Italian Tunisians: Colonization without Colonialism

The earliest Italian presence in Tunisia dates back to the Genoese settlement on the island of Tabarka, (Arabic: Ṭbarqa) is a coastal town located in north-western Tunisia, close to the border with Algeria. Here, the Italian Lomellini family maintained a coral‑fishing concession from the 16th to the 18th century. The ruins of their fort and church still stand, silent reminders of a time long lost when Italian influence arrived not only through armies but through trade and maritime skill.

[Tarbarka island, 17th century, with a Genoese flag flying over the castle.]

By the 19th century, migration accelerated dramatically. Italians fleeing political upheaval after the 1848 revolutions found refuge in Tunis, joining earlier communities of Livornese Jews and others. Italian became a commercial lingua franca across the Maghreb, and by the early 20th century Tunisia hosted one of the largest Italian communities in North Africa. In 1911, more than 88,000 Italians lived in the country, which is remarkable because the region was under French control.

Italian Tunisians lived in a delicate balance between Italy’s ambitions and France’s protectorate. Their schools, associations, and commercial networks flourished, but they also had to navigated political tensions, especially during the rise of fascism. Italian societies, from chambers of commerce to secular clubs, became hubs of cultural identity, while anti‑fascist circles emerged in response to Mussolini’s influence.

A reecent study adds a new layer to this story. In her 2026 study 'The Italian diaspora in Tunisia: colonization without colonialism', anthropologist Gloria Frisone shows how the community developed a 'colonial mindset without a colony' [1]. It was a sense of cultural superiority and Mediterranean belonging that did not rely on formal Italian rule. Frisone’s fieldwork in La Goulette, a municipality of Tunis aand once nicknamed 'La Petite Sicile', reveals how older families still speak of Tunisia as a place they 'civilized', even as they were themselves migrants under French authority. This paradox, feeling privileged, yet being powerless, shaped their identity for generations.

A major turning point was Tunisian independence in 1956, when the long‑established Italian community suddenly found itself without the legal protections and economic privileges it had enjoyed under the French. Land reforms, nationalizations, and the closure of Italian schools created a climate of uncertainty, while France actively encouraged Italians to relocate to metropolitan France or Algeria. Many families, already navigating between French authority and Italian heritage, chose to leave before the new state consolidated its institutions. As Frisone's research shows, this exodus was not only political or economic but also generational: younger Italians increasingly sought opportunities abroad, leaving behind a community that could no longer reproduce itself socially. The size of the Italian Tunisian community dropped sharply, from more than 60,000 residents to just a few thousand within a decade. Yet its legacy remains visible in architecture, in family names, in the cafés of La Goulette, and in the cultural memory of a country shaped by centuries of Mediterranean exchange.

However, their culinary footprint proved surprisingly durable. In La Goulette pasta dishes, seafood preparations, and even certain pastries kept an unmistakable Italian accent. Tunisians still prepare makrouna (pasta with spicy tomato sauce), pasta with harissa and seafood, and oven‑baked macaroni that closely resemble Sicilian pasta al forno.

[Makrouna: Italian Tunesian pasta]

Today, there may be just a few Italian Tunisians left, but their history, and the subtle forms of 'colonization without colonialism' as described by Frisone, still remain visible. It's a shame, really, that people, who were living peacefully for centuries in a country, were forced to leave it. It's Tunesia's loss.

[1] Frisone: The Italian diaspora in Tunisia: colonization without colonialism in Africa – 2026. See here.

Romans, Lead and IQ

Ancient Romans were surrounded by lead in daily life. It was used in water pipes, cooking utensils, cosmetics, and even as a sweetener in wine (lead acetate). We now know lead is highly toxic, damaging both body and brain. Some historians have linked chronic lead exposure to erratic or brutal behaviour among certain emperors and even to the long-term decline of the Roman Empire.

However, a recent study highlights a far more widespread and invisible source of exposure: atmospheric pollution from industrial activity[1]. This pollution reached not only city dwellers but also the large rural population across the Empire and beyond. Researchers describe it as the first major pollution event driven by human industry—occurring roughly 1,500 years before the Industrial Revolution.

