The morning after Santa Marija, although it's a Sunday, belongs to the ferries heading towards Cirkewwa. Last year, almost 22,000 passengers crossed on the day after the feast, most of them southbound. Mġarr harbour hums with departures while Victoria sweeps the petard fragments from its streets. The decorations sag a little, the lights hang cold, and the instruments rest in their cases. Workers return to their workplaces, offices reopen, and the August shutdown releases its grip on Malta. Gozo exhales after its loudest week and begins the quieter work of remembering it. Sunday's lingering fireworks smoke prompts a moment of conscience.

Santa Marija marks summer's high water mark, and every Gozitan feels the tide turning afterwards. The festa calendar now ebbs towards the Maria Bambina on 8 September and then falls silent. The light lowers, the summer houses close their shutters, and autumn asks its annual questions. Reflection suits this season better than any other point on the Maltese calendar. September will bring the school runs, the budget speeches and the familiar quarrels of autumn. We must answer three questions before that happens. What did the feast cost us? What did it give us? And what did it change?

Start with the ledger, because the ledger deserves honesty rather than embarrassment. A volunteer at one village fireworks factory puts a typical aerial display at around €70,000. His factory spends the entire year raising that sum before burning it in a single evening. A National Statistics Office (NSO) survey of 75 parishes counted festa spending at €12,155 per parish in 2011. That produced a national total of €1.5 million, which I consider conservative. The amount didn't include money from private donations to band clubs and fireworks factories, and this was 15 years ago. It's likely that the actual number of festas across Malta and Gozo today exceeds the reported figure. Local generosity is the foundation for the marching band, street decorations, and illuminated buildings. Add the Cathedral's own bill for the liturgies, the orchestras, the flowers and the ceremonial splendour. Every euro came from willing pockets, and UNESCO lists the festa among humanity's intangible heritage. The taxpayer now joins the ledger too, through funding schemes the 2011 survey never captured. In 2024, the government allocated €700,000 to support band clubs, fireworks factories, and decoration groups. That represents a rise of roughly 50% on the €470,000 from five years earlier. This column accuses nobody because the question concerns our intentions rather than any wrongdoers.

But, the day after the feast, one can still ask questions. Might diverting some funds to better uses harm the celebration? I argued in an earlier column for capped fireworks budgets and a charitable slice from every festa. The suggestion stands, and Santa Marija week strengthens rather than weakens it. Public money invites public questions, so the scrutiny grows more legitimate with every scheme. The state already caps its own festa grants at €5,000 per project, proving budget discipline works. A party that spends €70,000 in one night can readily donate €1000 to charity.

We should recognise that rivalry also motivates some of the spending. Villages engage in a contest of noisier salutes, more extended marches, and more vibrant displays than their neighbours. The Maltese call it pika, and it fuels generosity and pettiness in equal measure. Rivalry, not devotion, frequently funds things, and we are all aware of it. A festa honouring humility itself sits strangely atop a contest of conspicuous consumption.

The feast itself serves as the benchmark, exceeding the precision of any financial review. The Magnificat, scripture's sole hymn attributed to Mary, originates from the Gospel of the Assumption. God satisfies the needy with good things and dismisses the wealthy without anything. The Lady we honoured with petards left the Church one song, and it sings about the poor. When we compare our week to Her words, more difficult questions naturally arise.

Did the fireworks convert anyone, or did they merely entertain those already in the pjazza? Did a week in Our Lady's honour soften our tongues towards people who disagree with us? All these qualify: the rival band club, the rival party, and the stranger online we instinctively insult. We pray to Her daily for our needs, then deny our neighbour basic courtesy by evening. Did the feast increase our empathy toward those lacking means for the week? Somewhere behind the decorations sat the lonely, the housebound elderly and the family counting every euro. For such a family, one display's budget equals years of rent they struggle to find. These questions point at me before they point at any reader of this page.

Malta's significant challenges with 'respect' make it a matter demanding profound attention. We follow behind the same statue on Saturday and savage each other online by Monday. Political tribes trade insults with an energy that any band club rivalry will envy. The festa shows our ability to assemble in large numbers with no violence or arrests. Carrying that discipline into our arguments will honour Our Lady more than a hundred petards.

Fairness demands the other side of the ledger, because the festa gives as well as spends. It binds villages together, passes skills between generations and fills pjazzas that stand empty in winter. The Għaqda tan-nar teaches patience, chemistry and teamwork to young people throughout the year. Thousands of Maltese crossed for the feast and rested through the August industrial shutdown. Gozo's economy experienced its remarkably successful week of the summer, thanks to visitor spending at restaurants and shops. All of this deserves admiration, and no serious person proposes abolishing the festa. The question is never whether we celebrate, but what the celebration leaves behind.

Gozo has the opportunity to present a definite step forward instead of another discussion. Imagine every feast committee pledging one per cent of its budget to the parish's needy. Imagine a festa that funds a scholarship, or reopens a chapel like Santa Marta tal-Għonq. Feast committees already keep meticulous books, so adding one charitable line will only take minutes. Other parishes might adopt this practice, allowing the diocese to establish it as a permanent tradition. With minimal cost, this gesture will quietly alter lives and show more reverence to Our Lady than any salute. It would also quiet the critics who only perceive trivialities, unlike the faithful who see dedication.

The sky over Victoria glowed magnificently on the eve, as it has for generations. Yet the truest tribute to Santa Marija appears the morning after, in how we treat each other. Because Our Lady comprehends our prayers for everyday needs, the festa will guide us in listening to our neighbours. The season shifts from summer to fall, and the celebration lives on in photos and subdued accounts. After the smoke clears, the enduring elements should be more significant than the consumed ones.