Sliema aparthotel to tower 10 storeys high: locals fear ‘death by a thousand cuts’

Aparthotel in Sliema to rise from seven to 10 storeys: Another slice of skyline gone?

Sliema’s skyline is about to stretch a little higher. A seven-storey block on Cathedral Street is poised to sprout three extra floors, morphing into a 10-storey aparthotel that will loom over the traditional townhouses and 1960s apartment boxes below. The Planning Authority’s draft permit, quietly published last week, has reignited the capital-area debate: how tall is too tall for a town that has already traded its seaside promenade for a canyon of glass?

Locals who still remember when “Tigné” meant army barracks rather than a luxury Point call the proposal “the last straw.” Pensioner Rita Camilleri, 78, has lived in the shadow of the site since 1963. “First they built the block next door, then the one opposite. Now they want to look straight into my kitchen,” she sighs, pointing upwards from her wrought-iron balcony. “Pretty soon we’ll need sunglasses just to see the sea.”

The developer, Tenth Floor Holdings Ltd, argues the extension will add 36 serviced units aimed at “medium-stay digital nomads,” the tech-savvy travellers Malta is courting with tax breaks and 5G. Architects’ drawings show a brushed-aluminium crown housing rooftop plunge pools and co-working lounges, the sort of amenity that fetches €150 a night on Booking.com. In the impact statement, consultants claim the extra height “respects the grain of recent high-rise permissions” along the Tigné peninsula—planning-speak for “everyone else is doing it.”

Yet Sliema’s grain was never uniform. Until the 1990s the height limit here was five floors; the original 2006 local plan nudged it to seven, triggering a gold-rush of demolition and a decade of dust. The 2015 “Tall Buildings Policy” then carved out a narrow corridor where towers of up to 32 floors could rise, but Cathedral Street sits just outside that corridor. According to NGO Flimkien għal Ambjent Aħjar, the draft permit exploits a loophole that counts serviced apartments as “residential,” dodging the stricter hotel rules. “It’s policy shopping,” says coordinator Astrid Vella. “One more step in the death by a thousand cuts for Sliema’s heritage.”

Cultural value lies not only in limestone but in lifestyle. The corner kiosk selling pastizzi, the evening passeggiata along the Ferries—both depend on a human-scale streetscape. Urban sociologist Dr Anna Spiteri warns that aparthotels, with their rapid turnover and absentee owners, erode the very social glue that made Sliema Malta’s most sought-after postcode. “When balconies become Airbnb alcoves, neighbours stop borrowing sugar,” she quips. A 2022 study she co-authored found that streets with more than 30% short-let units report 40% fewer local shop visits, accelerating the drift toward souvenir outlets and nail bars.

Traffic, inevitably, is the other flashpoint. The PA’s own transport assessment predicts an extra 85 daily car trips—optimistic maths that assumes most nomads will scoot rather than drive. Yet the same stretch of road already queues back to Balluta during rush hour, while southbound buses crawl like overheated snails. “We’re told to embrace green mobility, but the pavement outside my door is still 60cm wide,” fumes Bernard Grech, mayor of the neighbouring Gżira locality, who fears rat-running once the aparthotel opens.

Not everyone is reaching for the placards. Some shopkeepers welcome the footfall. “More guests, more coffees,” shrugs Etienne Azzopardi, manager of nearby café Mint. He admits rents are rising—“my landlord wants €2,000 a month when the lease ends”—but argues adaptation beats nostalgia. “Sliema stopped being a fishing village long before I was born.”

The PA will decide the fate of the 10-storey plan within eight weeks. Objections close on 18 July, and already 450 emails clog the case officer’s inbox. Whether the board bows to economic promise or residents’ ire, the decision will signal how Malta balances its post-pandemic tourism reboot with the everyday right to sunlight. Because once the ninth floor is poured, no amount of Facebook outrage can bring back the view Mrs Camilleri still sketches from memory—of a lower, slower, quieter Sliema that lived within its means.