Mini Knights: How Malta’s kids are battling obesity and amnesia with foam swords

# Tiny warriors, big battles

Valletta’s Upper Barrakka Gardens usually echo with the chatter of cruise-ship day-trippers, but last Saturday the limestone arcades were taken over by 200 primary-school pupils clutching hand-painted shields and cardboard spears. They were not re-enacting the Great Siege of 1565; they were competing in Malta’s first “Mini Knights” tournament, a new initiative that turns playground energy into living history and, organisers hope, a stronger sense of identity.

The concept is simple: children aged 7-10 design their own medieval crests, learn three basic fencing moves from certified coaches, then face off in timed bouts on a foam-padded “battlefield” while narrators explain the real battles that once raged just beneath the gardens’ vantage point. What began as a PE teachers’ brainwave in Għargħur has, in only its second edition, drawn teams from 22 schools across Malta and Gozo, sponsorship from three local gaming start-ups, and a TikTok hashtag (#MaltaMiniKnights) that has already clocked 1.3 million views.

“Maltese kids grow up hearing about knights, but it’s all plastic souvenirs and video-game skins,” says Rebecca Camilleri, the 29-year-old former national fencer who founded the programme. “We wanted them to feel the weight of a shield, to understand that the armour they see in museums was worn by teenagers not much older than them.”

That emotional bridge is precisely what worries educators. A 2022 EU survey found that Maltese 10-year-olds scored lowest in Europe on “local heritage recognition”, with only 14% able to name three Grand Masters. Meanwhile, childhood obesity rates on the islands have doubled since 2010. Mini Knights tackles both problems by stealth: every participant must complete a 20-minute “heritage warm-up” where they run to historic landmarks scanning QR codes that unlock short audio dramas about the 1565 siege, the 1798 uprising against the French, and the 1942 convoy that saved Malta from starvation.

Parents are noticing the difference. “My son used to think history was ‘boring old stuff’,” laughs Charmaine Pace, watching her eight-year-old Elias parry an imaginary sword thrust. “Now he insists we visit Fort St Angelo every Sunday because ‘that’s where the real knights prayed before battle’.”

The tournament’s cultural reach extends beyond the classroom. Traditional ħobż biż-żejt stalls report a 30% spike in sales on event days; local seamstresses have found fresh demand for personalised tabards; and the Malta Philharmonic has offered to record a child-friendly version of Auber’s “The Siege of Corinth” for next year’s finals. Even the usually reserved Heritage Malta has chipped in, waiving entrance fees for any child who arrives in homemade costume on the first Sunday of each month.

Yet the initiative’s most profound impact may be social. In a country where school selection often follows parish lines, Mini Knights mixes children from state, church and independent schools in the same squad. “We allocate teams by lottery,” explains Camilleri. “A kid from St Julian’s could be wielding a foam sword alongside someone from Marsa, and they quickly realise they shout the same Maltese battle-cries.”

The government is taking notice. Education Minister Clifton Grima attended Saturday’s finals and announced a €120,000 grant to roll the programme out to every primary school by 2026. “We spend millions attracting tourists to our castles,” Grima told the crowd. “It’s time we invest in the little warriors who will defend our story tomorrow.”

As the afternoon sun glinted off the Grand Harbour, the under-9 final came down to a nail-biting 2-2 draw between “The Azure Lilies” (a mixed team from Sliema and Żabbar) and “The Golden Bees” (representing Victoria, Gozo). When the winning point was scored, the cheer could be heard as far as the Three Cities. No one checked which postcode the victors came from; they were all Maltese, and for a moment the centuries melted away.

History, it turns out, is not just something Maltese children learn from dusty textbooks. Sometimes it is something they can poke with a foam sword, wear as a cardboard helmet, and carry home in their hearts.