Berkley Center

I like old stuff. Like, really, really old stuff. To those that know me, it hardly comes as a shock that I chose an abroad program whose itinerary consists of, “Meet at [insert archaeological site here],” every day. As a classics major, studying at the Intercollegiate Center for Classical Studies in Rome has indulged my dreams of walking amidst the monuments which have held my interest since childhood. I walk the length of the Circus Maximus to reach the bus stop at the end of a day in the Campus Martius; my lecture on the end of the Roman Republic occurred on the spot where Julius Caesar was famously stabbed.

Such experiences are supplemented with readings and questions about the archaeological evidence, literary sources, and significance of these monuments. A common theme that our class has been discussing is that of memory: how do the Romans want themselves to be remembered? How do they memorialize their own history? So far removed from their existence, we can only postulate based on patterns and our knowledge of Roman social history. While there is so much that we have seemingly endless evidence for, far more goes unanswered. New questions arise constantly. Why does the Circus Maximus remain an almost desolate field with very few structures in the middle of a busy city? How can we be sure that the sidewalk where we stood, seemingly of no particular significance, is the exact spot where Caesar died?

At times it is easier to seek answers for these questions than to dwell in the discomfort of recent history. Its tune is more personal, and it often intersects with our current political and religious identities. Since arriving in Italy, I have been shocked at how contemporary Rome is multifaceted, reflecting the effects not only of antiquity, but also Catholicism and fascism. The destruction of the ancient world often, although certainly not exclusively, comes at the hand of the Church, which sought to reuse precious materials in the buildings of magnificent basilicas and churches throughout the city. Reconciling my love for ancient architecture with the utter awe I experience each time I enter a church has forced me to wrestle with this question of memory: whose ideals are more deserving of this memorialization?

Yet, we owe much of the restoration of the city’s classical history to fascist propaganda instituted by Benito Mussolini. In his attempts to draw connections between his role as dictator and Augustus, the first Roman emperor who served as primus inter pares, “first among equals,” Mussolini began several restoration projects, particularly of the Roman Forum and the Imperial Fora. He too was selective in this process, and what stands today are reflections of the chosen memorials of a dictator whose gruesome actions on the people of Italy are still lasting. Most famously, Mussolini’s Via dei Fori Imperiali showcases the Imperial Fora at their own expense, paving over portions that now will never be excavated so that he could emphasize what was beneficial to him.

It is often said that it is the winners who write history. In Rome, who wins? Questions of memory have become so nuanced. While we grapple with righting our own wrongs in the United States, I wonder if Italy is trying to do the same. If so, can we definitively say what it means to be right or wrong when it comes to history? Far from scratching the surface of influences on the city (I haven’t even touched the Renaissance, Risorgimento, and other events of significance in Italy’s past), the examples of Catholicism and fascism serve to reveal the lasting intersections of memory. The modern built landscape of Rome reflects these political, religious, and historical ideals that both have made the city great and acknowledged the faults of its past. Rather than seeking solace among the ancient monuments I hold so dear, I will engage them and their ideals which, although destroyed and glorified again and again, have withstood the test of time.