To measure this, scientists analysed deep Arctic ice cores from Greenland and Russia (up to 3.3 km deep), which preserve a detailed record of atmospheric pollution from 500 BC to 600 AD. The data revealed a sharp rise in lead levels starting around 15 BC and peaking until about 180 AD — precisely during the Pax Romana, Rome’s Golden Age.

The main culprit was large-scale silver mining and smelting. Romans extracted silver from lead-rich galena ore to produce coins and other goods. For every gram of silver, roughly 10,000 grams of lead were released, much of it as toxic vapour or dust into the atmosphere. Ice-core evidence suggests the Empire emitted between 3,000 and 4,200 tons of lead per year during this period, totalling over 500,000 tons across nearly 200 years.

Atmospheric modelling shows that lead concentrations in the air exceeded 1 ng/m³ across most of Europe, with peaks near mining sites (such as the massive Rio Tinto in Andalucia, Spain) reaching up to 150 ng/m³ or more.

Using modern epidemiological data on lead exposure and child brain development, researchers estimated that this airborne pollution alone raised blood lead levels in Roman children by about 2.4 µg/dl. This level is associated with an average IQ reduction of 2.5 to 3 points across the population.

While a few IQ points may seem minor for an individual, a widespread, multi-generational drop in cognitive ability across a large empire could have had significant societal consequences — affecting innovation, decision-making, and resilience.

Two modelling scenarios were tested: one assuming most pollution came from the massive Rio Tinto mines, and another distributing emissions across multiple mining regions. Both showed similar overall effects, with the strongest impact in southern Spain and noticeable exposure extending into Gaul, Britannia, and even areas beyond direct Roman control.

Context
American children in the 1970s had much higher average blood lead levels (around 15 µg/dl) from leaded gasoline and paint, linked to roughly a 9-point IQ drop[2]. Roman exposure was lower but still substantial and chronic, affecting an entire civilization during its peak.

[1] McConnell et al: Pan-European atmospheric lead pollution, enhanced blood lead levels, and cognitive decline from Roman-era mining and smelting in Environmental in Sciences in Proceeding of the National Sciences of the USA - 2024. See here.
[2] McConnell et al: Pervasive Arctic lead pollution suggests substantial growth in medieval silver production modulated by plague, climate, and conflict in Sciences in Proceeding of the National Sciences of the USA – 2019. See here.

The Imia/Kardak Dispute in the Aegean Sea

In January 1996, Greece and Turkey came dangerously close to open conflict over two small, uninhabited islets known as Imia (Greek) and Kardak (Turkish) with a total surface area of just 4 hectares. Rarely you will encounter Megali Imia ('Great Imia') or Büyük Kardak ('Great Kardak') for the largest of the twin, while Mikri Imia ('Little Imia') or Küçük Kardak ('Little Kardak') is reserved for the smallest islet.

Their lack of 'value' did not prevent a full-scale diplomatic and military escalation—largely driven by Ankara’s willingness to challenge an established status quo. As so often in Greek-Turkish relations, a minor issue was inflated into a major crisis, requiring U.S. intervention to prevent further deterioration.

Situated between the Greek island of Kalymnos and Turkey’s Bodrum peninsula, the islets became the latest flashpoint in a long-standing pattern: Greece relying on international law, and Turkey contesting it when the outcome proves inconvenient.

The Aegean Dispute
Modern tensions originate in the aftermath of the Greco-Turkish War and were formally addressed by the Treaty of Lausanne, which defined borders and obligations between the two states[1]. While Greece has largely adhered to this framework, Turkey has repeatedly sought to reinterpret or challenge aspects of it in pursuit of broader strategic aims.

The Aegean dispute centres primarily on territorial waters and continental shelf rights. Greece maintains a six nautical mile limit but, in line with the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea, retains the sovereign right to extend this to twelve nautical miles[2]. Turkey’s opposition, despite the convention reflecting widely accepted international norms, reveals the extent to which legal principles are subordinated to geopolitical concerns.

Athens has consistently emphasized that any extension would preserve freedom of navigation through the principle of "innocent passage". Nevertheless, Ankara continues to portray such a move as unacceptable, even describing it as a casus belli, which is an unusually aggressive stance in response to a lawful entitlement.

