On Easter Sunday, I invite you to take a walk through the senses of the season. Buckle up for a sugar-rush ride, with pastel-hued scenes set to a soundscape of bells, sombre chants, and the lingering scent of incense and almonds. A multisensory performance that weaves together colour, taste, scent, and a distinctive soundscape into one carefully curated moment.

Let's walk past shop windows, drenched in spring colours, lined with rows of glossy chocolate eggs and plump Easter bunnies. The taste of Easter is unmistakably distinct. Sugar and spice, and all things nice. But beneath this sugar-coated surface of Easter eggs, what are we really consuming? Before it was wrapped in foil and sold by the dozen, the egg carried a far older symbolism.  Long before chocolate got involved, eggs were powerful symbols of fertility and rebirth.

In pre-Christian Europe, they marked the arrival of spring. Early Christians adopted this symbolism and gave it new meaning: the egg became a metaphor for the resurrection of Christ, the sealed tomb from which life emerges. During medieval times, eggs were forbidden during Lent, making them a prized food at Easter. When the fasting ended, people celebrated by decorating and sharing them. But why chocolate eggs? That's a 19th-century innovation, when European chocolatiers realised that faith could also taste very good. Today, that meaning hasn't disappeared. It has simply been layered, commercialised and aestheticized as the branding of Easter.

Then there's the delightful Easter Bunny. Slightly more puzzling, perhaps. The rabbit, like the egg, is an ancient fertility symbol, associated with abundance and new life. The "Easter Hare" first appears in German folklore, where it was said to lay eggs for well-behaved children. German immigrants carried this tradition to America, and from there it spread globally, morphing into the chocolate-delivering bunny we know today. A strange hybrid, yes, but one that captures how traditions evolve, blending myth, commerce, and imagination.

For a more local taste, the figolla captures both tradition and commercialism. A highly calorific, dense almond pastry shaped into hearts, lambs, or fish, often topped with icing and a chocolate egg at its centre. The figolla is the seasonal treat, with an ever-inflated price tag. I came across one priced at €22 this week! But beneath the almond pastry the figolla is also a social act. Across Malta, kitchens and community spaces come alive with the ritual of making and sharing. Bake sales multiply, and recipes, often inherited, are brought back into circulation. Some of the most meaningful moments emerge from these collective efforts. Take the initiative by students who baked 260 figolli for patients at Mount Carmel Hospital, aptly titled Baking Bridges: Nourishing Minds. Here, taste becomes something more than flavour. It becomes connection, care, and solidarity.

The sight of Easter in Malta is striking, not exclusively here of course, but it is layered with meanings. The egg and the bunny may feel imported, but they coexist with deeply local expressions of religious communal expression. It is not a contradiction but a cultural negotiation. Just like in other religious celebrations, the sacred and the secular, the inherited and the global, all meet in a single season.

The week leading up to Easter Sunday is marked by a specific sights blending solemnity and spectacle. On Good Friday, towns and villages across the islands host theatrical processions. Life-sized statues depicting the Passion of Christ are carried through the streets, accompanied by some barefoot penitents and sombre brass bands. These are complemented by exhibitions of model statues displayed in local band clubs and even private homes, extending the experience beyond the streets. Together, they set the scene for a detailed retelling of Christ's Passion, inviting worshippers to reflect deeply on the suffering of Jesus.

The senses of being come into focus, too. Even the act of visiting the seven churches on Maundy Thursday carries a deeper reason. It is a ritual of movement across space, mapping devotion onto the geography of towns and villages. In doing so, it reinforces a sense of a sacred landscape, where everyday streets are transformed into part of a spiritual journey. The island itself becomes a kind of open-air sanctuary.

The soundscape of Easter, shaped by sombre band music, equally sets the emotive tone. Then comes the silence. On Good Friday, church bells fall quiet, replaced by the dull, rhythmic sound of wooden clappers, iċ-ċuqlajta. This is not merely liturgical detail; it is symbolic deprivation. The absence sharpens awareness, creating a shared atmosphere of mourning. When the bells ring freely again on Easter Sunday, the contrast is striking. There is something deeply nostalgic in the sight of statues of the Risen Christ carried at a run through cheering crowds. An eruption of sound, movement, and joy after, traditionally, days of restraint.

Ultimately, these traditions endure not because they are preserved, but because they are lived through the senses. These traditions adapt subtly over time, absorbing new influences while maintaining some of their core symbolic structure. In a rapidly changing world, they offer something increasingly rare: continuity. Not as nostalgia, but as practice, a way of situating oneself within a chain of meaning that stretches going backward and forward at once.

Easter is enacted. Body, space, sound, and taste all working together to tell a story that is as much about society as it is about faith. Rituals are not simply religious performances, they are dense social texts, layered with meanings about identity, memory, and belonging. Wishing readers a Happy Easter, spent with those who matter most, and perhaps a quiet moment over a cup of tea and a slice of figolla.

Prof. Valerie Visanich is an Associate Professor in Sociology