The “Under Ground Valletta” sign beside an outdoor Caffe Mauro table (Barbara Noe Kennedy)
At first glance, it’s easy to miss. Only the modest sign beside Caffe Mauro’s outdoor tables hints at something more. “Underground Valletta,” it reads.
My guide, Denis Maslennikov, a licensed Maltese heritage expert, leads me around the back, where a narrow stone staircase, chipped from the earth, plunges into darkness. A chill prickles my skin.
Beneath the sun-drenched streets of Malta’s baroque capital lies a shadow world, an intricate web of tunnels and chambers carved over centuries. First built by the Knights of Malta in the 16th century to store water, these tunnels would later serve a grimmer purpose: a refuge during World War II’s relentless air raids. Never intended for visitors, this subterranean maze remained sealed for decades until 2021, when a small section opened to the public, evolving into one of Valletta’s most intriguing off-the-radar attractions.
“Follow me,” Maslennikov says, handing me a hard hat and headlamp. We descend, pausing on a dim-lit platform where a sliver of daylight still glows, our last glimpse of the surface. His flashlight sweeps across the damp walls of an old cistern pocked with graffiti. Faint outlines emerge: the phrase “War on Malta 1941,” a Neville Chamberlain caricature and a stark portrait of Hitler.
“These tunnels were used as a shelter during the bombings,” Maslennikov explains.
War on Malta graffiti in the caves (Barbara Noe Kennedy)
During the war, Malta became a vital Allied base, as well as a target. With the island enduring some of the conflict’s heaviest aerial bombardments, the Knights’ tunnels were expanded to shelter up to 38,000 civilians over the course of 2.5 years, though no more than 10,000 were here at a time.
We descend deeper into blackness. The air grows thick and musty. Wooden planks line the wet floor, and small stalactites formed from dripping water glisten above. My thoughts flicker to rats and cockroaches.
“These tunnels roughly mirror Valletta’s street grid above,” Maslennikov says. “We’re beneath St. John’s Street now.”
As we walk the echoing corridor, small, claustrophobic chambers appear on either side, where families huddled during bombings. Some salvaged patterned Maltese tiles from rubble above to lay on the floors, minimal protection against the damp. Rusted iron anchors still cling to the walls, remnants of makeshift bunkbeds or shelving.
“There was electricity, though it often failed during raids,” Maslennikov says. Carved niches for candles dot the walls, many blackened with soot, while others cradle carvings of saints. In this Catholic nation, prayer must have been constant as bombs thundered above.
I ask him if he had met anyone who had sheltered here. “A man who had been a kid here,” he says. “His most horrific memory was the paraffin powder they put on his head for lice.”
But why were the tunnels here in the first place?
As we turn onto St. Lucia Street, Maslennikov shines his flashlight upward, tracing a smaller arched outline that dates from the Knights’ time and had been expanded into the broader tunnel. “Different parts were added at different times,” he says.
Cistern (Barbara Noe Kennedy)
Malta became the headquarters of the Knights of St. John in 1530, granted to them by Holy Roman Emperor Charles V. After their dramatic victory in the Great Siege of 1565 against the Ottoman Empire, the Knights began building a new fortified capital.
“If Malta had lost,” Maslennikov says, “the history of the Mediterranean would be completely different.”
Following the siege, Valletta was declared the new capital, perched on a peninsula between two harbors, one of them the Mediterranean’s deepest. Pope Pius V sent military engineer Francesco Laparelli to design the fortress city, Europe’s first planned city, while Philip II of Spain sent funds.
But there was one major problem: “There was no source of fresh water,” Maslennikov says.
To survive, residents had to dig deep. Builders carved into Malta’s limestone to create underground cisterns to collect rainwater, repurposing excavated stone for churches, palaces and fortifications above.
I follow Maslennikov into a vast, two-story chamber, one of the original reservoirs. “It was built near St. John’s Co-Cathedral because they needed the stone,” he says. Tree roots dangle from ceiling cracks like pale fingers reaching down from the grave. “They grow 5 or 10 centimeters a day,” he adds.
The collection of rainwater alone wasn’t enough for the growing city. Eventually, the Knights turned to the freshwater springs of Rabat and Dingli in Malta’s highlands. With funds from Grand Master Alof de Wignacourt, they built an aboveground aqueduct and a network of underground galleries—an ambitious project completed in 1615 that delivered spring water directly to Valletta’s cisterns.
The result: year-round reserves, ornate fountains and a flourishing capital.
As Maslennikov leads me up the final stairs, I’m thankful to see daylight again. But my head spins with all I’ve seen—fear, faith and fortitude—all buried beneath the beauty of Valletta.
Heritage Malta organizes tours Mondays, Wednesdays and Friday; check the website for available times. Tickets cost from €10 for adults; children under 6 not allowed. This is not accessible to wheelchairs and people needing walking aids. Contact them here. Remember to wear closed, comfortable walking shoes; flip-flips, heels, and sandals will be turned away.
Woman holding a child carving in the stone of the cave (Barbara Noe Kennedy)
Editor’s Note: This article was written by a member of the local military community, not an employee of Stars and Stripes. Neither the organization nor the content is being represented by Stars and Stripes or the Department of Defense.
