From Festa Fireworks to First-Day Jitters: Malta’s Guide to Calm Kids This September

As the last festa fireworks fade over Floriana and the August sea begins to cool, Maltese parents swap bucket-and-spade emojis for pencil-and-ruler ones. But beneath the flurry of back-to-school WhatsApp groups—bus routes, book lists, “Ħu l-uniformi tal-Ġunior?”—lurks a quieter current: children’s anxiety. This year, with inflation nudging €7 for a ħobż biż-żejt and classrooms still catching up on two pandemic-shaped gaps, the first-day jitters feel heavier than ever.

“Every August we see a 40 % spike in calls,” says Dr. Daniela Azzopardi, clinical psychologist at the government’s Child Guidance Unit in Santa Venera. “Kids worry about maths catch-up, yes, but they also ask, ‘Will my friends still like me if I wore the same shoes last year?’” In Malta, where 82 % of students attend the free state system yet brand-name backpacks are status currency, economic pressure collides with playground politics.

Local traditions can soothe or stoke the stress. On the eve of term, many parishes still hold the “Benediczione tal-Istilu”, a short prayer over pencils and copybooks. “My nanna insists we burn a bay-leaf stub in the old oil lamp so ‘il-Mulej jiftaħlek il-moħħ’,” laughs Stephanie Camilleri, mother of twins in Żabbar. “But when the kids hear the priest mention exams, they panic again.” Father Joe Borg of Birkirkara archpriory admits the ritual needs updating: “This year we’re pairing the blessing with a five-minute mindfulness bell. Even Jesus took time to breathe in the desert.”

Across the harbour, NGOs are stepping in. “Skola Calma” pop-ups—colouring corners staffed by volunteer therapists—will greet pupils at Valletta’s primary gates on 25 September. Funded by a €15,000 grant from the Malta Community Chest Fund, the initiative also trains teachers to spot anxiety ticks. “We borrowed the idea from Gozo’s festa rope courses,” explains coordinator Maria Farrugia. “If a ten-year-old can trust a stranger to hold his rope while abseiling, he can trust a teacher to hold his worries.”

Transport chaos adds another layer. With 28,000 students eligible for free school transport but only 390 leased buses, routes change yearly. “My daughter keeps checking the Tallinja app like it’s TikTok,” says Sliema dad Mark Pace. Last week’s surprise strike by three private bus companies—over delayed €5 million government subsidies—left parents scrambling, kids crying. Transport Minister Aaron Farrugia promises “100 % coverage by day one”, yet anxiety counsellors advise rehearsing the journey twice before term starts. “Familiarity lowers cortisol,” notes Azzopardi. “Even walking the route on a Sunday, counting cats or kiosks, anchors the brain.”

Food is comfort, and Maltese culinary creativity is rising to the challenge. Nutritionist Claire Cachia’s Facebook reel on “lunchbox ħobż bites” shaped like ħelwa tat-Tork has 45 k shares. “Kids feel culturally seen,” she says. “A spinach qassatat becomes a ‘Power-Up Pastizz’—same taste, less grease, zero stigma.” Meanwhile, Paola bakery “Nanna’s” is selling half-size ftira designed for small backpacks, donating 10 cents per sale to Richmond Foundation’s teen helpline.

Yet the biggest buffer may be the village itself. In Malta, the “ħbieb tal-belt” network still functions. Eight-year-old Jake from Marsaskala was terrified of moving to the bigger Żejtun primary until neighbour Mr. Cassar, a retired headmaster, invited him to feed the pigeons on the parish roof. “Mr. Cassar told me the school’s bell is just the same bronze mix as the festa band’s trombone,” Jake grins. “Now I think the bell is singing just for me.”

Experts agree: easing back-to-school anxiety is less about laminated timetables and more about weaving safety nets of people, places and rituals that feel unmistakably Maltese. So pack the new stationery, yes, but also pack a pocket-sized icon of your patron saint, a Tupperware of imqaret, and the certainty that someone—be it a bus driver who waves every morning or the greengrocer who calls you “ħanina”—will notice if you don’t show up. The bells will ring on 25 September, and the islands will inhale together: “Ejja, ejja, we got this.”