I can’t believe it’s been over a week that I’ve landed in
This growth cannot be defined in one instance, or a snapshot of a certain time of realization. Rather, it is a growth that has been developing for some time now. Ever since my first exchange abroad to
I used to believe I needed to “escape” home—
My Roma. She was my home. Every time I left her, by the end of my trips, I missed her even more and welcomed my arrival at smoke-filled Termini. She was once a maze filled with strangers, but now I am proud to announce my mastery of her streets and alleyways and discovery of hidden gelaterie and pasticcerie. The city layout has became so familiar after countless spontaneous walks, at times solitary, through Trastevere, Testaccio, Ponte, the Vatican City, Trevi, Esquilino, and of course within the labyrinth surrounding Campo de’ Fiori. My Italian has certainly improved after weeks of Fede-style Italian and painfully embarrassing conversations with local vendors. Italians naturally accept you more if you speak the language (although not always the case with Esquilino immigrants). Sometimes I pretend to understand what sweet old ladies say to me in Italian. Smiling always works, which leads to even more Italian words I don’t understand. Sometimes I would have to disappoint them if they stop and wait for me to respond to some witty comment they made. Io non capisco. I suppose this is one way I’ve became more “Italian.” I will ask Mari and Alessia, bella amice, next time to gauge how “Italian” I’ve become.
I still can’t explain the Romans. Some are friendly, some indifferent, but the worst are the rude ones (even in service sectors!). Many a times I have discussed the attitudes of Romans towards foreigners with other Italians, specifically non-Romans. Both Alessia and Mari, parents from southern
In
A vastly different experience awaited me at
I am overwhelmed. I don’t know how to even begin describing to you about
After a three hour train ride, we arrived in
The shock of the blunt reality to live in
The hostel is perfect. After checking in, we ran out the door for an authentic taste of the famous Neapolitan pizza at Di Matteo before the huge 1pm crowd. Along the way, I peered into windows of antique, book, and pastry shops. The city was alive—grandmas chatting on balconies overlooking streets, boys playing soccer in front of churches, billowing sheets hanged to dry on porch railings, and men hollering to each other while making pizza. At Di Matteo, I went downstairs to witness the process of pizza making. We were ready to document this art of creating the best Neapolitan pizza. One pizza maker suddenly stopped putting pizzas in and out of the fire-brick, grabbed my friend and I, and posed. He was ready for his close up. They all were! After seeing more cameras, they rushed us behind counters, and we posed in the center of all the action (I know you, you who filmed this and caught my surprised expression). Never have I experienced such extreme friendliness that I almost felt an invasion of personal space that is so heavily guarded. They were so free, open to accepting and befriending strangers through words, touch, and genuine interest and offer to help you understand their beloved
Ravished, I devoured that pizza, gloriously satisfying. Afterwards, the walk to the
A lot was accomplished in this museum: the famous Hercules sculpture we admired (pausing a bit more time from behind), the marble heads we “kissed,” the grand room where I learned to waltz, and the beautiful female scribe I finally found and stored to my camera.
When we exited the quiet confines of the museum, we again entered into the madness of
The sun was setting. I could feel it as the chilly air seeped into my light jeans jacket, the feeling before the entire night was submerged in cold and darkness. During these late afternoon hours, I joined Lisa, Julie, and Carisa on an exploration of the city’s old, antique filled streets. We went inside a few churches. One that was particularly memorable contained an ancient baptistery (with some of the most amazing gilded mosaic artworks) and housed the remains of San Gennaro,
The sun had set and the city’s lights flooded
The next day, we met up with a local Neapolitan, Alexander Valentino (an architect and a crusader for the plight of the poor and discriminated such as the Roma). He led us to the periphery of the city, where poverty abounds at every turn. Secondigliano. They were poor in their wallets, but rich in humanity. A random stranger joined our group and gave us a guided tour of one of the wretched public housing apartments. The miserable conditions of the place had children fallen to their deaths due to a lack of glass on windows. The friendly stranger decried of the lack of government assistance to help this community. People are finally moving out (to other more habitable housing) after surviving thirty years in such “shit.” That place, I will never forget. I reminded me of a place so familiar. Only as I was leaving I begin to realize to similarities and differences of Secondigliano to where I lived and travelled in
After the experiences in
Before going to
This depresses me as I am now more aware of the difference in treatment of one another, especially to non-Romans/Italians, after experiencing
Besides reflecting on the differences in attitudes towards foreigners from the north and south of
“Realness” is what I search for in places, people, and myself.
