Victory Day in Valletta: Stunning Photos Capture Malta’s Triple Celebration of Courage and Unity

In Pictures: Victory Day Celebrations Kick Off in Valletta

The cannon boomed across Grand Harbour at sunrise, and Valletta’s honey-coloured bastions lit up in the warm glow of a thousand camera flashes. By 7 a.m., the Upper Barrakka Gardens were already humming with families waving Maltese flags, pensioners polishing miniature George Cross medals, and teenagers on tip-toe hoping for the perfect TikTok frame. Victory Day—Il-Vitorja—had officially begun, and the capital was dressed for the occasion: balconies dripped with red-and-white bunting, band marches echoed off limestone walls, and the aroma of mqaret and steaming pastizzi curled from every street kiosk.

For Malta, 8 September is more than a date on the school calendar. It commemorates three intertwined victories: the Great Siege of 1565, the 1800 capitulation of the French garrison, and the turning-point convoy of 1943 that broke the Axis stranglehold in World War II. Locals call it “a triple espresso of national pride,” and Valletta serves it strong. By mid-morning, St George’s Square was a sea of schoolchildren in starched uniforms, each clutching paper lanterns shaped like the Order’s eight-pointed cross. Their voices rose in a ragged but heartfelt rendition of L-Innu Malti before the President arrived to take the salute.

The ceremonial timeline followed a route etched into Maltese muscle memory. First, the Armed Forces of Malta marched down Republic Street to the slow beat of a drum corps dressed in scarlet tunics and white spats. Veterans from the Malta George Cross Fiftieth Anniversary Association brought up the rear, medals clinking like wind chimes, eyes fixed ahead in quiet dignity. At the Siege Bell Memorial, a two-minute silence rolled across the water; even the commuter ferries paused mid-harbour, engines cut to a whisper.

Then came the fly-past. Three Alouette helicopters buzzed the ramparts in diamond formation, followed by the roaring crescendo of an Italian Air Force Eurofighter—a nod to the historic Italian connection and a reminder that defence alliances have shaped Malta’s destiny. Phones shot skyward; a toddler on his father’s shoulders squealed, “Ċ! Ċ!”—his first attempt at “aeroplane” in Maltese.

Below the battlements, the streets turned into open-air living rooms. Long tables appeared outside the Auberge de Castille, laid with lace cloths and laden with imqaret, kannoli, and bottles of Kinnie chilling in ice buckets. “We’ve been coming since the 1970s,” said 78-year-old Salvu Zahra from Senglea, pouring coffee from a dented thermos. “My father brought me here after the war; now I bring my grandkids. Tradition is the only bridge we have to those who didn’t make it.”

The day’s emotional crescendo was the afternoon boat pilgrimage to the Santa Marija Convoy monument in Marsamxett Harbour. Families piled onto luzzus painted in jaunty blues and yellows, engines coughing to life as priests blessed the fleet with sprinkles of holy water. Against a soundtrack of church bells and seagulls, the flotilla traced the route once carved by starving supply ships in 1943. Teenagers who usually reserve their awe for Instagram filters fell silent as a wreath of white lilies slipped into the waves.

By dusk, Valletta’s streets had become a giant open-air gallery of light and sound. The National Orchestra performed a medley of wartime marches on the Tritons’ Fountain stage, while projections of historic photographs flickered across the Parliament façade: Maltese families queuing for rations, Royal Navy sailors cheering the arrival of the Ohio tanker, Queen Elizabeth II presenting the George Cross in 1942. Each image drew gasps from older spectators and curious questions from children tugging at their sleeves.

As fireworks exploded over Floriana in shimmering cascades of gold and crimson, the city felt both vast and intimate. A young couple from Gozo danced barefoot on the polished flagstones; a trio of British tourists clinked Cisk bottles with locals; an elderly woman wiped away tears as the final strains of “Għanja tal-Vitorja” faded into the night.

Victory Day is not just a history lesson in uniform. It is Valletta’s yearly reminder that resilience is woven into the very stone beneath our feet. From the cannon shot at dawn to the last spark in the sky, the celebrations stitch generations together, ensuring that tomorrow’s children will still feel the echo of 1565, 1800, and 1943 in every heartbeat of the capital.