Jerma Palace Ruins Split Marsascala: Luxury Flats or Public Park?

Marsascala’s skyline has been dominated by the skeletal silhouette of the Jerma Palace Hotel since 2007, the year the five-star resort closed its doors for good. Once a by-word for 1980s glitz—think penthouse suites, a casino where tuxedos outnumbered T-shirts, and wedding receptions that spilled confetti onto the seafront promenade—the building is now a 12-storey concrete carcass wrapped in scaffolding netting that flaps like a surrender flag in the winter sirocco.

For 16 years the question “What shall we do with the Jerma?” has been the seaside town’s equivalent of a national pastime, argued over pastizzi in the village square, on Facebook groups with names like “Marsascala Memories”, and in every electoral campaign since Lawrence Gonzi was prime minister. Last week the government finally published a new outline permit: 280 luxury apartments, a 120-room hotel, and 5,000 m² of commercial space, all stitched into the existing frame. Within hours, a petition titled “Save Our Skyline” hit 4,000 signatures; a counter-petition, “Just Build It Already”, gathered 2,500. The battle lines, once again, are drawn between those who want the site restored to its former grandeur and those who’d rather see it razed to the ground.

Older residents remember the Jerma as the place that put Marsascala on the map. “Before the hotel we were just a fishing hamlet with a pizza kiosk,” says 72-year-old Toni “il-Bosk” Borg, who sold ice creams from a van parked outside the entrance every summer from 1982 to 2005. “Suddenly we had German tour buses, Japanese photographers, even a Miss Malta swimsuit round by the pool.” The payroll peaked at 400 staff—cooks from Żejtun, chambermaids from Għaxaq, security guards who could spot a fake Rolex at 50 metres. When the doors shut overnight after a Libyan-backed investment deal collapsed, unemployment in the south-east ticked up two points overnight.

Yet nostalgia is only half the story. Teenagers who grew up in the shadow of the ruin have turned its hollow corridors into an unofficial adventure park. YouTube is littered with drone clips titled “URBEX Malta – Jerma Ghost Hotel”, shot at golden hour to a synth-wave soundtrack. Graffiti on the ninth floor reads “This is our castle” in looping Maltese. “We learned to smoke, to kiss, to argue about politics up there,” says 19-year-old student Davina Cassar. “Knocking it down feels like someone wants to delete our childhood.”

Environmentalists see things differently. BirdLife Malta warns the proposed development will add 1,200 new car movements a day along the already grid-locked Triq iz-Zonqor. The 5,000 m² of retail, they argue, will sound the death knell for family-run grocers like Grech’s Mini-Mark, whose owner, 58-year-old Marlene Grech, has stacked shelves since 1987. “I can’t compete with a waterfront Zara,” she shrugs, handing a loaf of Maltese bread to a regular. Architect Edward Mintoff, president of local NGO Flimkien għal Ambjent Aħjar, goes further: “The Jerma footprint sits on reclaimed land barely two metres above sea level. Climate projections show 30 cm of sea-level rise by 2050. We’re literally building tomorrow’s flood plain.”

Mayor Mario Calleja treads a cautious line. “We need rateable income to keep the village band club and the football nursery alive,” he tells Hot Malta over espresso at Café du Brazil. “But we also need breathable public space.” Calleja is pushing for a 10,000 m² public park on the peninsula tip, a quid pro quo he hopes will persuade protesters. Government sources hint that a portion of the VAT windfall—estimated at €15 million—could fund a new Marsascala health clinic, a promise reminiscent of the 2015 American University of Malta land swap that still rankles in nearby Birżebbuġa.

As the consultation period ticks down to 30 June, the debate has spilled into the festa season. Last Sunday, the St Nicholas band club marched past the Jerma site playing the hymn “Sultana tal-Mużika”, its brass notes echoing off broken glass. Some residents clapped; others held placards shaped like yellow cranes. Whether the next generation will remember the building as a palace, a playground, or a cautionary tale remains unwritten. What is certain is that Marsascala will keep arguing, because the Jerma is more than real estate—it is the mirror in which a changing town sees itself.