Persistent threats to human rights defenders in Malta flagged in new report
Persistent threats to human rights defenders in Malta flagged in new report
by Hot Malta Newsroom
The narrow backstreets of Valletta may look postcard-perfect at dusk, but for many Maltese activists the golden limestone walls can feel more like a maze of watchful eyes than a UNESCO backdrop. A new briefing published today by the Europe-wide network ProtectDefenders.eu warns that intimidation, SLAPP lawsuits and online harassment against human-rights defenders (HRDs) in Malta “remain widespread, systemic and largely unpunished.”
The 42-page dossier lands like a thunderclap on an island still haunted by the 2017 car-bomb assassination of journalist Daphne Caruana Galizia. “Malta has taken legislative steps forward,” the authors concede, “but the gap between glossy policy papers and the daily lived experience of activists is growing, not shrinking.”
Local voices bear that out. When environmentalist Cami Appelgren tried to stop a Planning Authority permit for a mega-development in Qala last year, her Facebook page was flooded with doctored images of her face super-imposed on pornographic memes. “The police told me to ‘just log off’,” she recalls over a coffee in Sliema. “That’s like telling a farmer to ignore locusts.”
The report identifies three persistent pressure points:
1. Strategic Lawsuits Against Public Participation (SLAPPs)
Foreign law firms, often London-based, file crippling libel claims in UK courts against Maltese campaigners. The brief cites 14 open cases—double the number recorded in 2021—ranging from a Gozitan farmer fighting quarry expansion to the NGO Moviment Graffitti protesting the Żonqor yacht-marina project.
2. Police reluctance to investigate digital threats
Only two prosecutions for online harassment of activists have reached Malta’s courts since 2019, despite 112 complaints filed. Victims report officers asking whether they “provoked” the abuse.
3. A culture of omertà amplified by small-island dynamics
“Everyone knows everyone,” explains lawyer and activist Lara Dimitrijevic. “A threat doesn’t have to be explicit. A relative’s job at a state hospital, a child’s school place—those become bargaining chips.”
Cultural undercurrents run deep. Malta’s festa season—when rival band clubs raise colossal street arches and rival village saints—celebrates exuberant public allegiance. But that same fervour can morph into online tribalism. During last summer’s fireworks season, a popular village Facebook group posted drone footage of anti-hunting volunteers clearing illegal bird-trapping sites, tagging the activists’ employers. Within hours, one volunteer’s boss received anonymous calls demanding his dismissal.
The report also spotlights a quieter, more insidious trend: economic retaliation. Restaurant owner and migrant-rights campaigner Maria* (name changed) saw her seaside bistro’s TripAdvisor rating plummet from 4.8 to 2.1 stars in a weekend after she spoke out against arbitrary work-permit cancellations. “Negative reviews from accounts that never dined here,” she shrugs. “One-star, no photos, same spelling mistakes.”
Government reaction has been mixed. Justice Minister Jonathan Attard welcomed the findings, promising “a consultation on anti-SLAPP legislation by the end of 2024.” Yet parliamentary whip Glenn Bedingfield—himself a prolific blogger—dismissed the dossier as “foreign meddling,” echoing sentiments aired nightly on party-owned stations.
Community resilience, however, is sprouting in unlikely corners. The Dar Bjorn centre in Mosta now hosts free digital-security clinics run by tech volunteers; turnout has tripled since January. A pop-up “solidarity fridge” in Marsa’s immigrant quarter offers free meals to activists facing boycott campaigns. Even the traditional festa committees—long bastions of partisan loyalty—are experimenting with “neutral zones” where political banners are banned and local NGOs can host stalls without fear of vandalism.
Yet the stakes remain high. On 9 May, a small crowd gathered beneath the Great Siege monument to commemorate Caruana Galizia’s birthday. As candles flickered in the sea breeze, activist Pia Zammit read aloud the report’s final sentence: “An island that silences its watchwomen and men ultimately silences its own future.” The silence that followed was broken only by the distant pop of fireworks—celebratory or ominous, depending on where you stand.