On the continental shelf, Greece argues that its islands are fully entitled to maritime zones under international law. Turkey’s preference for a median line that minimizes the effect of these islands reflects a selective reading of that same legal framework. The resulting deadlock has produced decades of tension, including Turkish exploratory activities in disputed areas and repeated but inconclusive recourse to international adjudication.

Militarization
The issue of militarization further illustrates the asymmetry in threat perception. While the Treaty of Lausanne and the Paris Peace Treaty imposed certain demilitarization obligations, Greece has argued—convincingly, in its view—that these must be understood in light of the inherent right to self-defence under the UN Charter.

Following Turkey’s 1974 intervention conquest and occupation of northern Cyprus, Greece faced a significantly altered security environment. The subsequent strengthening of Greek defences on Aegean islands was therefore less a provocation than a predictable response. Turkey’s parallel military buildup along its western coast has only reinforced Greek concerns, even as Ankara continues to frame the issue as Greek non-compliance.

Related Issues
Broader disputes over minority rights and Cyprus continue to poison bilateral relations. The Treaty of Lausanne attempted to resolve ethnic tensions through population exchanges, but lingering minority issues remain a source of mutual accusations—though Greece frequently points to Turkey’s record as the more problematic. Remember the massacre of Greeks in Smyrna (now Izmir) in 1922, when an estimated 150,000 were murdered by Turks. Remember also Turkey's version of the infamous Kristallnacht in 1955.

Cyprus, in particular, stands as a persistent reminder of the consequences of unilateral military action, further deepening Greek scepticism toward Turkish intentions in the region.

The Status of Imia/Kardak
From the Greek perspective, the legal status of Imia/Kardak is far less ambiguous than Turkey suggests. The dispute ultimately hinges on whether the islets form part of the Dodecanese. This is an issue that, based on existing treaties, appears largely settled.

Italy’s seizure of the Dodecanese in 1912 and its formal recognition in the Treaty of Lausanne included not only the main islands but also their "dependent islets". When Italy transferred the Dodecanese to Greece under the Paris Peace Treaty[3], these associated islets were understood to be included, even if not individually named, which is a common practice in treaty law.

Turkey’s argument based on geographic proximity is difficult to reconcile with Article 12 of the Lausanne Treaty, which clearly stipulates that only islands within three miles of the Turkish coast remain under Turkish sovereignty. Since Imia/Kardak lies beyond this limit, the legal implication favours Greece.

Moreover, the Italian-Turkish Agreement placed the islets on the Italian side of the boundary, reinforcing their later transfer to Greece[4]. Turkey’s dismissal of this agreement on procedural grounds appears, from the Greek viewpoint, less a legal objection than a convenient means of reopening a settled issue.

In this light, the Imia/Kardak crisis can be seen not as a genuine legal dispute, but as part of a broader pattern in which Turkey challenges established arrangements to create leverage—turning even the smallest and most inconsequential territories into instruments of geopolitical pressure.

[1] Treaty of Lausanne - 1923 (Defined modern Turkish borders; confirmed transfer of the Dodecanese to Italy and regulated sovereignty over nearby islands and minority protections).
[2] United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea - 1982 (Establishes the right of coastal states to extend territorial waters up to 12 nautical miles and defines maritime zones).
[3] Paris Peace Treaty - 1947 (Transferred the Dodecanese from Italy to Greece and imposed demilitarization obligations).
[4] Italian-Turkish Agreement - 1932 (Sought to delimit sovereignty in the southeastern Aegean. Its legal validity remains disputed by Turkey).

Protect the Mediterranean Wetlands

Wetlands? Are there wetlands in the Mediterranean, you might well ask. Yes, there certainly are.

In the Mediterranean, wetlands include lagoons and salt marshes, freshwater lakes, karstic cave systems, temporary ponds, artificial wetlands such as reservoirs, salinas, fishponds and rice paddies, small and scattered peatlands, and one of the longest rivers in the world[1].

Wetlands are critically important for biodiversity and human wellbeing, but face a range of challenges. This is especially true in the Mediterranean region, where wetlands support endemic and threatened species and remain integral to human societies, but have been severely degraded in recent decades.