Ciao amici and I hope you find it within you!
Alexis
I woke at exactly 7:30am to only a little over five hours of sleep. My mind knew. This misty Tuesday morning nudged a reluctant me out the door and into the chaos of Roman alleys. I was ready: gloves, boots, Google walking directions, umbrella, and my black notebook. I trekked across the river, pausing every few minutes to discreetly check my crumpled directions. I refuse to remain as a lost tourist. After navigating through the Trastevere labyrinth for twenty minutes, pleasantly accompanied by near death street crossings, I crossed the Ponte Sublicio bridge to finally enter Testaccio.
Unnerving, who is that man on the motorcycle staring at me? I crossed the intersection. He followed on his bike. My pace quickened as I buried my face in my upside-down Google directions. I shall not bore you further with frivolous details, but rest assured that I bolted down Via Antonio Cecchi. Where is this Piazza Testaccio marketplace? I must have passed it in my escape mode trance. There was a small opening against a wall that seemed to blend into the graffiti structures of this neighborhood. I peeked inside. Shoes, stall after stall, greeted my first steps into this rather Italian market. I wandered behind the shoe shops to a spacious open market. Butchers framed the area while produce vendors dotted the space within. I recalled Mercato Esquilino. So different. The vendors, unlike in Esquilino, were Italians not immigrants from all over the world. I strangely miss the loud and vibrant immigrant culture that saturated my senses. Here in Mercato di Testaccio, people were detached from each other. Some vendors sat behind stalls, hidden from customers. Maybe it was the gloomy weather, an early morning, or a lack of customers that formed a more exclusive culture of interaction compared to Esquilino. Esquilino was more diverse. Everyone was a stranger in this foreign country so they interacted and tried to make friends with other “strangers,” fostering a more inclusive, outspoken culture. I tried to buy some vegetables to talk with at least one person here. Two red bell peppers. I was overcharged since he didn’t have any change. After a full fifteen minutes through the market, I pulled my purple umbrella over my head again and decided to explore the rest of Rione XX.
My aimless walk led me to the heart of Testaccio, defined by the Parco della Resistenza dell’Otto Settembre. Everyone walked their dogs here, petite girls with Huskies and burly men with Pomeranians. My stroll led to walls of graffiti and a conspicuous pyramid at a busy intersection. The pyramid is situated directly behind a post office, modern in its minimalist contemporary construction. This dirty white box served as a stark contrast to the ancient-looking pyramid. I stole glances inside the gated entry of the Piramide di Caio Cestia. Scattered stones and overgrown grass. A sign informed me of the purpose of this bizarre structure in such a location: a cat shelter open from 2pm to 4pm. A wall enclosed the entire compound. The sign built into the wall revealed that it served as a memorial to the American-Canadian First Special Services Force that liberated
Following a brief history lesson (many thanks to the memorial), I treaded deeper into Testaccio. Everyone was so Italian. I sensed a more real
Three hours had passed before I trudged back through Via Mamorata to Trastevere and eventually my Campo. Oh I must tell you of a quaint bakery I discovered! When the wind and rain relentlessly punished my feeble umbrella, I ducked under a covered window to save it from its tragic, upturned state. I turned and realized I was facing a sweets galore. I peered into the window, almost savoring the rich aroma of each pastry. My admiring eyes caught a glimpse of a kind baker man against the window’s corner, smiling probably at my drooling situation. I will return and find out the name of that place for you, or me!
Ciao once again until more updates on food!
Alexis
For my part of the project, I will be discussing the stories of the immigrants I met at Esquilino. It will serve as the tread of the paper. When I bring up different issues that they encounter, my other group members will discuss them in more detail. For example, if I talk about the issues they face for employment, then the person focusing on employment will delve deeper into that area with research on immigrants’ employment issues. My story will serve as the lead that each of the three topics will begin their discussion. When one issue is covered, I will move on to the next part of the story that covers the following topic until all aspects we have chosen are covered.
