It was a few months before my final medical exams, and I was driving home from a friend’s dinner party when I was pulled over during a roadblock near the skate park in Msida.

It was around midnight, and when the officer approached my car, he shined a flashlight on my face, and then my clothes to see what I was wearing – at the time it was still fashionable to tuck your trousers into your boots, as I had done that evening. 

There was a pizza box in the back so the officer probably profiled me with that, and asked me step out of the car so he could search it. I remember he moved in a clockwise direction from the front seats to the back seats, then the front seats again.

I watched him search every seat, and on the last one, the front passenger seat, I turned my gaze away. Suddenly, he says to me “din x’inhi?” and waved a small, resealable plastic bag containing the tiniest amount of cannabis (almost literally a twig) in my face.

The sad matter of fact is though, I hadn’t smoked in years. I was never really a cannabis user – during my teens I would take the occasional puff on a summer night barbeque with some friends… I had friends who smoked on a regular basis, but I had never actually ever bought my own.

I knew it wasn’t mine – it had to belong to some friend of mine who dropped it… or maybe the officer needed to hit some sick quota that night. To this day, I have no idea where that bag came from.

You can imagine my shock. I began freaking out, with all these nightmarish scenarios playing out in my head. I didn’t even enjoy smoking cannabis in all honesty, yet here I was with an officer waving a bag of cannabis I had never seen that he had just found in my car.

My heart started racing as if I were in a bad dream, and I began hyperventilating. I had no clue how it ended there – I lost my cool. I started pleading with these officers – “I don’t know who that belongs to, it’s not mine, you have to believe me!!” – and I just remember this officer, bald, and a bit tubby, with his hands resting in his vest responded by screaming at me:

“Where did you get this from?!” he barked.

“I have no idea! It must belong to a friend!”

“Who are your friends?!” he retorted.

But there was no way I was going to implicate my friends in some random crime I had no idea if they even had anything to do with… in all honesty, I had no idea what to do. It was so out of the realm of my normal life. Worse still, it was all being handled so unprofessionally by the officers at the time – in the middle of a busy intersection.

They could see I was having a panic attack. All I could see was having a lifetime of achievements, hard work and my otherwise bright future being flushed down the drain in an instant – for something I didn’t do.

I knew that saying the drugs didn’t belong to me would not be a believable excuse, that’s what anyone would say, but damn it, it was the truth! I wanted to show the police that I was an honest person – not a criminal. But I couldn’t.

With that, they told me to sit down on the pavement and called – believe it or not – the drug squad. The bloody drug squad! On me! A university student driving back from a friend’s house with a pizza box in the back seat! I sat there thinking, aren’t these guys meant for major drug hauls?

I remember the officer, clear as day – he looked younger than me, short and skinny, with a shaved head. He showed up, and read me my rights. They then ordered me to drive my car to the police headquarters in Floriana with a police officer in the passenger seat of my car and a police car following closely behind me. It was quite a surreal experience, but I was grateful they didn’t handcuff me.

When we got to Floriana, I left my car outside and went in for questioning. I was informed that the on-duty inspector would come in the morning – I was to spend the night in a jail cell.

As they were booking me in, I remember the police asked me, among other questions, who my parents were. As I named them, I broke down in tears – I felt so ashamed. I felt I had let them down. They did not deserve this. I had brought shame upon my family.

They then took me to the cell, asked me to hand over my belt, and, in the most humiliating moment of my life, they frisked me and asked me to bend over and spread my buttocks.

I remember praying, as I lay bent over and bare, eyelids clenched, with them shining a light onto my anus, that they would not perform a cavity check… when they said “it’s ok, you can get dressed”, I breathed out in relief, having narrowly preserved my last modicum of dignity.

As they left the cell, they asked me if I needed anything and brought me a bottle of water at my request.

I spent the night in the jail cell. I couldn’t sleep. I remember the etchings on the wall. “KOKKU” one of them read.

I tried to get some sleep, but never really got there, and at around 6am I shot up when I suddenly heard my mom calling me from the prison hallways… but it wasn’t real.

It would have killed my mom to have to come in there to see me.

At this point officers were trying to calm me down, I’m not sure if they were preparing me to give a statement.

I kept asking them if this was going to be on my police conduct, and they were adamant it would not. They assured me that the inspector I was going to speak to was a “good” inspector – “orrajt ћafna dak” they assured me. In fact, they were very supportive throughout. I began to trust them.

