My Vanishing Dot—Malta
Malta—so much has been written about this island. But I’m not here to write another tourist guide or add yet another ‘sugar-coated’ opinion to the unrealistically sweet image that resides in the minds of millions.
Instead, I want to share my story.
You might ask, why Malta? I wasn’t born there—I have no Maltese connections. The answer didn’t become obvious until I had lived long enough to understand the true values of life.
I was born and grew up on the wrong side of the Iron Curtain, and anyone who managed to cross it was seen as a moon-lander. A good friend of my dad travelled to Malta in 1978. He visited us after his trip and talked about Malta all day. He showed me a photograph of himself with a few people in an ancient-looking boat, cutting through the rough waters of the Grand Harbour of Valletta. But what etched itself into my mind wasn’t the boat. It was the dark silhouette of fort walls and a watchtower. I believe it was Fort St Angelo.
I couldn’t sleep that night. Buried under a heavy blanket, my then-hairy head tucked in, torch in hand, I searched for that mysterious island in my favourite atlas. I found a microscopic dot on page 46, Western Europe. Then again on page 75, scaled at one to a million—still too small. I needed a bigger map.
The next morning, I ran to the local children’s library. The librarian’s eyes doubled in size when I asked for the largest map of Malta. She removed her glasses and looked at me.
“Where is this place?” she asked.
“Below Sicily.” I showed her my atlas, pointing to Malta. “See? This dot here.”
She put her glasses back on and examined page 46. Then she sighed and told me they didn’t have maps in the children’s section.
“What about the bigger kids’ section?” I asked, explaining that I needed to see the fort and a bell-shaped thing with tiny slits in it—my best attempt at describing a watchtower.
“Let’s find out.” She smiled and took my hand. A few more atlases, a few slightly bigger dots, but nothing that could satisfy my burning curiosity. I was both angry and intrigued. No wonder—I had fallen in love with that mysterious dot, and it filled my seven-year-old heart to the brim.
My life was a sequence of turbulent events, keeping me from travelling for a long time. When the chance finally came, the destination was obvious: my tiny dot, Malta. I read that the best time to visit was in September or May, when it wasn’t as hellishly hot as July. Which is exactly why I went in July—I like hellish flames; I was born on the hottest day of July.
I first came to Malta in 2007, fulfilling the dream my seven-year-old self had planted. I was overwhelmed by its simple beauty and unusual everything. I reacted like someone who’d stumbled upon a mountain of gold sand and wanted to take it all. I frantically stuffed my pockets with this precious powder, like my seven-year-old self—Malta was pouring into me like water gushing from a 100-inch pipe under black hole pressure.
That first evening, I saw people congregating on Sliema’s rocky shores; so many that you couldn’t see the rock they were sitting on. That sight brought back childhood memories of similar scenes—so distant they barely seemed real.
The next morning, I took a ferry to Valletta. I scanned and absorbed every watchtower, square, street, building, door, and tree of that magnificent city. Overwhelmed by emotion, I sat on the steps leading to Victoria Gate and cried.
On my last day in Malta I discovered Boat Street—a path carved into the rock, flanked by the towering walls of St Elmo on one side and a rugged rock wall on the other. It felt as if I’d been teleported back in time and to a different dimension. I walked slowly, savouring every step, my brain making up memories for the seven-year-old me. My bare feet became the gateway through which this land’s burning soul seeped into my heart.
Then I saw Sliema seafront—crushed by the ruthless cogs of greed and hatred, and cloaked in the ugliness of modern, so-called ‘architecture’.
In an instant, my euphoria was splattered like an insect on the windscreen of a rushing multi-tonne railway engine. I had been so preoccupied with filling my pockets with gold sand that I’d failed to open my eyes. I wanted to see Sliema’s real face, its true charm, but I had run out of time—my annual leave was about to kick the bucket.
I returned to Ireland, missing Malta. I knew there was more there than met the eye. I had a hunch about beauty buried under tonnes of concrete and greed. I promised myself—and my seven-year-old self—that I’d return. It took ten years before my finances aligned with my health, allowing me to keep my promise.
It was February, and there were no tourists. Ten years on, I still knew every turn, street, and building in Valletta. I went straight to Boat Street. My fingers ran along the rocks’ ragged, gritty skin—they remembered that soothing feel. My eyes were hungry for the image of rocks crushing the sea into white foam. My lungs breathed in the air they had missed for a decade.
Nothing had changed on Boat Street. Well, almost nothing—the new St Elmo Bridge now spanned the mouth of the Grand Harbour, linking the foreshore of Fort St Elmo to the breakwater. I looked at Sliema—the gritty cogs of greed and hatred hadn’t been idle. Like plaque eating away at teeth, they had been mangling Sliema for another decade.