Here I described so far what my second encounter with these immigrants entailed:
I’m a stranger. We are both strangers. This is what Rahmen told me when I talked to him the second time after our brief initial encounter (described in my Esquilino post). He described the familiarity he felt towards me and the need for “strangers” to connect. He wanted me to feel welcomed in this foreign land, since he was fully aware of the lost and confused feeling when he first arrived in Italy 20 years ago (in 1989). He was from
One of the most interesting conversations I had was with Tomi. She is Nigerian, but she has lived in
I adored her and her family and the way that she interacted with her mother-in-law(describing the funny situation of her mother-in-law speaking Roman Italian with another vendor speaking Neapolitan Italian) and husband. They were all so affectionate towards on another (Tomi, her husband, her mother-in-law, Rahmen, and vendors). I talked with them until the shop closed. Even when everyone had to leave, they stayed to joke, laugh, and hug before they finally parted ways (at least 15 minutes after closing).
Then Rahmen and I went to a café near the market (run by Chinese) where I had a cappuccino and a slice of cake (his treat). While there, I met another one of his friends who is Moroccan and talked briefly to him. Both kept on commenting on how I look do not like a Chinese person, more of a mix (maybe part European)—they’ve seen many Chinese immigrants around their area and don’t think I resemble them. After our conversation, he took me to the bus and said goodbye. He offered Indian food for my next visit! I will visit them again soon and I can’t wait to learn more about them!
“Back Alleys”
Where do babies come from? Shockingly what I used to believe as a gullible five year old resurfaced in “Back Alleys.” This story begins with a man thinking he would find a baby in the dumpster, which sounds strangely familiar. I start to recall what my parents told the five-year-old me of my arrival twenty years ago. Apparently, I was discovered at a dumpster near my home by my dad. The story continues even more outlandishly.
Ok enough about my parents’ bizarre stories of human reproduction. I shall get back to analyzing “Back Alleys.” The confusing storyline jumps from discovering babies in dumpsters to the speaker’s experience as a foreigner being checked by police for legal residency. The incoherent story progresses from the protagonist’s near fatal attack by a flying rat to a bladder emergency to the death of his annoying neighbor. He continues to write in a stream of consciousness style when imagining his neighbor’s death. The story ends with him contemplating moving his friend Piero into the dead lady’s place.
This work of writing seems to be a mesh of thoughts that the writer pieced together as his mind wonders. It is him scribbling down a day’s random musings. What does it all mean? The dumpster baby, immigration issues, Moroccan boys, flying rats, and a dead neighbor? How or do they tie together to form a theme or message for this story?
“The B-Line”
I have lost count on the number of times I have read and reread this barely two-page story. The first time I read it, I was confused at where this place was. It could be on a bus, train, ship, or any kind of transportation. The stops gave me clues, specifically “San Paolo Basilica” and “Termini.” The speaker must be in
After I figured out the bolded words of metro stops, my focus turned to the speaker’s reactions following the announcement of each station’s arrival. The reader knows what she is thinking, but she does not actually speak (to say that she speaks while on the metro). However, one can sense that she is searching for words, but cannot find any word to truly express the depth of her thoughts and emotions. She needs time to continue her search for those “perfect” words. Until then, I almost sense that she will remain silent. The silence refers not to speaking everyday language. Rather, it is an expression of her soul as she describes, “It takes a long time to penetrate the fabric of the soul” with the correct words. She has yet to find the right words, so she leaves (Termini—the end of all stops) “wordlessly.”
My dazed eyes turned to the train window, seeing but not aware of the fleeting images of a less than picturesque Italian countryside. I pressed my hands against the glass and stared at my faint reflection, thinking. Will I miss
The walk from the Santa Maria Novella train station to Hotel Giada entailed a rather rhythmical clanking of luggage wheels on cobblestone footpaths. Make way! The racket shamelessly announced our arrival. Such conspicuous tourist we sounded and looked. Pulling my baggage along stalls after stalls of identical leather pieces amid shouts of vendors in English, I admit I was less than fond of this city. How can it rival my Roma?
