Benito Mussolini never visited Istanbul. He never crossed the Galata Bridge, gazed upon the Bosphorus from the terraces of Topkapı Palace, or wandered beneath the immense dome of Hagia Sophia. Yet few cities occupied such an intriguing place within Fascist Italy’s geopolitical imagination.
For Mussolini, Constantinople represented something larger than a foreign metropolis. It stood at the intersection of Roman memory, Mediterranean strategy, and imperial symbolism. It was a city that could be admired, feared, and coveted—but never possessed.
The relationship between Mussolini and Istanbul was therefore neither personal nor direct. It was historical, ideological, and profoundly shaped by the turbulent politics of the interwar Mediterranean.
Mare Nostrum and the Eastern Mediterranean
From the earliest years of his rule, Mussolini sought to revive the grandeur of ancient Rome. The Mediterranean, he proclaimed, must once again become Mare Nostrum—”Our Sea.”
This vision naturally extended eastward.
Italy already controlled the Dodecanese Islands, acquired during the Italo-Turkish War of 1911–1912. Under Fascism, Rhodes and Leros were transformed into strategic outposts and showcases of Italian power. The militarization of these islands during the 1930s brought Italian influence uncomfortably close to the Turkish mainland.
In this context, Istanbul acquired immense significance.
The Bosphorus remained one of the world’s great strategic chokepoints. Whoever controlled the straits possessed influence not only over the Eastern Mediterranean but also over access to the Black Sea and the Balkans.
Yet Mussolini never articulated territorial claims upon the city itself. Such ambitions belonged more to the realm of imperial imagination than practical politics. Istanbul was not an objective of conquest, but rather a symbol of a Roman past whose legacy Fascist Italy claimed as its own.
Italians in Pera: A Community Between Two Worlds
Levantine Barry Family in Büyükada, 1910-12 (taken from levantineheritage.com)
Long before Fascism, Italians had formed an integral part of Istanbul’s cosmopolitan life.
The legacy of Genoese Galata, Levantine merchant families, Catholic institutions, and Italian schools endured well into the twentieth century. Throughout the 1920s and 1930s, these networks maintained strong cultural and economic connections with Italy.
Under Mussolini, however, expatriate communities acquired new political significance. Fascist Italy actively sought to cultivate national identity among Italians abroad through educational programs, youth organizations, and cultural associations.
Casa d’Italia in Beyoğlu
These efforts reached their symbolic culmination in 1937 with the inauguration of the Casa d’Italia in Beyoğlu. More than a community center, it embodied Fascist Italy’s ambition to project cultural influence across the eastern Mediterranean while strengthening ties among Istanbul’s Italian residents.
Thus, although the Italian presence in the city stretched back centuries, its explicit Fascist institutionalization belonged primarily to the late 1930s.
Atatürk’s Uncomfortable Neighbor
If Istanbul occupied a distinctive place in Mussolini’s imagination, Mussolini himself became one of the principal concerns of Turkish foreign policy.
The roots of this anxiety extended beyond memories of the First World War. Although Italian forces had occupied parts of southwestern Anatolia after 1918, their presence proved comparatively restrained when contrasted with the Greek campaign, and Italy withdrew by 1921. Indeed, Italian channels later provided weapons and material assistance to the Turkish nationalist movement.
The greater danger emerged during the Fascist era itself.
In March 1934, Mussolini declared that Italy’s historic mission lay in “Asia and Africa.” In Ankara, such rhetoric was widely interpreted as a warning directed toward Anatolia and the eastern Mediterranean.
That same year, Turkey joined Greece, Yugoslavia, and Romania in signing the Balkan Pact. The agreement sought to preserve regional stability against revisionist powers and reflected growing concerns regarding Italian ambitions.
Yet diplomacy alone could not resolve Turkey’s most pressing vulnerability.
Under the Treaty of Lausanne of 1923, the Turkish Straits and the region surrounding Istanbul remained demilitarized. The republic possessed sovereignty over the city but lacked the legal right to fortify or defend it adequately against potential naval threats.
The turning point came with the Montreux Convention of 1936.
Amid escalating tensions generated by Italy’s invasion of Ethiopia and the militarization of the Dodecanese—particularly the fortress island of Leros—Turkey successfully renegotiated the Lausanne settlement. The Montreux Convention restored Turkish control over the Straits and permitted their remilitarization.
For Istanbul, this represented a profound transformation. The city that had stood exposed since 1923 could once again be defended.
In many respects, Fascist aggression provided Ankara with the diplomatic leverage necessary to secure one of the greatest foreign-policy victories of the early republic.
Rome, Byzantium, and Historical Memory
The relationship between Fascist Italy and Istanbul was shaped not only by strategy but also by competing visions of history.
For Mussolini, ancient Rome served as the ideological foundation of modern Italy. Yet Constantinople had itself been Rome. For more than a millennium, the Byzantine Empire preserved Roman law, imperial institutions, and political traditions after the fall of the western empire.
This complicated inheritance fascinated Italian intellectuals.
Some regarded Istanbul as the eastern continuation of Roman civilization; others viewed Byzantium as a deviation from authentic Latin greatness. Hagia Sophia, the Theodosian Walls, and the monuments of the old imperial capital inspired admiration while simultaneously provoking debates about ownership of the Roman legacy.
In this sense, Istanbul occupied a unique position within Fascist historical consciousness: a city that was unmistakably Roman, yet irrevocably beyond Italy’s reach.
The Last Sultan in Fascist Italy
Sultan Mehmed VI Vahdeddin’s Mansion in San Remo
One of history’s most remarkable ironies unfolded not in Istanbul itself but on the Ligurian coast.
After leaving the city in 1922, Sultan Mehmed VI Vahdeddin settled in San Remo. There, under Mussolini’s rule, the last Ottoman sovereign spent the final years of his life.
He died in May 1926.
Yet even death offered little peace.
Burdened by enormous debts, Vahdeddin’s estate became the subject of legal disputes involving local creditors. His coffin remained in San Remo while financial matters were negotiated, creating a deeply embarrassing diplomatic situation for Italian authorities. Only after these difficulties were resolved could the body be transported to Damascus for burial.
The symbolism was striking.
The final ruler of one empire died in exile under a regime attempting to construct another. One imperial order was fading into memory while another dreamed—however unrealistically—of rebirth.
A City That Could Be Admired but Never Possessed
Mussolini never conquered Istanbul. He never seriously attempted to do so.
Nevertheless, the city occupied a distinctive place within Fascist geopolitical and historical imagination. It represented the meeting point of Europe and Asia, the guardian of the Straits, and a living reminder that Rome’s legacy extended far beyond the Italian peninsula.
For Turkey, meanwhile, Mussolini’s ambitions accelerated some of the republic’s most significant diplomatic achievements, culminating in the restoration of full sovereignty over the Bosphorus through the Montreux Convention.
Istanbul has always inspired imperial dreams.
Roman emperors, Byzantine basileis, Ottoman sultans, Russian tsars, and European statesmen all imagined futures centered upon the city. Mussolini belonged to that long tradition of outsiders who looked eastward and saw, reflected upon the waters of the Bosphorus, their own visions of greatness.
Perhaps the relationship between Fascist Italy and Istanbul resembled an impossible romance—one built upon memory, admiration, and longing rather than conquest. The city remained forever beyond reach, loved from afar but never possessed. In this sense, the melancholy strains of “Amandoti” seem strangely appropriate: a lament not for a lost lover, but for an imperial dream that could never become reality.
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