But Sliema was only the tip of the iceberg.
I kept returning to Malta. I walked many streets of the severely damaged island, covering 12–18 kilometres a day, every day, on foot. Maimed Sliema, followed by Gżira, Marsa, Buġibba, Fgura, Gozo, and beyond. And, of course, magnificent Valletta—beautiful, but turned into an amusement park with its pathetic fun train.
In so many places, I struggled to find its original spirit. In some, it had been levelled with the ground and buried under hotels. In others, it lingered—fading, but not yet gone. But the erosion was spreading. Further and further, deeper and deeper. Lonely trees were being replaced with forests of cranes. The native Maltese were being washed out by tidal waves of tourists. Malta’s unique, multifaceted identity was being reshaped into a theme park—a tourist playground.
Brick by brick, stone by stone, street by street—Malta keeps losing its heritage, its true face, its soul. The planning system is nothing more than words on a glossy plaque—an organisation betraying its own policies. Though at this point, I doubt whether they even have any. Countless iconic and historic buildings have been wiped off Malta’s map—heritage sacrificed for tasteless profit. Now, the British colonial barracks at Fort Chambray in Gozo await their execution.
But it isn’t just the landscape that is crumbling—the erosion has also seeped into hearts and minds, breeding frustration, aggression, and anger.
To tourists, however, none of that seems to matter. I often ask people who have visited Malta, “What do you like about Malta?” The answer is almost always the same: “Oh… Uhh… Well… Let’s see… Oh yeah! Beaches! Yes—beaches! And… and… the food! And… and the nice people!”
“Who do you mean by ‘nice people’?”
“The staff in the hotels, shops, and restaurants.”
Well, yes, they are nice—but based on my experience, most of them aren’t Maltese. Not in the tourist spots like Sliema or St Julian’s, anyway.
I wonder—does anyone even remember the Maltese Constitution, let alone Chapter II, Article 9?
“(1) The State shall safeguard the landscape and the historical and artistic patrimony of the Nation.
(2) The State shall protect and conserve the environment and its resources for the benefit of the present and future generations…”
I also wonder—what will future generations be proud of? A polluted environment? Another soulless high-rise? Yet another hotel scarring the skyline? What will set Malta apart from the hundreds of other copy-pasted tourist destinations?
With each visit, I kept educating myself. I learned about the Maltese corruption that could leave even the Russians impressed; shameless, greedy politicians detached from the people and reality; and helpless citizens putting up with the social and cultural decay of their beloved land.
I learned about one of the bravest women to ever walk this Earth—Daphne Caruana Galizia, an investigative journalist who exposed high-level corruption and was assassinated in 2017. Years later, the case still drags on, with full justice nowhere in sight.
So, if you think corruption only steals money, you couldn’t be more wrong. Corruption robs people of hope, dignity, and soul. It robs a nation of its pride. And in return, it regurgitates anger, helplessness, and fear.
And yet, despite it all, I keep coming back to my tiny dot. But I wasn’t born there, and I’m not Maltese—so why?
Because Malta turned seven-year-old me into an adventurer. Not some faraway land—it was this tiny dot that ignited my curiosity for the unknown. Malta has lived in my soul for decades, keeping my dreams alive. Because when I had bad days as a child, and I had many of them, Malta was there for me. Because I, too, know what it’s like to have only one brand of chocolate.
And ‘Malta’ sounds damn sexy too.
I know I don’t belong to Malta, but she has always been a part of me. People often ask me, “Where are you from?” And, by the way, that’s the question I hate the most. But Malta is the only place where people ask, “Are you Maltese?” And I love that question. But I deeply hate my answer: “No, I’m not.”
I was once wandering through what was left of beautiful Sliema when I saw an elderly woman sitting on a crate in front of her house. She spoke, addressing me, but it wasn’t English—it was that beautiful, alien-sounding language: Maltese.
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Maltese,” I said.
She looked at me, frowning. “Shame on you! How come you can’t speak your own language?”
I have been an immigrant all my life and never felt part of anywhere. But at that moment, the old lady made me feel at home. I told her I regretted it, but I wasn’t Maltese. She started apologising, and then we both laughed. She invited me to sit on a crate beside her, and shared a few stories from her life.
On my late-night flight to Malta in September 2024, I sat next to a Maltese girl. We talked, and naturally, Malta was our main topic. As the plane approached the island, she saw the lights below, her eyes filling with tears.
“I’ve missed you so much, my Malta,” she said.
And at that moment, I wondered—perhaps there’s still a spark of hope for my vanishing dot.