Then came the rush of storing luggage, rummaging for passports, and bolting out the door. Now began
I did not miss
The sunset was the final seal of my adoration for
The next day, I had to leave
On the
A romanticized Italian landscape continued in Cinque Terre, my weekend destination after
A week after, I welcomed the mask of
I love the taste of blood oranges. The burst of citrus liquid trickling down my throat reminds me of an edible honey day; that day’s warmth spread over my bare legs peeking under a flowing summer dress. Its succulent flesh squeezed a sourly sweet juice that spilled across my palms, and I shamelessly licked its path down my fingertips. A woman with kind eyes gave me seven. Grazie. Gathering my blood oranges wrapped in brown canvas paper and my bag of red bell peppers, I disappeared into the market crowd. The air was perfumed with the sweetness of fresh ripe fruits strangely mingled with the pungent aroma of raw meat, live fish, and the nutty scent of eastern spices. An intriguingly fragrant invitation made my nose tingle and steps falter as I stumbled through this chaotic open-air market that embraced stall after stall of deliciousness. Benvenuti al Mercato Esquilino.
The root of my discomfort stems from a fear of the unknown, the unfamiliar. Most of the vendors are foreigners as well, immigrants residing in a foreign land. Where are their walls? They seem at home, whether temporary or permanent. My steps slowed in front of a butcher shop. Three men smiled. I smiled back. Each of the three butchers had a distinct ethnicity: Italian, Egyptian, and Bangladeshi. Our brief, lighthearted conversation revealed that the two foreign men had lived in
Saturday, I returned to Esquilino. Great, I’m lost as anxiety knotted my chest once again. I ran around, circling the edges of Piazza Vittorio. You must have thought me mad. Don’t worry. I knew. I saw the strange and worried stares. I ran past shoe, bag, and clothing shops before standing breathless at the entrance of the bustling market. I was a dying man in a desert who just found his oasis. It was exactly 3:24pm. I am embarrassed to admit that I had wandered for well over an hour since leaving Termini. This time, I was determined to converse with the immigrants and ask them about their experiences. Oh great, ciao bellas. Maybe I should search for a person not shouting at me. I need some conditioner. The guy who sells it seemed quiet enough. Unfortunately, he was too quiet. His lack of English skills and my tragically poor Italian meant less than two exchanged phrases in five minutes. After moments of awkward silence as I tried to sign language my questions, I dejectedly gave up and left. He was from
“Who is there to help me?” begged the haunting eyes of the Holocaust victims. Their piercing gaze vividly plagued my vision as I recall my day at the Jewish synagogue. Doors of train carts crashing against metal locks punctuated images of innocent souls trapped in a nightmarish ride that some never awoke from. Who heard your cries? Where was your savior then? The horror after the train stopped, unbeknownst to its ill-fated passengers, morbidly unraveled beneath my eyelids. For a moment, I was a silent witness to screams of a forsaken people.
That video shook me in ways I leave you to imagine. Feel the borders, walls, gates, and doors—metaphorical or physical enclosures of alienation, misunderstandings, hate, and ethnocentrism erected by humans. You must be categorized and perfectly placed in a group. We mark you, sewing a yellow star onto your chest. You can’t escape. The macabre crimes against one race are walls of unrelenting hatred. It is a border of persecution against a people termed as the “other,” the “unknown.” Guilty murderers: blind conformers of ignorant mobs. Innocent victims: young Anne Franks with untold diaries. The fences of
Now I traverse through the ancient but modern cobbled alleyways of the Jewish Ghetto with Gabriella leading the way. She recounts the history of her people. I listen. I ask, “Why does the Pope refer to
Jews, historically persecuted, now build gates to the synagogue, seemingly to shield themselves and their faith from foreign brutality. It vigilantly guards the path to its inner realm that protects fragmented pieces of memories of a bloody, but rich past—never to forget, and always to cherish. Message to outsiders: stay away. A slip of red paper granted my entrance into this secret world. The gates symbolize a threshold that leads to a refugee, sanctuary, and even heaven for the designated insiders (the Jewish people). These ancient wanderers finally found a home, yet they raise more walls. Despite the paramount differences in the two aforementioned gates (terror within
I thoroughly enjoyed reading Lakhous’ novel Clash of Civilizations Over an Elevator in Piazza Vittorio. In some way, this book reminded me of another intriguing author and book—Albert Camus’ The Stranger. Cleverly funny, curiously philosophical, and oddly tragic, this unconventional novel seized my attention until its last, one hundred and thirty-first page. Settling down this book after a late morning of a refreshingly thought-provoking read, I reflected on some questions I would like to ask the author during his visit. Here’s the list (excuse my stream of consciousness style questions): How did you get the idea for writing this story and in this style (also with different people’s perspectives on a murder)? Did you identify with any one of your characters or did you use other people you knew to shape your characters? What is your take away message? Or is there a definite, clear message that you want to communicate? Amedeo is from Northern Africa (
An exhaustive list of questions that I can’t wait to ask!
