Being Gibraltarian

Majestic, presiding over the Mediterranean, Rock of Gibraltar

I must have walked past so many times and yet it was only a few evenings ago, taking the dog out for an evening stroll, that I noticed the stone angel mourning in a discreet corner of the road as it curved past the Cathedral of the Holy Trinity and towards Line Wall Road, Commonwealth Park, the marina and the spread of sea beyond.  The sun, just beginning to set over the Spanish hills on the western side of the bay was shaded by the Cathedral and as its creamy walls glowed in the rosen sunlight, I was struck by the juxtaposition of the exotic, the colourful, bright, sunlit Mediterranean and the sober discreet Englishness of a little stone memorial, set in its own rose garden, more reminiscent of a country parish in the home counties than of a bustling city carved into a Moorish fortress turned colonnial outpost.

Unexpected memorial at Cathedral of the Holy Trinity, Gibraltar

Consecrated in 1838, the Cathedral is Anglican in a staunchly Roman Catholic city, and, to my view at least, could be easily mistaken for a mosque, its arched windows and very square, squat walls reminiscent of Spanish archeaology which itself is redolent of the Arabic influence of Al-Andalus.  It is surrounded by palm trees, and looking eastwards, you can see towering above it, draped in its wild olive trees, carob and pines, the majestic Rock of Gibraltar.  Overhead swoop chattering gulls and higher up, tiny black specks which could be birds of prey circling.  The vista is most un-English, yet enter the Cathedral and you are in a cool, hushed space filled with the dignified calm of any other Anglican church I have ever stepped in.

Arabic archways and leaning palm trees

Cathedral of Saint Mary the Crowned

And that is one of the unique points of Gibraltar.  It is a place where cultures meet and combine and live together, just as do the migrating creatures of sea and air that pass by our Rock.  Standing with my back to the Cathedral of the Holy Trinity, I could see in the one glance a mosque to my left and a synagogue to my right, and to the east of the Cathedral, just a few short steps away, stands the other Cathedral, of Saint Mary the Crowned, where I was baptised, had my First Holy Communion and where my aunts still light candles and pray for the souls of their dead in that glorioulsy hispanic way of theirs.  The Hindu temple is a short walk away and a stunning mosque one mile to the south. And directly infront of me, the Queensway Quay Marina, millionnaire's watering ground, the epitome of that more secular part of Gibraltar's melting pot of cultures, elegant yachts swaying gently in the evening breeze, their masts stark as spears, silhouetted as they are in the last rays of the sun.

Ocean Village, development and yachts, another part of Gibraltar culture

Mosque at Europa Point, Gibraltar

I stroll round again to the "weeping angel" tucked in the corner surrounded by roses.  It is lovely.  I have lived in England long enough to consider it my home as much as I do Gibraltar and I have to catch my breath in sudden homesickness.  

Stone angel in perpetual mourning

Politics aside, I myself am a product of a mix of cultures, not one, nor the other, just me, my own unique mix.  Perhaps that is what being Gibraltarian is these days: not ex-English Colonnial, not ex-Spanish through local intermarraige; not Genoese, not Portuguese, not Maltese, not Moroccan, not Indian, despite our roots being linked to any number of these.  We are who we are, unique individuals, uniquely Gibraltarian.

I ponder on this now and again, and wonder how so many people from so many different backgrounds can so calmly live and work together, combine their pasts and create new futures together.  I am convinced, though through instinct, not through scientific fact and dry data, that this is one of the reasons why Gibraltar is a survivor and why it forges onwards whatever difficulties are thrown in its path.  One of my ponderings led me to wonder what happens when someone from one culture falls in love with someone from another.  It is a question with thousands of answers, one tackled by artists and writers and story tellers since time immemorial.  So I wrote "The Promise".  It is a short story.  You can download it from Amazon.  But here's a taster, to make you think.

THE PROMISE

(an extract)

Even the thin light of a winter afternoon stabs at my eyes and blinds me.

     “Hey, Tarik, you look terrible,” Hamed’s cheerful voice lurches at me through the gloom, “and if I didn’t know you better, I’d say you have a hangover.”

     I turn a wince into an attempt at a grin, then pluck feebly at my suitcase and the loaded shopping-trolley that I drag behind me. 

     “I haven’t been sleeping well lately,” I croak, a little surprised that my voice still works.  I haven’t been able to speak for days, not since I last spoke to you.

     Hamed slows to accommodate my pace.  He’s young and strong, and volunteers to carry my case to the ferry.

     “This is heavy, Tarik, what are you taking back?  Gifts for your wife?”

     Perhaps he’s trying to be funny, but I’m in no mood for humour.

     “Me.  I am taking me back to Tangiers,” I snap and the words leave traces of gall to sting my tongue.

     “What? Leave Gibraltar for good? Wait till I tell Larbi,” gushes Hamed, “he’s been wanting to go back for years, but his wife won’t go and his kids won’t go, so he stays here.”

     I walk the rest of the way to the ferry in silence, letting Hamed help me with my luggage, trying to ignore the twists in my gut when he talks of his impending marriage.

     “And because she’s a local girl, I’ll get full citizenship and then I’ll be able to travel, get a house, everything,” he rambles, “and she’s even agreed to become a Muslim.  Just you wait till I tell Larbi.  His face will be a picture.”

     He can tell anyone whatever he wants.  I fumble my way up the rusty gangplank and onto the ferry, find a spot to leave the luggage and fight my way through the crowds to stand on the deck.  I need air.  I need to inhale and fill my lungs with the darkening sky.  I rest my elbow on the deck rail, lean my chin into my cupped hands and watch the snake of weekend travellers slither its way into the ship from the grimy docks below.  Now I’ve told Hamed, most of the other travellers will soon know.  For me, this trip is one way only.

     The sheer rise of the north face of the Rock towers up into the clouds.  It’s as forbidding as always: a grey intimidation that reminds those of us who cross the Straits from the yellows and sables of Tangiers that our possibilities here, our time, our very lives, are limited.  My life here ran out the last time I spoke to you.

     I shift my weight from one foot to another and rub my hands over my eyes.  I wonder when it was that this started.  I have known you for many years.  I worked with your husband for a while, watched your children grow, saw you now and again about the town.  As the years passed you blossomed and you became unbearably beautiful.  I tried to avoid seeing you so that I would not be tormented by desire.  But you can’t avoid someone forever, not here.  So we stayed friends.  And I couldn’t keep away, reeled in relentlessly by the warmth of your smile and eyes that ripped down all the defences I had.

Download the full story from Amazon: