Childhood landmarks - gone. Grieving the loss of meaningful places.
Few terraced houses still stand in the road where my grandparents’ house once was. It has been replaced with apartments, Inset: A young me standing in front of my grandparents’ house.
I recently dreamt I was walking through my grandparents' house in Paceville.
It felt so real: The white traditional Maltese wooden door behind which there was the antiporta - an inner wooden-framed door with glass panes and a low handle. As a child I loved that low handle because it was “my size”. I’d imagine that the space between the two doors was my little house.
Behind the two doors there was the hallway with the traditional Maltese tile or maduma. Each room had its own hypnotizing tile pattern which I used to gaze at intensely - and imagine faces or make out patterns.
I could describe every inch of the house in detail: the doors and the louvred windows. The rounded, white, painted steps we used to slide down, and the black railings we would walk up from the outside.
“I think this dream was a symptom of how I have been feeling over the years. And how I know many people feel: like so many of my childhood landmarks have been wiped out and all that is left are the ghosts – the memories. I really want to talk about these feelings.”
I even remember the smells. Like the smell of the white plastic paint on the apertures. The smell of the room where my great-aunt lived. The smell of the tea we were allowed to drink from the saucer... and of the vermouth we’d get on special occasions in tiny “cute” glasses that – to me at the time – looked like mini wine glasses.
In my dream, I could smell the white paint on the doors. It was so, so real.
But the dream, took a twist.
After I walked through the familiar rooms into the courtyard near the brown kitchen – something changed. When I stepped back into the house from the courtyard, I found a house filled with unfamiliar people and modern furniture. I walked past the strangers, through the house and into the road – which turned out to be different from the road I walked in from.
In my dream, I cried my way home.
I think this dream was a symptom of how I have been feeling over the years. And how I know many people feel: like so many of my childhood landmarks have been wiped out and all that is left are the ghosts – the memories. I really want to talk about these feelings.
Never-ending changes
Both my grandparents’ houses no longer exist and have been transformed into apartment blocks. This, of course, happened following the loss of those dearest grandparents who I also remember in so much detail and with so much warmth.
It’s tough to see such a special chapter of your life close. And the demolition of their home – where so many special Sunday lunches, Christmas celebrations, confetti-throwing festa gatherings and other family events took place - is pure painful.
Then the changes continued. The road I lived in when I was a child, and its surroundings, are completely different now. There is no more Queens Store – the grocer down the road.
Part of my adolescence was shut down - like the bars where we’d hang out that included Coconut Grove and Montrose.
Lapsi View was demolished in 2022
“While I am very much rationally aware that “change happens”, “change is a part of life”, “change is the only constant” etc etc – the truth is that deep down these changes conjure up a concoction of emotions: uncomfortable, negative. There is a touch of sadness, disappointment and anger.”
And as the years passed, more and more landmarks were deleted. One of the recent ones was Lapsi View – a restaurant that I know held a special place in the heart of many Maltese.
Lately, the landscape around the home I live in started to change with the demolishing and rebuilding of houses adjacent to ours.
Not again? For weeks I had this feeling of breathlessness whenever I thought about it. Is this construction fatigue?
While I am very much rationally aware that “change happens”, “change is a part of life”, “change is the only constant” etc etc – the truth is that deep down these changes conjure up a concoction of emotions: uncomfortable, negative. There is a touch of sadness, disappointment and anger.
Making sense of feelings
Lynn Sammut, a gestalt psychotherapist and head of wellbeing services at Richmond Foundation, broke down what happens on a psychological level.
“Our environment shapes our identity. When familiar surroundings change, it can create a sense of disorientation and challenge our sense of self. Humans form strong emotional attachments to places. These places become part of our identity, our memories, and our sense of belonging. When these places change or disappear, it feels like a part of us is being altered,” she says as she adds that the loss of familiar landmarks can create a feeling of instability and uncertainty about the future.
“This transformation of familiar landscapes can evoke feelings of loss similar to the loss of a loved one. People may experience stages of grief, including denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance,” she says.
My grandparents’ house visible in the background of this photo shared by a former neighbour. Photo: Pacevillians (see note below)
So, it seems, the internal conversations I had when the house near mine was being dropped down and rebuilt – were me bargaining and trying to accept. They sounded something like this: “Why? Why? Why? I hate when people just change things. Why don’t people leave things the same? But on the other hand the world will change and it will be okay. I will get used to it. It will be fine.”
And, I guess, if I had to look at the bigger picture, the new landscape being formed today is the one my daughter will remember and the one she will get attached to.
In fact, Lynn points out: “the impact of landscape change varies based on personal experiences and attachments. For example, someone who grew up in a particular area will likely feel a stronger emotional connection than someone who recently moved there.”
Holding on to memories
Going back to my childhood landmarks, these places still exist in my mind. Sometimes, before I sleep, I walk through my parents’ old apartment – where I lived till I was 14. Or through the houses of my grandparents and remember the details.
As Lynn explains – there is a strong element of nostalgia.
“Nostalgia is a bittersweet longing for the past. It's a normal human emotion, but when triggered by landscape changes, it can be particularly intense. This is because the landscape often serves as a backdrop to significant life events and memories,” she says.
She adds that people often try to compensate for the loss of familiar places by creating new routines, forming new attachments, or finding new sources of meaning.
I guess this is what I'm doing with my home now – the surroundings of which are changing.
You’d think that, as you grow older, you sort of get used to it and take this as an inevitable part of life. But as Lynn notes, “rapid changes to the landscape can be more distressing than gradual changes as they offer less time for adjustment.”
I know that I will adjust. Many of us do.
But I still love going to places where things are exactly the same as they once were. Churches seem to be the best at doing this. Then there are other sanctuaries – places that still feel the same - like Busy Bee in Msida or, I’m told, Al Fresco in Birżebbuġa.
And to be honest, a part of me fears the day when something in these places will change. It probably will, someday. I know I will be okay.
Change is inevitable. Change can be positive.
But it’s amazing when some good things never change.
Note: For the purposes of this article I reached out to the closed Facebook group Pacevillians and asked if anyone had a photo of my grandparents’ house. We did not find one - but many shared treasured photos of the road, some of which showed a part of the home. Thank you to all.
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