Since ancient times, Mediterranean wetlands have provided food, paper (Cyperus papyrus), water, building materials, and other ecosystem services that contribute to human wellbeing. Wetlands also offer at least some protection against floods and other extreme weather events.

[Alexandria, Egypt]

People just don't understand the importance of wetlands any more. Rampant building of hotels and other urban structures have been a constant attack on these wetlands. The Mediterranean lost approximately 50% of its natural wetland surface area over the twentieth century[2].

Historically, Mediterranean wetlands have been drained or highly sanitised for agricultural use, and development of tourist areas. Add to that the pollution of oil spills, discarded plastic, poor wastewater treatment infrastructure, and you have a perfect storm. Desertification of the Mediterranean is progressing at an alarming pace[3].

Protection of Mediterranean wetlands is vital for future generations.

[1] Balbo et al: Mediterranean wetlands: archaeology, ecology, and sustainability: Mediterranean wetlands in WIREs Water – 2017
[2] Perennou et al: Existing areas and past changes of wetland extent in the Mediterranean region: an overview in Ecologia Mediterrannea - 2012. See here.
[3] Kam, Muro: The increasing threat of desertification to Europe - brief, Institute for European Environmental Policy – 2025. See here.

The Lost Walls of Thessaloniki

In its heydays, Thessaloniki (Θεσσαλονίκη) was a major port and strategic centre in the Byzantine Empire. It is also known in Greek as i Symprotévousa or Συμпρωτεύουσα ('the co-capital'), a reference to its historical status as the 'co-reigning' city of the Byzantine Empire alongside Constantinople (modern day Istanbul).

The Byzantine sea walls were a crucial part of Thessaloniki's extensive fortifications, originally constructed and periodically reinforced from the 4th century AD onwards, particularly under Roman emperors like Theodosius I (379-395). The walls were vital for the protection of the city from naval attacks and pirate raids coming from the Thermaic Gulf, located at the northwest corner of the Aegean Sea.

Over the centuries, they have witnessed countless sieges, and played a key role in the city's defence against various invaders, including Slavs, Saracens, Normans, and ultimately the Ottoman Turks, who captured the city in 1430 AD.

An old photo (see above) of these 4th Century AD, Byzantine sea walls of Thessaloniki, taken in 1860, is an incredibly rare and historically invaluable document. It captures a significant architectural feature of the city that no longer exists, offering a direct visual link to its Ottoman-era appearance before its modern transformation.

The fact that the photo was taken in 1860 places it firmly in the late Ottoman period. By this time, Thessaloniki (then known as Salonica) was a bustling, cosmopolitan city within the Ottoman Empire. The decision by the Ottoman authorities to demolish these ancient sea walls was part of a broader restructuring of Thessaloniki's urban fabric in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. This initiative aimed to modernize the city, improve sanitation, facilitate trade, and accommodate its growing population.

[Modern Thessaloniki]

The removal of the walls created space for the creation of wider boulevards, new quays, and public spaces, aligning the city more with European urban planning trends. While these modernizations brought new infrastructure, they also resulted in the loss of significant historical landmarks.

A photograph from 1860 would therefore depict the walls in their late-stage existence, perhaps showing clear signs of its age, but still standing as a testament to Thessaloniki's Byzantine past, before they were dismantled to make way for the city's future.

Did Egyptian Goddess Nut Depict the Milky Way?

Ancient Egyptian civilization kept a wary eye on the heavens and the celestial bodies that moved in it. While their reverence for the Sun, Moon, and planets is well-documented, the Milky Way’s name and role in ancient Egyptian culture remain unclear.

One suggestion is that the Milky Way may have been a celestial depiction of the sky goddess Nut. A scientific article tries to combine astronomical simulations of the ancient Egyptian night sky with primary Egyptian sources to map the goddess Nut onto the Milky Way[1]. With her head and groin firmly associated by primary texts with the western and eastern horizons, respectively, the author argues that the summer and winter orientations of the Milky Way could be construed as figurative markers of Nut’s torso (or backbone) and her arms, respectively.

