Malta’s tuna family grows: fourth home-grown farm joins federation, strengthening island’s bluefin legacy

Federation of Maltese Aquaculture Producers welcomes fourth bluefin tuna company
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The pens shimmer like liquid silver in the early-morning haze off Żonqor Point, but for fishermen gathered at Marsaxlokk jetty the glint means more than sunrise on water—it signals another season of l-ħasar, the traditional tuna harvest that has fed Maltese families since Phoenician times. Yesterday that horizon expanded: the Federation of Maltese Aquaculture Producers (FMAP) officially admitted Malta Tuna Farms Ltd, bringing the cooperative to four members and reinforcing the islands’ position as Europe’s second-largest bluefin producer after Croatia.

“This isn’t just corporate expansion,” insisted FMAP president David Xuereb, himself a third-generation fisherman from Marsaxlokk. “It’s four Maltese companies locking arms to protect a craft older than the stones of Ħaġar Qim.” Xuereb spoke aboard the converted luzzu *Santa Marija*, where a brass plaque still bears his grandfather’s 1952 fishing licence. Around him, deckhands threaded new turquoise rope—colour-coded for Malta Tuna Farms—through traditional wooden *kannizzati*, the same tuna traps depicted in 18th-century parish frescoes.

Local context matters. Malta’s 316 km² support only 0,04 % of EU territory yet supply roughly 12 % of all farmed Atlantic bluefin, a statistic that makes fishermen puff with pride at village band clubs. Each summer, when 400-tonne cages are towed past St. Peter’s Pool, roadside hawkers hawk ħobż biż-żejt to tourists who gawk at the floating leviathans. Restaurants from Valletta to Gozo redesign menus around *tonn tat-torrijiet*, the fatty belly cut once reserved for festa banquets. “Without tuna, August would feel like Lent,” laughs Etienne Pace, chef at Ta’ Philip in Marsaxlokk, who expects an extra 20 % supplier reliability now that the federation controls 95 % of national output.

The newcomer, Malta Tuna Farms Ltd, is no foreign conglomerate. CEO Daniela Bugeja’s surname is carved on the 1915 fishermen’s memorial outside the parish church; her father still repairs nets behind the Sunday fish market. The company began as two cages in 2018 and now owns 22, employing 42 Maltese captains, engineers and divers—half of them under 30. “We speak the same dialect, swear by the same saints,” Bugeja says, explaining why she lobbied to join FMAP rather than go it alone. Membership grants collective bargaining power for feed costs, shared veterinary protocols and a single marketing voice at Brussels negotiations.

Community impact is already visible. In Għaxaq, a former fireworks factory will reopen in October as an ice-plant co-funded by the federation, creating 15 jobs and cutting transport emissions by 18 %. At the Żejtun secondary school, FMAP has sponsored a €60,000 aquaculture stream where students rear sea bream in classroom tanks; last year 14-year-old Cesca Micallef won a national science prize for an app that predicts algal blooms. “We’re not just fattening fish, we’re fattening minds,” Xuereb jokes, though he quickly turns serious about environmental stewardship. All four farms now deploy underwater cameras originally designed for the iGaming sector, allowing real-time monitoring of dissolved oxygen—data shared openly with NGOs like Fish4Future.

Cultural symbolism runs deep. When the fleet gathers for the annual *Marija Bambina* regatta, parish priest Fr. Joe Mifsud blesses each cage with a sprig of basil dipped in Mediterranean water, echoing rituals recorded by the Knights of St. John. This year the ceremony will include Malta Tuna Farms’ new support vessel *Dorothy*, named after Bugeja’s grandmother who sold *pastizzi* to dockworkers during the 1958 strike. “Our story is stitched from these small threads,” Bugeja reflects, watching her crew hoist a flag sewn by nuns at the Marsa orphanage.

Challenges remain. Rising summer surface temperatures force farms to tow cages closer to shore, irritating swimmers at Pretty Bay. French and Spanish competitors lobby for stricter quotas, arguing Malta’s farms sit on migratory highways. But inside the federation, solidarity is the new currency. Together the four companies plan a €30 million research hub in Ċirkewwa focusing on closed-containment spawning, potentially eliminating wild-caught fingerlings within a decade.

As the sun climbs higher, Xuereb cracks open a bottle of *Kinnie* and offers a toast: “To the next generation—may they inherit both tuna and tradition.” The luzzu’s engine coughs to life, its painted eye—*l-ewwel li tara*—scanning the horizon where modern pens and Phoenician ghosts share the same blue expanse. In Malta, the future of aquaculture is not merely economic; it is a covenant between salt water and soul.