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My name is Anastasia Christodoulou, I’m 32 years old. I was born in Greece, and for almost four years now, my husband and I have been living in Malta. 🇲🇹 Honestly… these have been the hardest years I can remember. Not because Malta is a bad place. Not at all. Sometimes life just hits you so hard that you freeze and think: “How the hell am I even still breathing?” We left Greece because we couldn’t see any way out anymore. Debts. Impossible bills. Salaries so low it was embarrassing even to talk about them. At that moment, my husband said to me: — Anastasia, if we stay here, we’ll simply drown. In Malta, at least we have a chance to build a normal life. We sold our old Fiat Punto, packed a few suitcases, and left. The first few months were still relatively bearable. He found a job at a large warehouse in the Marsa area, not far from the port zone. I also started working: first cleaning apartments, then in a small shop inside a shopping centre in Sliema. We rented a tiny apartment in an old building in Msida. Cold in winter. With damp walls and a constant smell of mould. 😔 He would wake up at five in the morning, quickly drink his coffee, and leave. He came back late in the evening with swollen hands, a broken back, and a completely empty look in his eyes. Every day, for eleven or twelve hours, he carried pallets, boxes, and tons of other people’s goods. Sometimes he would fall into bed without even eating dinner. And the next day, everything started all over again: — Get up… we have to work. I was also at my limit. At work: constant noise, people everywhere, forced smiles. Tourists, expats, customers with new iPhones and expensive cars, casually talking about holidays in Italy, dinners in St Julian’s, and weekends in Gozo. They were living. And I was standing behind the counter, thinking: “When the hell will I finally start living normally, instead of just surviving?” And then everything collapsed. During a night shift, my husband was moving a heav
