Ban noisy works during lunchtime and at weekends – Momentum

No Hammering While We’re Having Ħobż: Momentum Wants Lunchtime & Weekend Peace

Malta’s love affair with construction is almost as old as the honey-ring. Cranes slice the skyline like modern luzzus, and jackhammers provide the daily soundtrack from Mellieħa to Marsaxlokk. Yet, after months of local complaints and viral TikToks capturing drilling at 1 p.m. on a Sunday, green-left movement Momentum has launched a petition demanding a total ban on noisy works between 11 a.m.–3 p.m. on weekdays and all day Saturday and Sunday. The proposal is simple: respect Malta’s cherished lunch-and-family time or face fines.

“Construction noise during ikla tan-nofsinnhar isn’t just annoying; it’s culturally tone-deaf,” said Momentum chairperson Andre Callus, speaking outside a Valletta café where elderly patrons nursed espressos to the clink of pastizzi plates rather than the usual pneumatic drill. “We’re an island that still shuts shop for three hours so families can eat rabbit stew together. If we can pause business for ftira, we can pause bulldozers.”

The timing is strategic. Over the past two years, Malta’s building boom has intensified—Planning Authority data shows 2023 issued a record 9,400 development permits—while tourism rebounded to 3 million arrivals. Visitors expecting tranquil Airbnb balconies instead woke to screeching tile-cutters. In Sliema, expat forums rage about “Sunday-morning concrete concerts.” Meanwhile, Maltese parents complain that children can’t nap, and parish priests in Gozo report Mass being drowned out by reversing-beeps from nearby sites.

Momentum’s petition, already 7,200 signatures strong, cites World Health Organization guidelines linking chronic noise to cardiovascular stress. But the group’s bigger weapon is nostalgia. Campaign graphics feature classic Maltese tiles overlaid with decibel meters, captioned “Ix-Xwejjaħ mhux tradizzjoni” (“Noise isn’t tradition”). A cheeky video contrasts black-and-white footage of 1960s fishermen mending nets in silence with today’s drone shots of dust clouds and beeping trucks.

The proposal isn’t anti-development, Callus insists. It mirrors rules already in force in Rome and Barcelona: noisy works limited to 7–11 a.m. and 3–7 p.m. on weekdays only. Enforcement would rely on Local Enforcement System Agency (LESA) officers armed with sound-level meters and empowered to issue on-the-spot €250 fines. Repeat offenders could have permits suspended—an idea that makes developers bristle.

“Investors plan schedules around tight margins,” warned Sandro Chetcuti, CEO of the Malta Developers Association. “Cutting weekend hours risks pushing more Maltese youth abroad for jobs.” Chetcuti suggests quieter machinery subsidies instead. Yet even some builders are softening. “Nobody wants to pour concrete on a Sunday if the neighbour’s nonna is glaring at you,” admitted one Birkirkara site foreman, noting that voluntary Sunday-quiet pacts already exist in tight village cores like Balzan.

Political winds may favour change. Environment Minister Miriam Dalli recently floated “noise abatement zones” around schools and hospitals; Momentum’s plan would extend such protection to every household. Opposition leader Bernard Grech has promised to table a Private Member’s Bill if government stalls. Meanwhile, Local Councils—traditionally wary of antagonising big donors—are joining residents. St Julian’s council unanimously backed the petition, citing “quality of life over quarterly profits.”

Cultural observers see deeper symbolism. “Our midday break, the siesta, isn’t laziness; it’s resistance to the 24-hour grind,” said anthropologist Dr Maria Grech Ganado. “Protecting it is protecting identity.” Even foodies agree: chef Rafel Sammut cancelled plans for a Saturday pop-up kitchenette when neighbouring works rendered his open-air courtyard unusable. “You can’t pair sea-urchin ravioli with a jackhammer,” he sighed.

Momentum’s next move is a nationwide “Silent Sunday” protest on 16 June, urging citizens to bang pots at 11 a.m. for exactly 60 seconds—then enjoy three blissful hours of mandated quiet. Whether government listens or drowns them out remains to be seen. But for now, the petition is growing faster than a Gozitan farmhouse extension, and the message is clear: in Malta, lunch—and the right to chew in peace—is sacred.