Starting over in a country that doesn't forget

In Malta, reinvention isn't a lifestyle refresh—it's a negotiation with a country that remembers. Manuel Delia traces how public controversy, political undercurrents, and the economics of fear can freeze reputations in time, and what it really costs to start again.

---

When people discuss "new beginnings," they usually refer to a career change, a new role, or a personal reset. We like the idea of starting over. It makes us feel contemporary, adaptable, and unafraid of change. However, the reality is that Malta is a challenging place to reinvent yourself, especially if your past was lived openly. Reinvention demands a kind of forgetting, and Malta is a country with a long memory and a small territory. People do not forget. And sometimes, they do not forgive.

I learned this in my late thirties, when a chapter of my life closed, and I realised that turning the page was not something I could do alone. Starting again isn't just about polishing a CV or changing sectors. It is an economic, social, and psychological negotiation with a country that archives every public moment and keeps it ready for reuse. I went straight from university into senior political roles and spent fourteen years working at the centre of government. It was intensive, compressed work. I learned quickly, took on responsibilities early, and lived with a constant sense of urgency. Politics in Malta often functions like that: sink or swim, and keep swimming.

In the final years, I became the public face of one of Malta's most significant policy reforms in decades: the overhaul of the bus system. Although a necessary reform, its implementation faced serious setbacks. The system's mechanics improved over time, but reputations, unlike public transport, do not follow published timetables. They stagnate at the moment of crisis; for many, public memory ended with the failures. As a result, I was seen by the public as the person responsible for explaining them away.

When the government changed in 2013, my political career naturally came to an end. I was 36 years old, with fourteen years of senior-level experience behind me, and no clear path ahead in the country where I had built my entire professional identity. I sent out applications, met potential employers, and engaged in polite conversations. But Malta's labour market is small, cautious, and heavily influenced by political undercurrents. It is also risk-averse in ways people rarely admit openly. Hiring someone associated with a public controversy, even one long resolved, feels like inviting inherited problems into your organisation. No one ever states this directly. Instead, the phone simply stops ringing.

It took time to understand what was happening. The uncomfortable truth was that employability here had very little to do with skills and almost everything to do with perception. Competence is portable, but reputation is not. It follows you into every interview room and sits there, uninvited, whispering reminders of your worst day on the job. Eventually, I found work elsewhere, not physically abroad but with foreign companies and international projects whose leaders did not know or care about Maltese political baggage. It was a strange form of exile: living in Malta while being professionally outside it. The practical problem was solved, but the deeper questions remained.

In 2017, when Daphne Caruana Galizia was killed, all the stability I had built up fell apart. I left my financially secure private-sector job and dedicated myself entirely to civic activism. It wasn't a deliberate choice. It was a moral decision, and I understood the consequences even as I accepted them. You can't measure dignity in pounds, but you can count the cost of choosing it. The civic space in Malta is intentionally fragile. There is very little formal philanthropy, almost no institutional support, and a public sector that regards watchdogs and critics as nuisances rather than essential to democratic health. Money is a constant source of worry. Organisations struggle to survive each month. Individuals live on tight budgets, driven more by conviction than comfort.

There is also the quieter dimension that people rarely name. Even outside government, many employers fear that being associated with those who challenge authority may lead to difficulties. No law states this openly. No regulation spells it out. But enough people believe it could be true that it has an effect on real lives. Fear becomes an economic force in its own right, narrowing choices and reducing opportunities without ever needing to be written down.

People often talk about starting over at 40 as if it were a lifestyle choice, a kind of midlife reinvention pursued for fulfilment. The reality is more brutal. Reinvention is not glamorous; it is hard work. It involves trading stability for uncertainty and accepting that the narrower income you receive is not due to failure or incompetence, but to choices that Malta does not reward. I am now 49. The past decade has shown me that starting again is not a single event. It is a long series of attempts, setbacks, recalibrations, and stubborn persistence. It is the repeated act of convincing others, including yourself, that the chapter you left behind does not define the one you are trying to write.

I do not share this as a personal confession, nor as a plea for sympathy. I share it because what happened to me is not unusual. It is a heightened example of what many people in Malta experience when they step out of line, fall from favour, or simply find themselves on the wrong side of a political narrative. This is a country where visibility is quick, and consequences can last indefinitely, where professional identities are as permanent as tattoos, where networks often matter more than CVs, and where the courage to speak out comes with an unspoken understanding that you might pay a heavy price.

If we are serious about honestly discussing new beginnings, we must accept that they are not equally accessible. Some people can change direction easily because their past is simple or aligned with the prevailing power. Others rebuild on ground that has already been contested. They start again, not on blank pages, but on pages already marked by interpretations they did not choose.

And yet reinvention remains possible. It requires stubbornness rather than optimism. It requires accepting that Malta will not forget your past and choosing to build anyway. It requires living with the knowledge that dignity has its own unforgiving economy, and that sometimes you decide to work within it because the alternative is impossible to live with.

A new beginning is not a clean slate. It is a decision, often renewed daily, to pursue a life aligned with your conscience even when the country around you would prefer that you stay quiet, compliant, and forgettable. I did not choose the easiest path. But I did choose the one I can stand by. And that too is a beginning.

---