Mari. I met her through a friend of mine. She’s Italian and studying English, Chinese, and French as a fifth year university student. We decided to do a language exchange of Italian, English, and Chinese. Saturday, 3pm, at the Piazza di Spagna, I waited. I knew it was her immediately. Wrapped in a classic black coat beautifully paired with a voluminous white turtleneck sweater, she was chic in her simplicity. She lingered on the Spanish Steps, scanning the plaza below for my arrival. I spotted her from atop and called out her name with excited nervousness. She turned around and both of us greeted each other with flushed smiles.
Then off we go! Rows of shops, lines of cars, and crowds of people passed by, but I was not aware of my surroundings anymore. My eyes, ears were all focused on her. Her voice painted alluring images of Italian culture, food, and life. We shared our study abroad experiences, and in between I learned some Italian! The next time I stopped, I was standing at the center of Piazza Navona. As if awoken from a dream, I gazed across the open piazza framed by quaint, charming cafes. We strolled passed two fountains at the heart of the square and finally relaxed outside in a café’s terrace nestled conspicuously in front of La Fontana del Moro. I mumbled something along the lines of, "Scusi, cioccolata calda per favore." Success! The waiter understood, and I think I may just have impressed my new friend.
Seated comfortably in our idyllic setting with a heavenly hot chocolate in hand, our voices again clicked away as the flowing waters, clattering plates, and rushing steps all faded away against a backdrop of a glowing sunset on this ancient piazza. We resumed our talks about life abroad, Italian and English literature (Did I mention how well-versed she was in Dante, the Bronte sisters, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and other classics? Now on my list of Italian authors to read are—when I do master the language of love—Luigi Pirandello and Italo Svevo.), and naturally arriving at my designated topic of discussion: the immigrant protests in southern
As expected, this prejudiced nature extends to the African immigrants persecuted in southern
The recent economic crisis exasperated the tensions between these immigrants and local Italians. With mounting job loss across
I sipped the last few drops of my hot chocolate and looked beyond the darkening horizon, distantly recalling the sad realities of racism in
The sun had long set after our conversation quieted to an end. The heated lamps, hovering above the tables, casted a warm glow around us but could not stop the freezing wind seeping into my bones. At that moment, I didn't care. I was lost in my thoughts, absorbing all I had just heard. Sitting here, overlooking the piazza, and sipping my (now cold) chocolate, I am struck by my contradictory state. Here I am in a bourgeois setting contemplating on how such a picturesque world can be so tarnished through racial antagonism.
Despite the difficulty in communicating some aspects of the immigration and racial situations, our conversation effortlessly flowed from one topic to another. I looked at her and this time I smiled as both of us, at the same time, tucked our hands in our pockets to shield them from the biting cold. It had been four hours. I did not notice the time, only that I didn’t want it to end. Sitting there with her against the cold, I know I must wait until our next encounter to resume our discussion. After a brief stop at my apartment and some quick Italian lessons in my kitchen (where I attempted to learn some kitchen vocabulary), I hugged her goodbye. And then she was gone. But rest assured, we will meet again. In the meantime, I wish your days are filled with many wonderful encounters!
A barb’rous Work up to a Wonder raise;
Let
…
All Works to Caesar’s Theatre give place,
This Wonder Fame above the rest does grace.
This imposing and conspicuous monument epitomized glory, power, and prosperity for the empire of
Nero Who? Long Live Vespasian!
