‘Għalina li għadna hinn!’: How Mildred’s last balcony selfie united Malta in shared joy and sudden loss

Watch: Mildred’s last selfie of joy before death struck – a Valetta balcony that now breaks hearts island-wide

VALLETTA – In the golden hour of last Saturday, 74-year-old Mildred Pace uploaded a selfie to her WhatsApp status that has since become the most-shared image on Maltese social media this year. Smiling against the honey-coloured limestone of her Strait Street balcony, the retired lace-maker raised a glass of Kinnie to the camera and typed the caption “Għalina li għadna hawn!” – “To us who are still here!” Less than 12 hours later, a suspected heart attack in her sleep turned that toast into an island-wide eulogy.

By Monday morning the clip had been viewed more than 1.2 million times – a staggering reach in a country of 520,000 souls. Hashtags #Għalina and #MildredsBalcony trended in Maltese, English and Italian, while the band club of her native Bormla announced it will dedicate this weekend’s village festa to her memory. The phenomenon is more than viral grief; it is a mirror to the Maltese way of turning private loss into collective ritual.

“She captured what we call ferħ tal-ħajja – the joy of simply being alive,” says Fr. Anton Micallef, who celebrated Mildred’s funeral Mass at St Dominic’s in Valletta on Wednesday. “In a week when we also marked the 40th anniversary of the Karin Grech murder, Mildred’s photo reminded us that happiness and fragility share the same breath.”

From Gozo to Marsascala, the comments sections read like a roll-call of every corner of the archipelago. A fisherman in Marsaxlokk posted that he had poured a can of Cisk into the sea “so the waves could carry her laughter back to land”. At the University of Malta, sociology lecturer Dr. Lara Bezzina noted how the selfie’s framing – the spires of the Carmelite church behind her, the red-and-green balcony flowers – tapped directly into the Maltese aesthetic of the “belonging balcony”. “Our limestone terraces are theatres of daily life,” Bezzina explains. “Mildred unknowingly staged the final scene of a life lived in full view of neighbours, family and saints.”

Local businesses have responded in quintessentially Maltese fashion. The Kinnie factory in Ħamrun pledged to rename its annual summer limited-edition bottle “Ferħ ta’ Mildred”, with a portion of proceeds going to the Malta Heart Foundation. Meanwhile, the Strait Street bar beneath her flat has started serving a new cocktail – the Għalina Spritz – garnished with a twist of orange peel cut to resemble a lace pattern, a nod to Mildred’s decades at Ta’ Qali Crafts Village.

Even the island’s political sphere paused its usual sparring. Prime Minister Roberta Abela tweeted the selfie with the simple line, “Kemm aħna żgħar f’idejn il-ħajja” – “How small we are in the hands of life.” Opposition leader Bernard Grech attended the funeral, later telling NET TV that “Mildred reminded us that the nation is not statistics; it is faces on balconies”.

Perhaps the most moving tribute comes from the children of St Francis Primary, just around the corner from her flat. Year-5 teacher Maria Camilleri says pupils spent Tuesday art lesson sketching their own balconies with the caption “To us who are still here”. One drew Mildred’s empty chair and a hovering angel wearing ħobż biż-żejt earrings. The drawings will be projected onto the baroque façade of the Manoel Theatre this Saturday at dusk, accompanied by a brass-band rendition of Għanja Lil Ommi, the traditional Maltese serenade to mothers.

As the sun sets over Grand Harbour tonight, dozens of red-and-green flowerpots have already appeared on balconies across the capital. They are not official memorials; they are Maltese love letters, sent upward the way Mildred’s last toast was sent outward. In a country where every festa cannon and church bell is a reminder that life is louder than death, the silence that followed her selfie has become the loudest sound of all.

And yet the toast continues. At 7 p.m. this evening, radio stations will play Renato Micallef’s 1987 classic “Għal Dejjem” while residents step onto their balconies, raise whatever glass they have, and echo Mildred’s final words. Ferħ tal-ħajja, indeed – a joy that even death cannot swipe from a Maltese balcony.