Malta’s Letters to the Editor Turn 90: The Tiny Island’s Most Powerful Democratic Megaphone

Letters to the editor – September 28, 2025
By Hot Malta Staff

Valletta’s Sunday morning hush is usually broken only by church bells and the clatter of cafés setting out wicker chairs. Today, however, the city’s news kiosks buzzed with readers flipping straight to the back pages of the Times of Malta, where the venerable “Letters to the Editor” column turned 90 years old. In an island nation where front-page scandals fade faster than a summer tan, the letters page remains Malta’s most stubbornly democratic space—part confession box, part village bar, part parliamentary annex.

“Mela, it’s the only place my 83-year-old neighbour and my 17-year-old niece still read the same thing,” laughed Ramona Cassar, clutching a cappuccino outside Café Cordina. She had just posted her own letter—an exasperated plea for traffic-calming outside her daughter’s Gżira primary school. By noon the editor confirmed Cassar’s was one of 47 letters received since midnight, already double the daily average.

Why the surge? Two words: autumn angst. With the scholastic year freshly opened, cruise ships still disgorging daily armies into silent-city Mdina, and energy bills set to rise again in November, Maltese frustrations are fermenting faster than this year’s young wine. The letters page—uncensored beyond libel law—gives every citizen a megaphone that echoes far beyond Facebook’s algorithmic bubble.

Cultural glue
Anthropologist Dr. Maria Grech insists the section is “the last bastion of Malta’s oral tradition in print.” She points to recurring tropes: the theatrical greeting “Sir, allow me space in your esteemed columns…”, the obligatory Biblical quote from a Żejtun pensioner, the sarcastic sign-off “Name withheld on request” (everyone knows it’s the same man who once ran a ministry). “These are not rants,” Grech argues. “They’re modern għana—improvised, competitive, audience-responsive.”

Sunday’s crop did not disappoint. A St. Paul’s Bay resident compared over-development to “a national game of Jenga played with limestone blocks.” A Gozitan farmer demanded politicians “stop treating our sister island like a rural Airbnb.” And a Sliema teenager asked why buses announce “Please offer your seat to the elderly” in Maltese and English but not in sign language. By dusk, the sign-language letter had 1,200 up-votes on the Times’ digital edition—proof that a well-turned paragraph can still shame a ministry quicker than any TikTok dance.

Community impact
Within hours, Infrastructure Malta tweeted that it would “evaluate” bollards outside Cassar’s school. The Gozo Ministry invited the farmer to “an urgent stakeholder meeting” (he replied he’d attend once “stakeholder” is translated into Maltese). Even the Transport Ministry posted a clip teaching basic sign-language phrases, crediting “a perceptive young reader.”

Not everyone applauds. Blogger “Tista’ Tkun Int” complained that letters are “boomer bait” crowding out investigative journalism. Yet data from the University of Malta shows planning-permit objections quoted almost verbatim from letters pages have risen 18 % since 2020, suggesting the column quietly shapes policy.

A living archive
Librarian Paul Farrugia wheeled out leather-bound volumes dating back to 1935: letters begging for bread during the war, celebrating Mintoff’s 1971 victory, denouncing EU accession in 2003. “Same paper, same ink, same island neuroses,” Farrugia smiles. Tonight, staff will glue tomorrow’s letters into volume 91, a tactile Wikipedia of Maltese moods.

Conclusion
As the sun sets over Grand Harbour, the last kiosk copies disappear. Some letters will be forgotten by Monday; others will seed NGOs, court cases, or playground redesigns. But collectively they form a daily referendum more potent than any single election. In a country where everyone knows everyone—but still shouts across the rooftops—the letters page remains Malta’s circular village square, the one place where a pensioner in Xagħra, a gamer in Fgura, and a tourist in St. Julian’s literally share the same page. Ninety years on, the nation’s diary is still open, and the ink is still wet. Write in; Malta is listening.