Discussion on the origins of the Flavian amphitheater, later known as the Colosseum, mandates the accounting of the Flavian dynasty’s ascension after the death of the emperor Nero followed by eighteen months of civil unrest. With victory finally bestowed on Titus Flavius Vespasianus, or Vespasian, he ushered in an era of peace. Despite
Duality of Function of the Majestic “Eighth Wonder”
An emblem of a new political and social beginning, the Colosseum seamlessly harmonized its dual role, fulfilling its utilitarian purpose as an entertainment facility while also serving as a political theater cementing the imperial power-base. The Flavian amphitheater housed riveted audiences with dazzling spectacles calculated to impress and glorify its patron, whose presence lent additional excitement and awe to the occasion. An inescapable excitement of all senses encouraged the crowd to bask in intoxicating collective reactions to events unfolding on center stage. The inspiring structure and embellishments surrounded a rapt audience, brimming with delight and anticipation. The technical refinement and exorbitant expense spent on these ceremonies continually flattered and impressed the spectators. Enchanting melodies serenaded one’s ears; striking imagery mesmerized one’s eyes; and the immense system of awnings, the velarium, drifted the spectators to a deep aura of fantasy. How can the Romans stray from or even contemplate opposing the mighty yet generous emperor when he pampers them so? Such a sentiment rightly echoes the mindset of the Roman emperor in commissioning the spectacles in the Colosseum. He alone stood sober and in control amongst a people succumbed to a drunken stupor, heralding the great virtues of their ruler. The more successful and popular the entertainment, the more committed the allegiance of the Roman populace. The utilitarian quality of this amphitheater thus heightened its symbolic political function to manifest strong national fervor and loyalty to a new dynasty. The emperor, aristocrats, and commoners all seated and entertained in the same space inspired solidarity between the strata of social status, which helped to mold a national identity. Consequently, to begin understanding such a cleverly disguised form of propaganda of social and political appeasement, one has to examine the architectural intricacies of the Colosseum.
An Architect’s Exploration of Theater Technicalities
The magnificence of the enormous elliptical Colosseum abounds even in its modern ruined state. The entire building was built on a massive network of stable travertine piers to carry its tremendous weight. Seven vaulted concentric rings support the cavea, audience seating, and each contains eighty radial piers forming the framework of the edifice. The grand façade rose splendidly in three superimposed tiers of gradation arcades cumulating in a wall-like attic with small square windows.
The entire structure was crowned by a series of wood masts functioning to secure the velarium, a protection from the blazing sun or torrential rain. The tiers of arcades were adorned by applied Classical orders of engaged columns that followed a logical sequence: Tuscan on the lowest level, Ionic on the second level, Corinthian on the third level, and Corinthian plasters on the lofty attic. A rhythmically procession of distinct columns at each level and the divided seating in the cavea reflect the Roman’s preoccupation with imposing order, especially social order The rigid hierarchies of Roman society were accordingly reinforced within and without the confines of the amphitheater. Not solely a massive structure, the Colosseum was a political statement that declared the Flavian emperors’ commitment to the Roman social order.
The innovative design of the cavea reveals the rigid segregation, through seating arrangements, of social class within the Roman society. A firm and effective buttressing system, created through tiers of interlocking radial walls and concentric rings, supported the cavea and provided access to the arena stage and seating. The cavea was divided into five horizontal blocks: podium, ima cavea, media cavea, summa cavea, and the summum maenianum in ligneis. The social strata are thus physically separated. The different social divisions included the emperor and senators, the order of knights, the Roman citizens, the general male population (urban poor, foreigners, freed slaves, and slaves), and lastly women presumed “respectable” wives and daughters of Roman citizens (delegated to the shielded wooden seating beneath the colonnade of the attic gallery).
The fantastical labyrinthine web of radial passageways circling around the amphitheater facilitated movement and lent support to the architecture. The honeycomb structure of successively diminishing levels of radial passages and arches supported the cavea and also served as a means of circulation. The passageway beneath the seats permitted large groups of people to enter and leave the theater simultaneously.
Finally, one can progress to the centerpiece below ground, consisting of an area larger than the arena. The original wooden arena floor and metal barrier that once protected audiences are now gone, exposing a nightmarish maze of subterranean tunnels, passageways, and chambers meant for gladiators, beasts, staff, and machinery. The ends of the major axes had storerooms and an underground corridor leading to gladiatorial training camps. It does not take a skilled archeologist to reveal the conditions of packed sweating laborers toiling underneath the pounding of contests and hunts above. Although essential to maintain the game’s livelihood, it was a putrid, deafening, arduous, and demeaning line of work.
