Colonial Monuments: Italy’s Empire-Building in Africa

Episode Narrative

In the early 20th century, the world stood at a precipice. The aftermath of World War I reverberated across Europe, leaving nations grappling with collective trauma and upheaval. In Italy, a nation reeling from significant losses and social strife, a new ideology began to take root. The rise of Fascism under Benito Mussolini was not just about political power; it was also about resurrecting a vision of Italy that harkened back to the glory of ancient Rome. From 1923 to 1934, this ambition manifested vigorously in the landscapes of North Africa, particularly in Libya.

Mussolini aimed to reestablish Italy as a formidable colonial power, with Libya serving as the crown jewel of his imperial dreams. The construction of the Via Balbia, a monumental highway stretching over one thousand kilometers from the Tunisian border to the Egyptian frontier, illustrated this ambition perfectly. This coastal artery was not merely a road; it was a physical manifestation of military control and a route for settler colonization. The towering presence of the highway reflected Mussolini’s vision of a new Mediterranean order, binding Italy's destiny to the vast expanse of its colonial aspirations.

As the dust settled from the initial infrastructure projects, Fascist Italy turned its attention to urban planning in Libya. Fascist architects and urban planners developed new towns such as Littoria, now known as Latakia, and Villaggio Duca degli Abruzzi. These planned communities were not only practical; they were designed to project imperial modernity and Italian dominance. With rationalist architectural styles front and center, these towns became symbols of an Italy that sought to redefine itself against the backdrop of ancient imperial grandeur, creating neighborhoods that told a story of segregation and dominance. The design choices reflected Fascist principles, as European residents and indigenous peoples were segregated into distinct areas. The underlying message was clear: this was a space intended for the Italians, permanently marking the land with an indelible imprint of Ottoman and Roman legacies.

The whirlwind of Mussolini's conquests continued to shape the narrative, particularly during the Second Italo-Ethiopian War from 1935 to 1936. The Italian army marched boldly into Addis Ababa, claiming the heart of Ethiopia. In this act of imperial aggression, the city was not just taken; it was transformed. The Fascist regime initiated an ambitious plan to redesign the urban landscape, weaving monumental architecture inspired by Roman imperial models into the very fabric of the city. These grand structures were intended to reflect not just power but a vision of Italian supremacy — a vision that aimed to erase Ethiopia’s own history and identity in favor of a colonial narrative that mirrored Rome’s own aspirations.

The conquest was punctuated by the controversial transportation of the Obelisk of Axum in 1937 from Ethiopia to Rome. This ancient monument symbolized the glory of a once-great civilization, yet, under Mussolini’s regime, it became a trophy — a glaring reminder of imperial conquest. Displayed prominently in Rome’s EUR district, the obelisk embodied Mussolini’s ambition for a "Third Rome," a stark and unsettling confluence of ancient glory, Fascist ideology, and the brutal reality of colonial dispossession.

As the 1930s progressed, the internal landscape of Italy remained tumultuous, shaped by the ghost of the recent pandemic and the fallout of the Great War. The tragic deaths of approximately 500,000 Italians due to the influenza pandemic created an atmosphere ripe for the rise of radical nationalistic fervor. The socio-economic turmoil was the seedbed from which Fascism sprouted, positioning imperial expansion as not merely a pursuit of pride but as a narrative of salvation for a beleaguered nation.

Fascist ideology brought with it a rigorous system of racial hierarchies, and Italy’s colonial policies were steeped in notions of white supremacy. The segregation laws enforced in the 1920s and continuing into the 1940s revealed a systematic attempt to keep Italians distinct from indigenous peoples, severing potential connections and interactions that could foster a more integrated society. Strict regulations governed residence, social interaction, and labor, perpetuating a culture of division that mirrored the imperial ethos of control.

By 1936, with the proclamation of the Italian Empire following the conquest of Ethiopia, Mussolini unleashed a wave of propaganda that emphasized the regime’s so-called civilizing mission. The narrative presented Italian rule as benevolent and modernizing, dressed in the garb of progress while concealing the oppressive realities faced by the colonized. The portrayal of Italy as a harbinger of enlightenment stood in stark contrast to the brutality inflicted upon Ethiopian citizens, who experienced forced labor, widespread violence, and cultural suppression under Fascist rule. The juxtaposition left a lingering question: who benefited from this supposed civilizing mission, and at what cost?

As the decade unfolded, a complex web of ambitions intertwined. Fascist colonial projects were not isolated from domestic political goals; rather, they served as crucial tools for bolstering national pride. Mussolini's regime utilized imperial expansion to divert attention from internal problems. In the midst of a nation wrestling with economic inequality and political unrest, the splendor of colonial achievements masked deeper vulnerabilities. The narrative of empire became a lifebuoy, allowing the regime to legitimize its hold over power.

The year 1940 marked a critical alliance among fascist powers, as Italy signed the Tripartite Pact with Germany and Japan, further aligning its destiny with those of militaristic ambitions. Italy's colonial pursuits in Africa began to fit into a broader vision — a grim tapestry of global domination that extended beyond its borders. The echoes of Italy's imperial ambitions would travel, touching European nations and influencing racial and social exclusion policies that found their way to Nazi Germany.

Throughout the 1930s and into the 1940s, the landscape of Italy’s colonial ambitions took form through architecture and urban planning that wed modernist styles with extravagant, romantic symbolism. The buildings constructed in Libya and Ethiopia told a story: they presented an image of permanence meant to signify the unyielding presence of Italian rule. Streets lined with colonial monuments stood as a physical testament to an empire that sought to claim not merely land, but also history itself.

Yet this narrative was not just confined to quaint corners of distant lands. Daily life in these colonies was marked by the oppressive reality of segregation. Indigenous peoples lived under a shadow of forced labor and constrained political rights. Their cultural expressions, suppressed, were met with an unrelenting assault on identity as the Fascist regime sought to erase the uniqueness of the colonized in favor of a mono-cultural narrative that glorified Italian superiority.

By the late 1930s, the use of antiquity and imperial symbolism came to permeate the very fabric of not just Italy, but also the broader European fascist movements. The ideological underpinnings of Mussolini’s regime resonated with like-minded leaders across borders, reinforcing a shared narrative of national rebirth that echoed the themes of imperial destiny.

However, the winds of change were gathering strength on the horizon. The fate of Italian imperial ambitions would shift dramatically during the tumultuous years between 1943 and 1945. The collapse of Fascism and the subsequent Allied liberation of African colonies heralded the end of an era — of conquest, of brutality, of grandiose claims that had too often masked the suffering of the oppressed. Yet, even as the physical structures built during this time may have decayed or been repurposed, their legacies persist.

Today, the monuments of Italy's colonial past continue to provoke discussion and reflection. They stand not merely as relics of a bygone era but as contested symbols of a violent imperial history. The echoes of colonialism resound in the collective memory, inviting us to confront the complexities of identity, power, and the narratives that shape our understanding of the past. In the end, what remains is a poignant question for every generation: How do we reckon with the legacies of empires that were built on the vast and often tragic stories of human lives? As we navigate this challenging terrain, we are reminded that history is never merely a record of facts; it is a mirror reflecting our shared humanity and the responsibility we bear to learn from it.