Developers, politicians or the PA?

Who Really Runs Malta: Developers, Politicians or the PA?

It’s a question that bubbles up every time a new tower cranes its neck above Valletta’s skyline or when a pristine valley in Rabat suddenly sprouts a concrete scar: who actually calls the shots on this rock we call home—developers, politicians, or the Planning Authority (PA)?

Walk down any street in Sliema on a Saturday morning and you’ll overhear the same debate spilling out of cafés and pastizzerias. “They’re selling us off brick by brick,” says Maria, a pensioner who’s watched her sea view disappear behind a 20-storey façade. “But who is ‘they’?” I ask. She shrugs, stirring her tea. “The developers pay the politicians, the PA nods, and we’re left with dust in our lungs.”

The dance between money, power, and rubber stamps is as old as the limestone our temples are carved from. Yet in today’s Malta, the rhythm is frantic. Since 2013, more than 14,000 new residential units have been approved in an island smaller than Birkirkara-to-Mellieħa combined. That’s one unit for every 30 residents. The skyline is no longer a gentle Mediterranean silhouette; it’s a jagged graph of profit margins.

Developers argue they’re only meeting demand. “Maltese families want modern homes, tourists want boutique hotels,” insists one St Julian’s entrepreneur who recently flipped a townhouse into 18 micro-apartments. He’s not wrong—our culture prizes owning property as the ultimate social security. A 2022 Central Bank study shows 85 % of Maltese households view real estate as their safest investment. But when does meeting demand become manufacturing it?

Enter the politicians. Every election cycle, parties promise “sustainable development,” a phrase now as hollow as a Gozitan farmhouse stripped of its stones for new build façades. In 2021, the government fast-tracked a €400 million marina in Marsascala despite 3,000 resident objections. The minister at the time called it “economic regeneration.” Locals call it “a private yacht parking lot on public seabed.” The kicker? The concession runs for 65 years—longer than most voters have been alive.

Then there’s the PA, supposedly the referee. Critics say it’s more linesman, flagging only when the game’s already lost. Composed of government appointees, its decisions often read like press releases from the Chamber of Developers. Take the 2023 Qala ODZ farmhouse conversion: despite environmental NGOs presenting evidence of illegal excavation, the PA approved the project after a closed-door “technical meeting.” The chairman later joined a consultancy firm whose client list includes—surprise—the same developer.

But the plot thickens. Last month, a leaked WhatsApp chat revealed a Labour MP advising a contractor on how to word an application to “avoid resident backlash.” The message ended with a winking emoji. Public outrage lasted exactly one news cycle until the next influencer scandal diverted attention.

Still, the community isn’t rolling over. In Għaxaq, residents formed a “ħamalli għall-ambjent” (ruffians for the environment) group, using TikTok to live-stream illegal dumping sites. Their videos forced the PA to revoke three permits. In Kirkop, a 78-year-old grandmother chained herself to a bulldozer, halting a petrol station on agricultural land. The image went viral, spawning memes of “Nanna vs. the Machine.”

These micro-victories hint at a deeper shift. Young Maltese, priced out of their hometowns, are reclaiming activism as cultural heritage. “Our grandparents fought for independence from the British,” says 24-year-old Martina from Mosta. “We’re fighting for independence from concrete.”

So who runs Malta? The honest answer is all three, locked in a tangled love triangle where each swears they’re just friends with benefits. Developers bring the cash, politicians wield the pen, and the PA stamps the paperwork—while citizens foot the bill in traffic, dust, and disappearing horizons.

Until we untangle that knot, the skyline will keep rising, and our patience thinning. Because on this island, space isn’t just physical—it’s political.