Malta’s Letters to the Editor Ignite National Debate: Ferries, Festas and Fido-Friendly Beaches

Letters to the editor – September 10, 2025
By Hot Malta Staff

Valletta’s morning light had barely dried the overnight drizzle when the Times of Malta’s letters page began lighting up phones across the archipelago. By 08:00, “#Letters10Sept” was trending locally on TikTok—yes, even grandmothers in Għarb are on TikTok now—because today’s crop of reader mail felt less like polite opinion and more like a national pulse check. From Gozo ferry rage to fears of over-tourism in Marsaxlokk, the page distilled the island’s preoccupations into 200-word grenades, proving once again that Malta’s most democratic space might still be newsprint.

Leading the charge was 27-year-old Żabbar teacher Ramona Pace, whose open letter to Transport Malta went viral before the first coffee break. “We are ferrying our patience, not just our cars,” she wrote, describing Monday’s 90-minute queue at Ċirkewwa that made her miss her nanna’s 80th birthday in Xagħra. Within minutes, commuters flooded the comments with dash-cam footage of handwritten “VIP” passes flashed on windscreens—allegedly sold for €20 by a man in a high-vis vest. By noon, Minister for Gozo Clint Camilleri had promised “an urgent internal review,” and a Facebook group calling for a citizen’s ferry audit swelled to 14,000 members. Ramona’s letter did what opposition MPs have struggled to achieve: force a ministerial statement before lunch.

Switching tone, retired restaurateur Ċensu Borg from Marsaxlokk penned a lyrical lament over the village’s “fishy Disneyland” makeover. “Our luzzus bob like museum pieces while stag parties in banana boats drown the call of the gulls,” he mourned, urging a cap on daily cruise-liner visitors. His prose—equal parts poetry and protest—was shared by heritage NGO Flimkien għal Ambjent Aħjar, triggering an afternoon vigil where villagers lined the quay holding cardboard cut-outs of dorado. Tour operators countered that 600 local families depend on excursion ticket sales; Borg replied with a handwritten follow-up: “Prosperity is pointless if the village soul is sold by the kilo.” The exchange captured Malta’s eternal tightrope between economic survival and cultural authenticity.

Not every letter sparked confrontation. A short note from 11-year-old Sliema twins Lara and Maya Portelli asked why Malta doesn’t have a “Dog-Friendly Beach Day.” They included a crayon drawing of a labrador wearing sunglasses. By evening, Animal Rights Minister Alicia Bugeja Said had tweeted a poll: “Should we pilot a monthly paws-on-the-sand morning?” The tweet exploded among expat dog owners, and pet-shop owners already smell a marketing wet dream. Leave it to children to remind adults that politics can still wag its tail.

Yet beneath the humour runs a darker current. A anonymous letter signed “Tired of Tinnitus, Paola” described nightly illegal car races that shake apartment blocks until 03:00. The writer attached a decibel reading app screenshot registering 97 dB—comparable to a nightclub sub-woofer. Neighbours replied with their own screenshots, forming a crowdsourced map of noise hotspots. The Paola local council has now invited residents to a town-hall meeting, the first time a letters page may literally lower volume in the village.

Why do these epistles matter? Because Malta’s size amplifies every voice. When 450,000 people share two main newspapers, a letter isn’t a scream into the void; it’s a whisper in the village square that can snowball into policy. Editors say submissions have doubled since 2020, driven by pandemic frustration and the ease of smartphone photos. The result is a living archive of Maltese mood swings, searchable by village, grievance, or hashtag.

Culturally, the letters page has become our secular confessional. Where else can an 80-year-old widower from Kerċem thank the stranger who paid his supermarket shortfall, or a Ukrainian caregiver publicly praise her Maltese “second family”? These vignettes knit the community tighter than any government campaign, reminding us that the nation is still capable of collective blushing.

As the sun sets over the Grand Harbour, tonight’s kiosks will sell tomorrow’s fish, but they’ll also stock fresh ink. Someone, somewhere, is already composing tonight’s letter—maybe about the new speed-bump outside their door, or the smell of burnt plastic wafting from a neighbouring field. And by dawn, an island will read, react, and possibly rewrite its own story. In Malta, the pen isn’t just mightier than the sword; it’s faster than the ferry, louder than the exhaust, and—on days like today—strong enough to make a minister sweat before the pastizzi even cool.