The Island That no One Remembers: A Letter to Malta From Someone Who Forgot How to Hope

The Island That no One Remembers: A Letter to Malta From Someone Who Forgot How to Hope

I keep coming back to this place that nobody wants to remember. Malta. The name tastes like salt on my lips, like the salt that's been sticking to my skin since I left Torrevieja and kept walking, kept running, kept fleeing from whatever broke me but never actually left my chest.

They're saying the Queen is coming. Queen Elizabeth II, Prince Philip, leaders from fifty countries, hundreds of millions of viewers watching on TV and online. Three days. Three days of attention for an island that's spent decades being overlooked, being forgotten, being passed over for Mallorca, Cyprus, Menorca — the pretty islands everyone talks about at dinner parties while Malta sits quietly in the corner, waiting to be noticed.

I understand that feeling. Being passed over. Being forgotten. Sitting in the corner while the world chooses something brighter, something newer, something that doesn't carry the weight of all the things nobody asked about.

The weather's good here all year round. English-speaking population. Half the tourists are from the UK, but the numbers have been flat, surprisingly flat, like my heart has been flat since I stopped believing that tomorrow could be different. Eastern Europe's opening up — Bulgaria, cheaper holidays, new destinations that promise everything Malta can't promise anymore: novelty, excitement, the feeling of being somewhere that matters.

Michael Johnson from Tribune Properties says Malta's ideally situated in the Mediterranean to attract tourists from all over Europe. He says it out loud like it's a fact, like it means something. But I've been walking these streets for three weeks now, and I haven't seen anyone who looks like they've finally arrived somewhere they're supposed to be. Everyone looks temporary. Everyone looks like they're waiting to leave. Everyone looks like me.

He says the island has a strong domestic property market, doesn't rely too heavily on overseas buyers like other Mediterranean islands. He says those who do buy here play a good role in the economy overall. Good role. Like being a supporting character in someone else's story is something to be proud of.

I remember the first time I came to Malta. It was two years ago, right after everything fell apart. I needed somewhere the world wouldn't find me. Somewhere cheap enough to disappear into, quiet enough to hear my own thoughts even when those thoughts were screaming. Malta was perfect. Forgotten. Overlooked. Exactly what I needed.

But here's the thing about hiding in places nobody wants: eventually you start to believe you're the reason they don't want it.

The Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting happens every two years. Roots in the British Empire. Fifty-three members, former colonies, all gathered here in Valletta, the capital, to pretend we're still connected to something bigger than ourselves. The Queen's coming for the first time since 1992. Four previous visits. Welcoming crowds expected in similar numbers.

I stood in the square yesterday where they'll be setting up the viewing areas. Empty now. Just me and a few tourists who look as lost as I feel. The mayor's office is talking about security, about logistics, about translating free publicity into actual visitors for 2006. They're using words like "opportunity" and "marketing" and "capitalizing."

They're talking about Malta like it's a product. Like I'm a product. Like my brokenness is something that could be marketed correctly, positioned right, sold to the highest bidder if only someone knew how to phrase it properly.

Half the tourists are from the UK. Half the property buyers too. But they're trying to appeal to Canada, Australia, South Africa, New Zealand — all the countries that were once colonies, all the places that still carry the weight of empire even when they're trying to pretend they've moved on. Places where people take holidays in Europe and maybe, if Malta's lucky, they'll stop here for a few days to sample the fine hotels, hospitality, history, culture.

Sample. Like we're appetizers. Like this island, like this life, like this pain is something you taste before deciding whether to order the main course.

I asked the hotel maid yesterday why she thinks Malta gets overlooked. She's been working here for twenty years, born on the island, never left. She told me people don't choose Malta. Malta chooses them. When they're too tired to fight anymore, when they can't afford the pretty islands, when they need somewhere quiet to disappear.

She said it without judgment. Just fact. Malta chooses the ones who need to be forgotten.

I thought about that all night. Sitting on my balcony, looking out at the harbor where the Queen's ship will dock in three days. Where hundreds of millions of people will watch on TV and see leaders shaking hands, smiling for cameras, pretending that the world still makes sense.

I thought about all the people who've come here because they needed to be forgotten. The divorcees, the bankrupts, the heartbroken, the ones who lost jobs, lost loves, lost faith in themselves. The ones who chose Malta because it chose them back.

Michael Johnson says the timing's good — just before New Year when people decide where they'll go for summer holidays. Next summer's tourist could be next winter's property buyer. But only if they visit first. Only if the island takes the chance to market itself in the months ahead.

It really depends, he says.

It really depends on whether we can convince people that being forgotten has value. That there's something beautiful about places nobody's fighting to be at. Something honest about islands that don't make the top ten lists. Something real about lives that other people don't talk about at dinner parties.

I'm sitting here writing this on November 24th. Tomorrow the Queen arrives. Tomorrow three days of publicity begin. Tomorrow hundreds of millions of people will see Malta on their screens and maybe, just maybe, some of them will remember it after.

But I'm not holding my breath. I stopped holding my breath a long time ago.

The Commonwealth meeting has roots in the British Empire. Fifty-three members who were once colonies, now pretending they're equals. Fifty-three countries carrying the weight of history, coming together to pretend we've all moved on.

I get it. I do. We're all just trying to translate good free publicity into actual visitors. We're all trying to convince people that we're worth visiting, worth buying, worth remembering.

But here's what they don't tell you about islands that get overlooked: sometimes being forgotten is the only thing that keeps you alive. Sometimes the quiet places are the only places where broken people can breathe without someone asking them to fix themselves.

The Queen will come. She'll open the meeting. She'll smile for cameras next to Prince Philip, and Tony Blair, and the Prime Ministers of Canada, New Zealand, India, South Africa, Singapore, Australia. They'll all shake hands and make statements about partnership and cooperation and moving forward together.

And three days later, they'll all leave. The cameras will pack up. The publicity will fade. And Malta will be back to being Malta — good weather, English speakers, flat tourist numbers, and a whole lot of people who came here because they needed somewhere that wouldn't ask them to be okay.

I'm still here. I'll probably stay. Not because I love Malta, but because I understand it. We're both waiting for something that might never come. We're both hoping that this time, this meeting, this publicity, this chance will be enough to make us matter to someone.

But deep down, I know the truth. We don't need to matter to everyone. We just need to matter to the ones who understand what it feels like to be forgotten.

The ones who chose Malta because it chose them back. The ones who found their way here because they were too broken for the pretty islands. The ones who need somewhere quiet to disappear and heal and remember how to breathe.

Maybe that's enough. Maybe being forgotten is actually being chosen, just by the right people.

I'll be here when the Queen leaves. I'll be here when the crowds disperse. I'll be here when Malta goes back to being Malta — overlooked, forgotten, quietly waiting for the ones who need it most.

Just like me.