Let the Games Begin!
The official inaugural games of the Colosseum under the new emperor Titus in AD 80 opened with battles, beast hunts, and bloodshed that were rumored to have lasted a hundred days. The mortality rates at this bloodbath extravaganza are difficult to estimate. No reliable concrete figures for gladiator deaths exist, but animal slaughters is said to range from 5000 each day to 9000 in total. However, immense displays lasting countless days, such as the opening ceremony, were rare—albeit extensively glorified in history. Such spectacles often celebrated special anniversaries: the emperor’s birthday, a victorious military conquest, or the commemoration of a great predecessor. Reportedly, Trajan offered the biggest bloodbath ever recorded in the Colosseum, lasting 123 days with 11,000 animals slaughtered and 10,000 gladiators forced into combat. However, many performances at the Colosseum were not such bloody and deadly affairs as those sponsored by the emperors. Roman aristocrats, attempting to enhance their image, poured money into hosting public shows in the Colosseum. To prevent potential adversaries from diverting public favor and support with extravagant performances, emperors devised a limited repertoire of gladiators and beasts employable by the aristocrats. The shows were naturally subpar, even amateurish, compared to an imperial spectacle.
The gladiatorial combats were brutal and merciless. They usually fought in pairs, one to one, with umpires and trainers for supervision, stretcher bearers to carry off the wounded or dead, and a blacksmith and forge for on-site repairs. The victors were generously rewarded with fame and splendid gifts from the game’s sponsor, which eventually led to an honorable discharge. However, a defeated or wounded gladiator was at the mercy of a crazed crowd. They roared for him to be killed or spared, indicating their favor or derision with their thumbs, but the sponsor ultimately decided the man’s fate.
Gladiators were symbols of moral degradation in Roman society and considered the lowest of all classes in Roman literature. These marginal outsiders of society consisted of war captives, the poor and wretched, slaves, and men condemned for heinous crimes. A short life of danger, fear, and pain awaited most gladiators—although a lucky few gained fame and eventual freedom. Regardless of whether active military combat was engaged or not, the insatiable lust for war was replayed in the arena where military prowess found expression from imagination to reality through all the carnage.
The infatuation of witnessing spectacles involving animal hunts and slaughter resulted in a higher number of captive animal deaths than those of gladiator deaths. Slaying the exotic beasts vividly showcased Roman dominance over the worlds of both nature and man. The animals brought to the Colosseum ranged from bulls and bears to elephants, giraffes, hippopotamuses, and panthers. The animals were not only killed for sport, but also used to kill criminals and prisoners that are part of the arena’s shows. The popular image of sadistic excess was thus a product of a belligerent culture and a love for bloody spectacles.
Subliminal Intentions of the Principate
The political and social nature of the Colosseum was touched upon earlier as the perfect setting for the emperor to connect to his people. The structure was cleverly constructed and enclosed a world of its own, uniting elites and commoners to enjoy the shows. It was a magnificent site for the emperor to demonstrate his power and rally his people behind his banner of supremacy and generosity. Of course, the Roman people had their share of fond fantasies of exercising their collective influence in front of the emperor through rhythmical chants of “let live” or “let die” with regards to a defeated gladiator. To be heard was a form of accessibility for the Roman people to their state’s decisions. However, such beliefs in the power of chants within the Colosseum were mostly delusions of the public having some power over royal decisions.
The Colosseum was so much more than just a public entertainment facility. It was a political theater where the emperor gauged his popularity and support through the cheers of an enthusiastic mob seduced by violence, sporadic gifts from the emperor, and a thrilling ambiance. A grateful and obedient crowd sometimes chanted for more or for the end of a battle, rendering a unified and powerful Roman people. It was a crucial part of political life for the Romans to see and been seen in the Colosseum, and the emperor understood this well.
The Colosseum became one of the main devices used to judge the emperor’s quality and worth in ruling the vast
Despite all his generosity, the emperor still risked being upstaged by the inferior gladiators, sometimes stars of the shows. Amid the scrutiny of Roman citizens, the emperor vied for popular attention against the performers. The Colosseum hence portrayed the emperor as the benefactor of lavish public entertainment, yet such an image was not easily won.
