COLONIAL FLORENCE
The city’s toponymy is full of references to the sad colonial past of fascist Italy, a legacy of a ragged imperialism that must not be hidden by the cliché of “Italians are good people”.
We are at the Convent of San Francesco in Fiesole. On a clear day like this, gazing down from above, Florence appears distant and silent. A group of American students takes advantage of the steps to sip prosecco, poured generously into simple plastic cups. Looking out over the panorama—and imagining how these tourists might perceive it—it’s easy to fall into the allure of age-old stereotypes, clichés that, despite their overuse, never truly disappear. In a place this beautiful, after all, it seems inevitable that only the stereotype of Italians as warm, hospitable, and good-natured could apply…
Yet, turning our backs on Florence and looking inside the convent, we are immediately drawn to a large stele at the entrance of the 15th-century cloister. It instantly confronts us with an uncomfortable, thorny memory—one that is difficult both to process and to recount. It commemorates a supposed historical continuity between the missionaries of the 15th century, who set out from this very place for Ethiopia, and the infamous fascist war of aggression in 1936, which culminated in the arrogant proclamation of an empire.
This is not the place to delve into the complexities of Italy’s colonial history, which spanned from 1882 to 1960, when Somalia—Italy’s last overseas possession—finally gained independence. However, a few key facts are worth keeping in mind. In Africa alone, Italy forcibly seized several colonies, often with the approval of Britain and France: Eritrea (1890-1947), Somalia (1890-1960), Libya (1911-1943), and Ethiopia (1936-1941). Each of these territories was subjected to prolonged and grueling military campaigns, as the troops of the Kingdom of Italy gradually pushed deeper into these lands, often facing significant resistance. Libya, for instance, took nearly twenty years to subdue, as did much of East Africa. Ethiopia, on the other hand, was conquered much more swiftly on the second attempt, thanks to modern strategies and the ruthless use of chemical weapons such as mustard gas and arsenic-loaded grenades.
Italian colonialism is a patchwork of exotic landscapes, bizarre characters, and grotesque displays of vanity. Perhaps the best way to remember it is by tracing the remnants it has left scattered across Florence, without worrying too much whether they take the form of statues, buildings, monuments, or simple inscriptions.
And so, we begin here, in Fiesole, and descend into the city to examine a series of still-visible traces—fragments of a past that is often ignored or dismissed with a shrug.
At the foot of the hill, we immediately encounter a rather enigmatic building. Just a stone’s throw from Piazza Edison, there is an imposing space with a distinctly monumental feel. A rationalist-style building stands before a roundabout. We are in Largo Luigi Braille, and that structure—adorned with grand reliefs celebrating the wealth of Italy’s colonies—is the former Istituto Agronomico per l’Oltremare.
Founded in 1904 as the Istituto Agricolo Coloniale, its purpose was to modernize agricultural practices in the African territories. After the collapse of Italy’s colonial empire, the building became an arm of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, first assisting Italian emigrants in Latin America and, in recent years, serving as a consulting center for international cooperation projects.
Continuing from here, we soon arrive at the Artemio Franchi Stadium, which before the war bore the name of fascist martyr Giovanni Berta. Beyond the Costoli municipal swimming pool, we reach Viale Malta, home to one of the neighborhood’s historic cafés: Caffè Dogali, in business since 1914.
The café’s name is a direct reference to the Battle of Dogali—one of the defining moments of Italian colonialism. Fought on January 26, 1887, during Italy’s first expansion into Eritrea, it has gone down in history as both a massacre and a martyrdom. When Ras Alula Engida launched an assault on the Italian fortress of Saati, defending it were barely 700 soldiers and two cannons. The death toll was grim on both sides: the Negus’ troops, despite their victory, lost 1,071 men, while the Italians suffered 430 casualties, who were later mythologized as the Cinquecento.
This curious blend of family memory and institutional history is mirrored in Via Dogali, a side street off Viale dei Mille, named after this very battle. From here, crossing the railway tracks at Le Cure, we soon find ourselves in an area steeped in colonial echoes.
Between Statuto and Rifredi, the street names alone provide a glimpse into the past. Many roads still bear the names of figures linked to colonialism, including: Via Cardinale Guglielmo Massaia (a missionary in Ethiopia for 35 years), Via Antonio Locatelli (a pilot who died during the 1936 campaign), Via Luigi Michelazzi (a volunteer soldier in Ethiopia, commemorated in his old school, Liceo Michelangiolo), Via Carlo Piaggia (a Lucchese explorer who sought a new life overseas in 1851), Via Carlo Del Prete (a pilot who, at age 15, fought in the Italo-Turkish War of 1912), Via Reginaldo Giuliani (a military chaplain present at Fiume, the March on Rome, and the Ethiopian campaign). At the end of Via Reginaldo Giuliani, we find the Istituto Chimico Farmaceutico Militare, originally founded in Turin but relocated to Florence in 1931. During the colonial period, its primary output was quinine, an alkaloid used to combat malaria—a major obstacle to Italy’s imperial ambitions in the Horn of Africa.
Leaving Rifredi behind, we head toward Santa Maria Novella Station and soon reach Piazza Adua. The name Adua is deeply embedded in Italian memory—used for streets, cinemas, bars, and even as a personal name. In just two syllables, it encapsulates an entire colonial mythology, albeit one rooted in a devastating military defeat.
The Battle of Adua, fought in 1896, marked the climax of Italy’s Abyssinian campaign, when Negus Menelik II decisively crushed Italian forces. In a single day, Italy lost more soldiers than in all three Wars of Independence combined—about 7,000 men.
Nearby, in Piazza dell’Unità, stands an obelisk erected in 1882 to commemorate Italian unification and, subsequently, the nation’s imperialist ambitions. Ironically, its inscriptions later celebrated Dogali, Adua, and the Italo-Turkish War—three brutal chapters of colonial conquest.
From a Franciscan monastery—where 15th-century missionaries set out to evangelize Ethiopia—to the Dominican convent in Piazza San Marco, where Giorgio La Pira, the “saintly mayor,” once dreamed of global peace and mutual respect between nations. A journey through Florence’s colonial traces reveals how deeply entangled history, memory, and identity remain. The past does not disappear; it lingers in the stones, the streets, and the very names we use every day. But that, of course, is another story.
