In pairs we walk through the tunnel, contained through a rusting fence, prohibited from moving around within a diameter of a maximum of 5, maybe 7 meters. The wooden benches carved and tattered, aged through the passage of time and the weathering of this anguished environment, dirty, filthy, unwelcoming. The walls, dug out by the blowing winds of winter and scraped by the scorching rays of summer, a process recalled by these walls for ages. The obscene frescoes on these walls are the only most recent addition which contrary to the rest seem to increase as more of us pass by through the years. Graffiti that display history, nationality and maybe even state of mind.

We waited, long enough to be able to draw the scene, eyes closed, gathered as one, cuddled by the open shelter from the cold winds. The mighty sea heard in the distance adding preoccupation and uncertainty to our thoughts. Then signaled to move we headed towards the rusty gate now opened, squeaking its way for us to pass through, uncovering its devastating state. In single file we moved making small steps ahead, due to the confined space, with every move forward discovering a new graffiti on the side walls, remembering those that have passed before us in the days gone by. Dirt and filthiness gave a clear picture that only winter rain and summer winds cleaned this place.

We moved ahead together, worried of what might be the next view, the next path for us to pass through not knowing where the tunnel will take us. The ones in charge, as scruffy as an old dog, filthy, and odorous as the place itself. Their shelter stinking, shabby, dis-organized to a point to appear surreal.

No emotions, no politeness, no manners, why ask, should it be so?

We moved along with people from different countries, controlled by signs and moans, guided through the tunnel of mysteries.

I tried to find an explanation why this place remains so shabby, why was it a clear practical example of dirt, why has this place never changed apart from the growth of rust on each metal part. Why?

No, this is not a concentration camp, this is the Chirkewwa terminal between Malta and Gozo where thousands of tourists pass through each day especially during summer probably having the same thoughts, wondering if their visit to Gozo was the right choice.

Why do we have to remain silent, when confronted with such a shameful state of a portal accessible to so many fellow citizens and tourists, welcomed with such a view.

Who knows what the excuse might be?

Traveling through this gate I always resisted these thoughts but today I just could not hold anymore. Luckily I did not have my camera