August 15th is a public holiday in Malta: the Solemnity of the Assumption of Mary. In several parishes where Mary is the patron saint, it also marks the annual festa, celebrated with great enthusiasm.
After being introduced to the festa phenomenon in Malta, I became a huge festa enthusiast. I have lost count, but I must have attended well over a hundred festi, processions and similar gatherings, complete with all the trimmings.
Some time in advance, the streets surrounding the parish church are decorated. Usually a week before the celebration, the statue of the patron saint is moved from a niche inside the church to a prominent spot, where local associations, politicians and expatriates, among others, arrange for beautiful floral displays to be placed.
On the evenings that follow, special masses are held in the church; in some towns, there are children’s processions, and the brass band, playing so-called band marches, shuffles through the streets, stopping regularly at the homes of the parish priest and other notables for a beer, after which the music slowly but surely begins to sound slightly out of tune.
The rabbit gets its last carrot.
On the eve of the festival, the translation of the relic takes place inside the church, a solemn ceremony after which the faithful are given the opportunity to kiss the relic.
Later, there is music and the setting off of fireworks mounted on poles.
The next morning, a Pontifical High Mass is held in the church, led, if one is lucky, by the archbishop himself, or otherwise by a prominent clergyman. As with the previous services, the singing is magnificent. A gifted preacher (often a member of a religious order) has been invited to deliver the sermon from the pulpit that is otherwise never used. With great emotion and pathos he delivers a stirring tribute to the church’s patron saint, frequently interrupted by applause. When he finally concludes after some forty-five minutes, he receives a standing ovation.
After Mass, a reception often follows in the handsome building of the local band club (or Philharmonic Society), usually located near the church. In some towns or villages, this is followed by a Sunday afternoon band march, which often devolves into a drunken revel accompanied by plenty of fireworks. Teenagers of both sexes often give vent to their enthusiasm for the patron saint in a manner I associate with entirely different activities, ones I shall not name here.
The celebratory lunch consists of the national dish: spaghetti with rabbit.
Late in the afternoon comes the procession, the highlight of the festivities. Amidst a barrage of fireworks and other noise, the statue is carried out of the church. Accompanied by a band from another town the procession makes a long circuit around the church. Fireworks are set off, and boxfuls of confetti are showered over the saint. Naturally, the Lourdes Hymn is sung repeatedly: ‘Ave, ave, ave Maria…’
The bearers, sturdy, strapping men, frequently pause for a drink. As the event wears on, they have to struggle increasingly hard to keep from dropping the statue.
After a few hours, the church is reached once more. The statue is turned around in front of the entrance ‘so it can see the fireworks.’ When it is finally back in place, amidst great emotion, the liturgical conclusion of the festa follows, after which the parish priest addresses the faithful with words to the effect of ‘We have never had such a good one.’
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I always enjoyed picking up the program for the festa some time in advance. I was often accompanied by my whole family, or at least some of our children, to the band parades, the transfer of the relic, the fireworks, the Pontifical High Mass, and, of course, the procession.
On August 15th, I would usually be in Hal-Għaxaq (having come from Marsaskala) when the statue left the church, then quickly hop into the car to watch the processions in Il-Gudja, Il-Qrendi, and L-Imqabba. Then came the drive to Mosta, a long one by Maltese standards, where I would usually arrive just in time to enjoy the spectacle and the enthusiasm with which the Madonna was carried back into the church.
Enthusiasm everywhere, yet slightly different in each town. I sincerely don’t agree with those who say about the festi ‘When you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all’. For me they have always been areal treat. I look back on this with a great deal of nostalgia. To be honest, however, I don’t think I could handle the intensified Maltese summer heat anymore.
The Maltese festa. I could talk about it for hours. And I often have, for instance to my students back in the day. I hope I didn’t bore them.
P.S. I have never experienced a festa on Gozo. A pity!
(Originally posted in Dutch on Facebook, 15th August 2026)