The Colosseum was not so much a demonstration of Roman solidarity as much as it was a subtle display of social and political fissures and conflicts. The perpetual antagonism between the senate and emperor is entrenched deep within Roman history. Yet, there they sat together on the same block, facing off as in a duel across from the Colosseum. The two conflicts—on stage of warrior versus beast, and off stage of emperor versus senate—were continually intertwined. Consequently, the Colosseum spotlighted the dramatic political disputes of the emperor and his opponents for the public to witness.
The Curtains Finally Fall
The Colosseum truly deserves its status as an ancient wonder. This expansive monumental enterprise commissioned under a new dynasty by Vespasian was a perfectly calculated political and social endeavor designed to manifest solidarity and forge a distinctly Roman identity. The games stimulated the senses of spectators, creating a state of fanaticism. Entranced by the arena’s deadly battles and flattered by the emperor’s generosity, the Roman people become docile puppets and the emperor their brilliant puppeteer. The more lavish the emperor’s spectacles, the more he garners public support and devotion. He bribes his people to secure his authority.
By grasping the history of the Colosseum, one begins to embark on a journey to fully understand the compelling legacy of an ancient civilization that continues to influence modern society. The massive architecture more than achieved its utilitarian purpose of entertainment. The innovative designs and sheer size of the structure showcased to the entire Mediterranean world the power, creativity, and unity of
The assembly of the emperor’s subjects in a common space encouraged communal spirit and local identity within the vastness of
Modern Interpretations
The Colosseum continues to stand imposing and majestic, luring artists, visitors, students, and collectors from across the world. The notoriously mythical and sophisticatedly primitive ambience of this amphitheater nestled in the backdrop of ancient Roman architecture elicits feelings of intrigue, respect, and amazement. This building receives both ancient and modern audiences but for different purposes. Ancient crowds packed the cavea to witness morbid scenes of violence for entertainment, but modern tourists explore the structure for its historical significance.
A contradiction of feelings arises for modern visitors of the Colosseum. Most would naturally admire the grandeur and technical achievements of constructing such a monument. However, some may deplore the violence, cruelty, and bloodshed of the amphitheater’s spectacles. Are people epitomizing the greatness of the Colosseum as an ancient “eighth wonder” and simultaneously decrying its bloody purpose? How different was the Roman society from today’s? Are we entitled to make such judgments when modern day boxing matches demonstrate comparable degrees of violence? Modern cinemas host a vast selection of popular actions films with extreme scenes of violence that draw millions of audiences worldwide. Violence is everywhere: in movies, news, video games, and streets. By questioning the morality of the Roman’s reactions to the violence, people subconsciously question the nature of their humanity. Would I react similarly when confronted with such a form of entertainment? Nevertheless, the technical, social, and political accomplishments of the Colosseum never cease to amaze ancient and modern audiences, forever glorifying the ingenuity and might of the emperor and his empire.
Reflections
The Colosseum was the great arena that held gladiatorial combats and beast hunts. That basically describes the extent of my knowledge of this renowned structure prior to my research. Through my in-depth exploration into the history, architecture, social and political institutions behind the events in the amphitheater, I can now truly appreciate this masterpiece. The Colosseum used as a tool for social and political propaganda was especially intriguing. Never before did it occur to me that emperors erected and held events at such a monument to cement their power. The fact that no other amphitheater of comparable size was ever constructed before the Colosseum and that none gathered and contained such massive amounts of people amazed me. I begin to question its purpose. Through my curiosity, I enjoyed learning about how the emperors achieved their fame and popularity by sponsoring spectacular games. Not only are the political aspects interesting, the process of the games and the people involved are equally fascinating. To understand and appreciate the beauty of a monument one has to understand its achievements and purposes. This statement could not be more true in my admiration for the Colosseum.
Bibliography
Beacham, Richard C. Spectacle Entertainments of Early Imperial
Beard, Mary, and Keith Hopkins. The Colosseum.
Bomgardner, David L. The Story of the Roman Amphitheatre.
http://depts.washington.edu/arch350/Assets/Slides/Lecture25.gallery/index.htm
Welch, Katherine E. The Roman Amphitheatre: From Its Origins to the Colosseum.
