In the days after the car crash beneath the Pont de l’Alma in Paris, a sea of bouquets, handwritten notes and candlelit vigils spread from the gates of Kensington Palace to the pavements of the British capital. The funeral, on 6 September 1997, drew millions into London’s streets and an estimated 2.5 billion television viewers worldwide, a collective outpouring that forced Queen Elizabeth II to break with protocol and deliver a live televised address in which she spoke of Diana “as a queen and as a grandmother”. That moment, recalled by Italian commentators on the anniversary of her birth, marked a rupture in the compact between the monarchy and the public, one that still shapes the House of Windsor’s relationship with the media and its subjects.

Diana Frances Spencer was born on 1 July 1961 at Park House in Norfolk, a child of the aristocracy who would, within two decades, become one of the most photographed women on the planet. Her marriage to Prince Charles in St Paul’s Cathedral on 29 July 1981 was a global broadcast event, watched by hundreds of millions, and her subsequent motherhood—to Princes William and Harry—was deliberately staged closer to ordinary life than royal tradition had permitted. Arab-language retrospectives describe her as “the princess of hearts”, a figure who took her sons to schools, parks and hospitals, seeking to instil an empathy that cut against the emotional reserve of the institution she had joined.

That empathy became the core of her public identity. She championed causes that were then considered risky or marginal: HIV/AIDS awareness, homelessness, mental health, and the campaign against landmines. British political figures at the time, including then-Prime Minister Tony Blair, crystallised her appeal with the phrase “the people’s princess”, a label that has since been analysed as both a tribute and a burden. In Latin American commemorations of the date, her humanitarian work is listed alongside her status as a fashion icon whose wardrobe choices—from the wedding gown to the so-called “revenge dress”—continue to set auction records and inspire designers. The Italian press notes that her death rewrote the rules of engagement between the royal family and the media, making the paparazzi chase that ended in the Alma tunnel a permanent reference point in debates about press intrusion, from Meghan Markle to Kate Middleton.

Today, the Flame of Liberty near the Pont de l’Alma, originally a monument to Franco-American friendship, has been transformed by spontaneous public devotion into an unofficial memorial. Flowers and messages appear there year-round, and each anniversary of her birth or death rekindles a global pilgrimage, amplified by documentaries, social-media hashtags and fashion retrospectives. Her sons, now at the centre of the monarchy’s future, carry her influence into their own charitable work and public language, yet the question that lingers in British and international commentary is whether any figure can occupy the space she left. The flame, flickering above the underpass where she died, remains a quiet but stubborn answer: the image of Diana endures not as a relic of a finished story, but as a living, contested symbol of compassion and vulnerability inside a system built on permanence.