There’s a very special word in the Maltese vernacular: prosit. Elegant in its simplicity, heart-warming in intent, and utterly corrupted by the internet.
In theory, it means “well done”. A nod of approval. A pat on the back. It’s the word your teacher says when you spell “cat” correctly at age six. It’s what your mum says when you clean your room without being asked. It’s what your superior says, usually begrudgingly, when you don’t mess up the instructions you were given.
But in today’s Malta, the word prosit has taken on a new, slightly grotesque life of its own. Welcome to the world of the Prosit Ministru Brigade – an elite (and elite in this case is a reference to those who are perpetually online; have they nothing else to do?) army of digital cheerleaders, always on standby to rain down unwarranted praise upon ministers, especially on Facebook.
Say it with me: prosit ministru.
This happens when the minister in question could have had absolutely nothing to do with the event being celebrated. A local bakery launches a new mouth-watering cake? Prosit ministru. A 10-year-old child saves a dog from a tree that has been spared the chop? Prosit ministru. A 93-year-old man manages to cross the road without being hit by a scooter? Prosit ministru u grazzi għall-infrastruttura.
It’s reached absurdity. We are living in a prosit inflation economy, and the currency is cheap applause.
In this warped version of Malta, ministers are omnipresent demigods, responsible for everything from the sunrise to your neighbour’s clean car.
A private business invests millions to expand operations, and up pops the Minister for Enterprise, grinning at the ribbon-cutting like he personally built the factory with his bare hands.
A school wins a robotics competition in Germany. The students worked day and night, built a robot out of spare parts and discarded items, and programmed it during lunch breaks. Their teacher hasn’t had a full night’s sleep in months. Enter the Minister for Education, front and centre in the photo, smiling like the robot is his proud digital son.
A drama group spends months rehearsing a play, long hours of hard work, stress and apprehension. On the day of the premiere, the minister takes the front seat, and turns to wave to the audience giving a standing ovation to the actors at the end of the show. Prosit ministru u grazzi ghall-politika kulturali.
It doesn’t stop there. In the health sector, if the list of out of stock medicines is shortened by one, the Facebook comment section lights up like a Christmas tree. Prosit ministru.
If more tourists come over, it’s prosit ministru too, never mind the pressure this has on the infrastructure as government policies continue to prefer quantity over quality. If a beach is open for swimming after days of closure due to contaminated water, again it’s prosit ministru. Perhaps some people think that it was the minister who repaired the broken sewage pipe.
A group of students joins a hard-working NGO to plant 100 trees on a hillside as part of a campaign by volunteers wishing to step in where the government is lacking. And yet, the comments follow: prosit, prosit, prosit, ministru, when it wasn’t the minister who picked up the spade.
A studio company earns a nomination for an international award. Big news indeed for its creative workers. In comes the minister to take credit for establishing the right industrial scenario. The prosit ministru comments flood in. It’s like it was the minister himself who worked on the visual effects for the film.
The pattern is unmistakable. Step one: something good happens. Step two: a minister appears. Step three: pretend it was government vision all along. Step four: let the prosits rain down like confetti. It’s like Malta’s very own political circus act. One minister balancing on a tightrope of credibility, another juggling words like “investment,” “delivery,” and “vision”, all while being showered in applause from the crowd.
And if the ministers are drowning in prosits, then the Prime Minister is positively swimming in them. There is no bigger magnet for prosits than the man at the top. He doesn’t even need to be involved. A pothole is covered by tar that will wash away after the first rainfall? Prosit Prim Ministru. The monthly pension is deposited in the bank? Prosit Prim Ministru. There is an abundance of potatoes? Prosit Prim Ministru u grazzi għall-politika agrikola.
The Prime Minister is the recipient of a daily tsunami of virtual hugs, flag emojis, and keyboard kisses. Sometimes, these don’t even come from ordinary citizens. Ministers themselves line up to offer public praise to their own boss, tagging him in posts and thanking him for his leadership and forward-thinking. It’s part admiration, part job application. Because in Maltese politics, nothing says “I’d like a promotion” quite like a strategically-timed public prosit to the boss.
We’ve reached the point where ministers hand out prosits to the Prime Minister like party favours, hoping that some of that political stardust reflects back on them. One minister posts a photo of a new playground and thanks the Prime Minister for “believing in children’s well-being”. Another, after hosting a cultural event that has existed for 200 years, thanks the Prime Minister for his “continued support of our traditions”. You half expect someone to post a picture of their grandmother’s homemade ravioli and thank the Prime Minister for his culinary inspiration. Prosit Prim Ministru għall-kċina tradizzjonali.
It would almost be funny if it weren’t so pathetic. The way prosit is thrown around has become meaningless. It’s lost all weight. It no longer communicates actual praise. It’s become a signal, a performance, a political mating call. And if you really want to understand the sickness at the core of this phenomenon, just look at how rarely the real doers get any recognition. The nurse who stays late for the third shift in a row? No fanfare. The teacher who spends what is supposedly free time answering messages from rude parents? No prosits there. The volunteers who spend their weekends rescuing abandoned animals, collecting waste and garbage from the countryside, cleaning beaches, protecting turtle nests? They don’t get a Facebook post from the minister, let alone a sea of digital praise.
We should be directing our prosits toward those people. People whose contributions don’t make headlines. People who aren’t holding press conferences, posing next to machinery they didn’t pay for, standing in front of projects they didn’t manage. A prosit should go to the ones who get things done without expecting a medal – not to the ones who arrive last and still claim the victory.
At its heart, prosit is supposed to mean “well done,” not “well stood near the person who did something useful”. We need to take the word back from the prosit trolls and sycophants. It’s time we stopped feeding the Prosit Monster.
The next time you see a politician taking credit for someone else’s hard work, do what any decent Maltese citizen should do. Nod thoughtfully, scroll down, and type: “Prosit… but not for you.”
Read more on The Malta Independent Online
