I sat down this morning thinking of suitable words to mark four years since the darkest day in our memory, when Daphne was killed. I sat to think of ideas I had not yet thought, of what has not yet been said in these four years. I sat down to find words as yet unused, new ways that did not sound tired. I looked for a fresh page on a book written in a day four years ago as we rushed through shock, anger, fear, and resolve.

I felt the tinges of frustration at my staleness, of finding nothing that has not been said before. I felt the stage-fright of repetition, the fear of losing the interest of an audience that has heard it all before.

And then I saw this image by Seb Tanti Burlò.

And I remembered that we are not entertainers putting on a show that needs to be reinvented before producers cancel it to replace it with the next best thing. We are ambulatory hauliers of light, holding it aloft to shine and fill out the emptiness that would otherwise be buried in darkness.

We don’t have to reinvent anything. Truth speaks for itself and needs no polishing or shining. The cry for justice is heard or else it is silent.

The image says it. If we go home, we leave darkness to fill our place. Darkness is the absence of light. Darkness is what happens if we lose the will to resist. Darkness will always be ready to take our place. It will never be destroyed because it is nothing. Darkness is the consequence of our dejection, the child of our unwillingness to persevere.

Daphne Caruana Galizia lived and died pushing back on unrelenting darkness. All we have to do is stay here to remember and remind. This is not entertainment. It doesn’t get applause. We never get to go hooting our car horns on the Sliema front in mindless celebration of victory. There’s no party at the end for us.

There’s just the knowledge that where we stand, darkness cowers. That while we stand, darkness does not win.

For Daphne. For us.