Malta’s media at crossroads: How AI, SLAPPs and TikTok are reshaping island journalism

# Journalism in an uncertain age: Malta’s newsrooms navigate AI, lawsuits and a public that scrolls faster than it reads

Valletta – The telex machine that once clattered away in *Times of Malta*’s old Fleet Street newsroom has been replaced by a Slack channel ping, but the existential question hanging over Maltese journalism is louder than ever: who is willing to pay for the truth when a TikTok rumour travels faster than a court verdict?

Inside the new *Lovin Malta* open-plan office overlooking Strait Street, reporters watch real-time analytics dip and surge as a story about a Paceville club closure outperforms an investigation into hospital privatisation. “Clicks don’t always equal impact,” sighs managing editor Tim Diacono, minimising a dashboard that shows 12,000 readers for a cat-rescue video and 1,200 for a data-driven piece on surgical waiting lists. “But rent is due in euros, not civic duty.”

The island’s news ecosystem—once dominated by two dailies, a handful of weeklies and the 8 o’clock TVM bulletin—has fractured into 17 online portals, three subscription newsletters, dozens of partisan Facebook pages and at least two AI-generated “news” accounts that scrape press releases and republish them with robotic Maltese subtitles. The result is a cacophony that reaches every fishing village and expat enclave, but leaves citizens struggling to distinguish between a court reporter’s by-line and a Russian-language deepfake of Robert Abela dancing with Ursula von der Leyen.

## A small town with big leaks

Malta’s size—27 km by 14 km—magnifies journalism’s power and peril. When *The Shift* revealed that a Gozo villa linked to a minister was listed on Airbnb, the story was literally next-door knowledge: the journalist’s aunt babysat the cleaner who changed the sheets. Proximity breeds scoops, but also fear. After Daphne Caruana Galizia’s 2017 assassination, newsrooms upgraded security doors and bought cheap burner phones. One *Times* reporter keeps a “go-bag” with power bank, passport and encrypted laptop in her Żabbar flat. “We are a small town,” she says, “but the stakes are international.”

The legal battlefield is equally intimate. Strategic-lawsuit-against-public-participation (SLAPP) suits filed in London courts target Maltese freelancers who earn less per month than the price of a single QC letter. A recent €1 million claim against blogger Manuel Delia over a story on Montenegro wind-farm commissions forced him to sell his family car. Government’s 2018 anti-SLAPP law sits unused; no judge has yet ruled on its applicability. Meanwhile, the new Media Defamation Act raises the ceiling of damages to €20,000 and shortens the limitation period—hailed by supporters as modernisation, condemned by editors as “chilling”.

## The audience paradox

Yet Maltese audiences have never been hungrier for information. During the pandemic, Facebook groups like “Malta Covid Updates” attracted 140,000 members—double the *Times* print circulation at its 1990s peak. Live-streamed press conferences draw 30,000 concurrent viewers, numbers that make German regional broadcasters jealous. The catch: viewers want content free, fast and filtered. When *Newsbook* introduced a €4 monthly paywall, unique users dropped 42 % in the first week. “We’re back to banner ads,” admits editor-in-chief Saviour Balzan. “But the dentist in Sliema selling implants isn’t going to fund investigative trips to Dubai.”

Public broadcasters face their own identity crisis. TVM’s 20:00 newscast still commands living-room loyalty among over-55s, but producers privately call TikTok “the real opposition channel”. One experiment—60-second explainers on EU funds—was clipped and re-uploaded by a satire account with clown emojis, garnering triple the original views. “We’re debating whether to hire a 19-year-old meme curator,” a senior PBS editor confesses, “or stick to traditional packages and accept that we speak only to grandparents.”

## Culture as collateral

The erosion of trusted information is bleeding into cultural spaces. Village *festa* committees now live-stream band marches on Facebook, but arguments erupt in comment sections over whether the *statwa* of the patron saint was paid for with dirty money. When *Malta Today* investigated inflated contracts for Valletta’s Christmas lights, shopkeepers reported a 15 % drop in seasonal sales as tourists cited “corruption” on Reddit threads. “One story can cancel a village’s entire economy,” says Michael Briguglio, sociologist at the University of Malta. “That’s power without a safety catch.”

## Seeds of resilience

Still, innovations sprout through the limestone cracks. The non-profit *The Shift* funds cross-border investigations by selling limited-edition Daphne Caruana Galizia tote bags—1,000 cotton carriers financed a month-long project on golden-passport kickbacks. *Lovin Malta*’s “Truth Ticket” crowdfunding campaign raised €50,000 in 48 hours to defend against a libel suit, proving readers will pay when the enemy is external. At the University, MA journalism students partner with *Reuters* to fact-check Maltese TikToks; their debunking clips are re-shared by influencers who once amplified the hoaxes.

Community radio is also enjoying a quiet renaissance. *Radju Malta 2*’s lunchtime current-affairs slot invites callers to debate everything from *ta’ Qali* market rents to over-development in *Marsaskala*. Presenter Mario Xuereb says the switchboard lights up with 80-year-olds and 18-year-olds alike. “Voice conveys nuance that emojis kill,” he argues. “When you hear a hunter tear up over bird-protection laws, you can’t reduce him to a villain in 280 characters.”

## Conclusion: keeping the lighthouse lit

Journalism in Malta has always been a lighthouse built on shifting sand—small, stubborn, occasionally cracked by political storms. The beams are now sliced into a thousand smartphone flashlights, some illuminating, many blinding. Yet the essential contract remains: tell us what our cousin the contractor won’t, explain why the sea smells of diesel when no one else will, and do it before the next *festa* fireworks distract us.

Survival will hinge on hybrid business models—part reader-membership, part philanthropic grant, part micro-payments for court transcripts—and on newsrooms brave enough to cede control of distribution to platforms they distrust. Most of all, it depends on Maltese citizens recognising that when the last reporter leaves the courtroom, the only voice left narrating their island story will be whoever can afford the loudest megaphone.

In an uncertain age, certainty is a luxury Malta’s journalists can no longer promise. But as long as someone keeps asking questions—whether from a Valletta co-working space, a Gozo farmhouse or a TikTok livestream—the island’s conversation with itself will not fall silent.