Valletta Rings Again: Inside Il-Beżżul Bieżel, Malta’s New Resident-First Street Festival

Valletta’s Republic Street was already sticky with September heat when the first “beżżul” rang out. By 11:00 a.m. the traditional wooden bell—il-bieżel—hung from the Auberge de Castille balcony had been struck thirteen times, its dull thud echoing down the limestone canyon and officially opening Il-Beżżul Bieżel, the capital’s newest neighbourhood festival. Tourists fumbled for phones; locals simply smiled. After three years of pandemic-quiet feasts, the sound meant one thing: Valletta’s heart was beating in 5/4 time again.

The date, 14 September, is no accident. It sits halfway between the Nativity of Mary—il-Bambina—celebrated in eight parishes across Malta, and Independence Day on 21 September. “We wanted a bridge feast,” explains Marisa Camilleri, president of the Valletta Civic Council. “A moment when residents reclaim the city before the flag-waving crowds arrive.” In practice, that translates to a day-long programme of micro-events squeezed into the grid of narrow streets that tourists usually sprint through on their way to a selfie with Tritons.

Il-Beżżul Bieżel borrows its name from a forgotten children’s rhyme recorded by 19th-century folklorist Manuel Magri: “Beżżul, bieżel, ħarst il-għasel,” a nonsense chant sung while skipping rope. Reviving the phrase is part of a wider effort to dust off neighbourhood identity. “Valletta isn’t just museums and souvenir shops,” says 72-year-old Toni “il-Kiskis” Sant, whose family has run a shoe-repair kiosk near the old Opera House since 1958. “We had our own lullabies, our own insults. This feast is our way of saying we still remember the words.”

By midday, the side-streets had morphed into pop-up living rooms. Residents dragged sofas onto doorsteps, hung lace curtains from bamboo poles, and invited passers-by to taste improvised dishes. In Strait Street, once the navy’s playground, 83-year-old Dolores “Dudu” Farrugia served kinnie-brined rabbit from a WWII army helmet—her father’s—while recounting how the same utensil once cooked stew for British sailors. Over on Old Bakery Street, teenagers staged a rap battle in Maltese over a beat constructed entirely from sampled bell strikes. The prize: a year’s supply of ħobż biż-żejt delivered every Friday by the bakery itself.

The economic spill-over is already visible. “We sold 400 rabbit burgers by 2 p.m.,” laughs Owen Delia, whose food truck normally winters at Għadira bay. “I had to radio my cousin to bring more fenkata mix from Rabat.” Bars that usually depend on cruise-liner footfall recorded triple-digit takings before dusk. Even the humble kiosk did brisk trade in retro sweets: peppermint Mariettas, rainbow Non-Stop, and nougat bars flown in from a boutique factory in Gozo after social-media polls demanded them.

Yet the festival’s quiet triumph is social, not financial. In a city where 62 % of dwellings are either vacant or Airbnbs, Il-Beżżul Bieżel enforced a simple rule: every activity must be hosted or co-hosted by a resident. The result was a collision of worlds. A Ukrainian language teacher now living above a 17th-century palazzo taught passers-by to write “bell” in Cyrillic on chalk slates; an Ethiopian chef married teff flour with Maltese honey to create injera-qagħaq hybrids that sold out in minutes. “Valletta has always been a port, but today we felt like neighbours, not landlords,” says architect Edward Said, who opened his roof garden for candle-lit storytelling.

As night fell, the crowd drifted towards Upper Barrakka Gardens for the finale: a synchronised bell concert linking the historic bieżel to the cannon that fires daily at noon. Children counted down in Maltese, the bell rang 21 times—one for each parish—and the cannon replied with a single smoky salute. Fireworks designed by local students spelled the word “BEŻŻUL” across the Grand Harbour sky, the ż flickering like a candle.

Will the festival survive? Mayor Alfred Zammit insists funding is already earmarked for 2026, contingent on the same resident-first charter. In the meantime, the wooden bell has been left hanging, polished and padlocked, a promise that Valletta’s quieter song will be heard again. If today proved anything, it’s that when Maltese communities ring their own bell, the whole archipelago listens.