tools of intimidation, striking at the very heart of democracy by silencing activists or journalists.

And so, here we find ourselves — writers, activists, journalists — at our desks, no longer immersed in the study of idioms, but engrossed in writing. Our fingers clicking away on our laptops, contemplating sounds and pondering noises, grappling with how to distinguish between the two. A loud karrakka, a clunker, speeds by playing « my love, where did we go wrong? » Sound or noise? The music still lingers as the car reaches the end of the road. If only the chirping crickets and the crashing waves could drown it out. Where did we go wrong? At times, even language fails us. At times, sound is just noise.