Drawing upon a diverse array of ancient Egyptian texts such as the Pyramid Texts, Coffin Texts, and the Book of Nut, alongside advanced astronomical simulations, Or Graur, the author, presents a compelling argument that Nut, the celestial goddess of the sky, stars, and the universe, served indeed as a symbolic representation of the Milky Way.

Nut, often depicted as a star-adorned woman arching over her brother Geb, the earth god, played a pivotal role in Egyptian cosmology. She safeguarded the earth from the encroaching void and orchestrated the solar cycle, symbolically swallowing the Sun at dusk and giving birth to it at dawn. Nut also has an important role in guiding the departed souls to the afterlife and she is associated with annual bird migrations.

Or then tried to test his assumption by examining Nut's visual depictions on ancient Egyptian coffins[2]. He assembled a catalogue of 555 coffin elements, which included 118 cosmological vignettes from the 21st|22nd Dynasties. He discovered that the cosmological vignette on the outer coffin of Nesitaudjatakhet bears a unique feature: a thick, undulating black curve that bisects Nut's star-studded body and recalls the Great Rift that cleaves the Milky Way in two.

He argues that the undulating curve on Nut's body is the first visual representation of the Milky Way identified in the Egyptian archaeological record. However, though Nut and the Milky Way are linked, they are not synonymous. Instead of acting as a representation of Nut, the Milky Way is one more celestial phenomenon that, like the Sun and the stars, is associated with Nut in her role as the sky.

[1] Graur: The ancient Egyptian personification of the Milky Way as the Sky-Goddess Nut: an astronomical and cross-cultural analysis in Journal of Astronomical History and Heritage – 2024
[2] Graur: The ancient Egyptian cosmological vignette: first visual evidence of the Milky Way and trends in coffin depictions of the sky goddess Nut in Journal of Astronomical History and Heritage – 2025

Ancient Moroccan civilisation (partly) rewrites Mediterranean history

The Maghreb (al-Maghrib means 'The place where the sun sets') is possibly better known as Northwest Africa. Archaeologists in Morocco have discovered the earliest known farming society in northwest Africa – a finding that reshapes our understanding of Mediterranean history[1].

While the Maghreb’s importance during the Iron Age and Islamic era is well known, there is a significant gap in knowledge about its archaeology between 4,000BC and 1,000BC.

Archaeologists, excavating the Oued Beht site, found indications of the presence of a large farming settlement in the region, 'similar in size to Early Bronze Age Troy', which is probably a bit of an exaggeration.

“This is currently the earliest and largest agricultural complex in Africa beyond the Nile corridor,” the researchers claimed in a study published in the journal Antiquity.

Oued Beht first came to attention in the 1930s, when building work by the French colonial regime revealed a large number of polished stone axes and grinding artefacts.

In their latest fieldwork, archaeologists discovered remains of domesticated plants and animals, as well as pottery dating to the late Stone Age.

“The concentration of pottery and lithics at Oued Beht is of a size unprecedented at this date on the African continent outside the Nile corridor and its immediate vicinity and is also exceptional in Mediterranean terms,” they noted. Samples, derived from deep storage pits, revealed dates between 3,400 and 2,900 BC.

These storage pits are very alike to those found on the other side of the Strait of Gibraltar in southern Iberia[2]. At the Iberian sites, archaeologists had found ivory and ostrich eggs, pointing to an African connection.

All of this indicates, archaeologists said, that the Maghreb was instrumental in shaping the western Mediterranean during the fourth millennium BC.

[Neolithic pottery from Oued Beht]

Scientists think this community made substantial contributions to the shaping of the early social world. “Oued Beht and the northwest Maghreb will henceforth occupy an integral and profoundly revisionary place in the later prehistory of the Mediterranean.”

They proposed that this phase of activity at Oued Beht be referred to as a regional Final Neolithic, thereby filling one of the hitherto most obscure phases of Maghrebian prehistory.

[1] Broodbank et al: Oued Beht, Morocco: a complex early farming society in north-west Africa and its implications for western Mediterranean interaction during later prehistory in Antiquity - 2024. See here.
[2] Armenteros-Lojo, Jiménez-Jáimez: Massive prehistoric pit sites in Southern Iberia: Challenges, opportunities and lessons learned in Oxford Journal of Archaeology - 2023. See here.