As the inspector arrived, it was time to deliver my statement. I was asked if I wanted a lawyer present.

I had absolutely no idea what to do. This was a situation I had never envisioned in my life. I was so clueless, alone and afraid. I felt so vulnerable. I trusted the inspector. I turned to him for advice – “Should I get a lawyer?” I asked.

He advised me that a lawyer would just draw things out… if I admitted to everything I was being accused of, the case would be settled more smoothly. I trusted them, and decided against having a lawyer present for my statement.

I was asked if the drugs belonged to me, and where they came from. To which I replied “No” and “I have no idea, I have never seen them in my life”.

I was then asked if I had ever made use of cannabis in my life – being under oath, I replied truthfully. I told them I had smoked on occasion in the past with friends, but hadn’t smoked in a very long time. This would come back to haunt me.

After the statement was concluded, they gave me my personal belongings, and I was allowed to leave.

As soon as I stepped out in Floriana, I thought: “sh*t! – what are my parents going to think?!” I was recovering from a depressive episode at the time – I hadn’t come home the previous night, without any prior warning. They must have been thinking I hurt myself.

As I arrived home, they were worried sick. My mother, in tears, asked me where I had been all night. I told her I had a bit too much to drink, and it was unsafe to drive. I could tell they both knew I was lying, but thankfully they decided not to probe further.

I went up to my room. All I could think to myself was – I am a criminal now. Society doesn’t care whether you’re a murderer, a paedophile, a rapist or someone who smoked a joint – if you have a criminal record, you’re viewed the same.

A million and one things were going through my head. I took a long shower to wash it all away. But I still felt dirty.

I sought legal advice on the matter the following week. I explained the case and asked my lawyer if we could fight the case, given the marijuana did not belong to me.

“The fact that you admitted to smoking on occasion in the past means they’ll try and find you guilty for that,” my lawyer said, “at the added expense of many years going of court proceedings”. 

It was best to plead guilty. 

The likely penalty would be a conditional discharge. There were rumours of drug law reform, but these were still some time away. That made me feel relieved.

I knew I was to be prosecuted by the police – but I also knew it was my final year of university and I was already well behind on my studies.

It was May, my exams were in June, and I knew I desperately needed to concentrate on my studies. It was time to focus.

I did my best to put this all on the back burner. I studied hard. Nevertheless, there were moments of weakness… I would spend days worrying. I remember reading a newspaper article about DJ’s who were stopped from performing at an event after being caught in the 90’s with an ecstasy pill which was deemed to be for personal use at the time.

As I did my best to study, get over the finish line and become a doctor, I kept thinking: “Jesus, is this going to happen to me?” 

These things derail your focus. What happens if I want to work abroad? What happens if I need a visa for travel? How is this going to affect me in the long run? Am I going to have to live with this crushing feeling all my life? I was a nervous wreck.

Despite this, I kept a brave face, and I did my very best.

My finals arrived. It was do or die. I kept my cool. I felt I did reasonably well.

Then the day arrived when results would be published. I remember pacing up and down the hallway of my parents’ house as I logged onto eSIMS from my smartphone. I pressed view results. The page loaded bit by bit as I nervously chewed my fingernails.

And then it loaded.

I could not believe my eyes – I got an A! I jumped and screamed like a maniac. It was the happiest moment of my entire life.

The amount of studying you need to do in medicine is unfathomable – only people who have been through it can know. I made it. With flying colours. Despite such mental baggage, with so little time to prepare.

It was an achievement, I cried with joy. I needed it. It was a ray of light, in my otherwise dark reality. Soon enough I began working as a doctor. For the first time in months, I was happy.

But at the back of my mind, I knew that I was to be prosecuted. That day could arrive at any time. I never knew when.

Every time the phone rang, I was worried. Every time the doorbell rang, I would expect the police. I would have vivid nightmares of the arrest. Every time I drove past a police car, my heart would pound. I would sweat at the sight of a flashing blue light, even if from an ambulance or fire engine. I avoided driving by the skate park at night. It was just too much to bear. I would worry that my colleagues would find out. I would worry that my family would find out. It was a daily struggle.

For years I lived under the shadow of that moment. I was incapable of living. Until one day, I found a missed call on my phone. 

I called back. I heard the beat of a drum, “tun tuntuntuntun tun”. My heart sank as I realised that I was calling the Police Depot in Floriana.

I knew my time had come. The arresting officer and I had made a verbal agreement to call my personal mobile instead of sending the court summons to my house, so as to prevent my parents from finding out.

I spoke with a policewoman and told her I found a missed call from their number. She had no idea what it was about. She advised me that if they wanted me, they would find me.

So of course, they sent the summons to my home, and my dad found it.

Somehow – I still don’t know how – I was able to convince him that it had something to do with work. A patient had died, I told him, and I had to give a statement about it to the police.

“But then why does it say ‘Il-pulizija vs Joe Borg’?”

I shrugged my shoulders and assured him that I had already spoken to the hospital lawyer about it. He bought my excuse.

The court date came up, and as Sod’s law would have it, it happened to coincide with an exam, so I asked my lawyer to postpone. This meant I had to wait for a second court summons.

Here we go again. This time though, they called me and I met an officer for the summons.

So I began preparing for the big day.

I showed up in Valletta, met with my lawyer and went in. I was in such a state. It was a blur. I could not concentrate. Everyone was speaking in legalese – and then they asked me: “And how do you plea?”

I pled guilty.

The session lasted all of five minutes. They mentioned the amount I had been arraigned for.

It was 0.1 grams.

I had only seen the marijuana on the day of my arrest. While I could see that it was a small amount, I didn’t know it was that insignificant. All these police resources, lawyers, magistrates. All this fear, anxiety and pain. Over one hundred milligrams. It probably wasn’t even enough to smoke. But it was enough to make me a criminal in the eyes of the law.

As we left the courtroom, I distinctly remember my lawyer muttering to himself in frustration beneath his voice: “Dawn bis-serjetà? 0.1g?”

I thanked my lawyer and left. I went straight to a nearby bar and got smashed. It was around 10am. But I didn’t care. It was finally over. I was ecstatic. I got a taxi, and went home.

I pondered – why is it, in the eyes of the law at the time, that 0.1g of cannabis was more of a danger to society than, for example, someone who over speeds? Than someone who drives drunk?! It seemed nonsensical to me.

I pled guilty to a crime that I didn’t commit. That angers me till today. I will never know who that bag belonged to till the day I die.

A 2017 survey found that around 50% of Americans have tried marijuana at least once throughout their lifetime. The only difference between them and me was that I have gone down on record as having done so. The current laws send the message that it matters not whether you do it – it only matters if you get caught.

Subconsciously, people know it is a trivial matter. We joke about it all the time. Would you joke about murder? No. Rape? No. We know how serious they are. Cheech and Chong are funny because they are harmless potheads. They would not be funny if they were murderers or rapists. Yet the law currently classifies them as if they were. Think about that. Currently, possession of cannabis, though depenalised, is still a criminal offence. And that’s all that matters.

I was glued to my seat last week as I watched Dr Robert Abela announce the details of the recent whitepaper on drug law reform.

When I heard the government propose expungement for cases of possession for personal use, I shed tears of joy. My wait was over. Common sense had started to win.

Expungement means that I, and countless others like myself, can have a new lease of life. As I give this interview, I am afraid of my identity being revealed. I should not have to be.

Telling my story has rekindled so many painful memories. I still have flashbacks of that fateful night to this very day. I occasionally have nightmares too. I still have to check underneath my car seats to make sure there are no bags there, even though I know that I will find none. You can only imagine my routine before traveling through airport security.

Ask yourself, is this just?

Whilst applauding the government on its action, I was surprised that expungement was actually the fourth amendment the Prime Minister mentioned during his announcement – almost a footnote, if you will.

It is a major step towards the rehabilitation of people whose lives and sanity have been shattered by the criminal justice system.

Now, do I agree with the whole proposal? I am not an expert on drug law, nor addiction medicine, however I feel we may have gone overboard legalising up to 7 grams, and considering up to 28 grams personal use.

Others more knowledgeable on the subject may disagree. But I am not here to advocate for or against legalisation. I am here to share my experience. I am here to testify that this is an issue that touches all of us.

I am here to attest to how prosecuting people relentlessly for an essentially benign act is detrimental to society. It is not only harmful; it is gravely unjust.

Any drug law that decriminalises or legalises personal use, should do so on the basic premise that the drug user is not a criminal, and has never been.

Expungement will grant people such as myself, the right to be forgotten. The right to escape from beneath a shadow that was unjustly cast upon them by legislation that has largely failed the very society it was intended to protect.

*Names have been changed to protect the individual’s identity.

*Names have been changed to protect the individual’s identity.

Have you been affected by this story or want to share a similar experience? Contact Lovin Malta in confidence at [email protected] or [email protected]