Beyond the Postcard: The Black Reality of Florence

A view of Florence’s famous Ponte Vecchio at night. (Photo: Trinity Michele Williams/Personal Photograph)

Unsurprisingly, the predominant ethnic group in Italy is Italians, who account for approximately 95% of the population. 

At the mention of Italians, people often picture the stereotypical image of olive skin, hazel eyes, and brunette hair. Yet, lost within this statistic are Black Italians. The reality of the Black Italian is not a myth, but a complex existence that seeks to thrive with opportunity. Despite living in a society that often disregards their humanity, they continue to flourish with possibilities for educational, economic, and cultural advancement.

The Black Italian population is sparse compared to a 95% majority, with most having Moroccan, Egyptian, and Tunisian backgrounds, but they are alive and well amid sheer erasure. Their presence is often dismissed and their narratives are overlooked and erased. This systematic erasure reinforces itself by the lack of statistical recognition of Black Italians. Elusive Italian demographic reports list Africans as 1.5 % of the population, but even in these figures, individuals are categorized solely as African, inherently stripped of the possibility of a syncretic identity that acknowledges them as both African and Italian. Granted, the European perspective of race and ethnicity does not possess the same political weight as that of the United States. However, the lack of intentionality in embracing and reporting diversity amid Italy’s changing demographics is glaring.

In the media, Italy is transfixed as a white, homogenous entity. Often wandering the streets of Florence, I cannot refute this perception—nor do many Italians. A recent study revealed that only one in ten Italians accurately estimated the number of Africans living in Italy (approximately 1.2 million). More troubling, 53% of those polled believed that there were too many Africans living in Italy and they were not living in harmony with Italians. Another 53% asserted that little to no integration of Africans exists, with 41% attributing this to “Italian companies only see African immigrants as low-cost manpower.” This sentiment is further reflected in the United Nations’ reports on Italy’s increasing “hate speech” problem. The report explicitly states “The UN’s Committee on the Elimination of Racial Discrimination has expressed alarm over the use of hate speech and racist rhetoric by politicians against ethnic minorities, specifically Roma, Sinti, Camminanti, Africans, and people of African descent in Italy, particularly in the media and online.” Through the figures, it has become increasingly clear that underneath Italy’s artistic glory is a deep-rooted diversity conflict that smolders under indifferent eyes.

These statistics are more than numbers to me—they shape my lived experiences in Florence, often making it difficult to immerse myself fully in the city’s celebrated frescoes, gelatos, and Tuscan aesthetics. I am constantly reminded that my presence here is not neutral, but constantly questioned, observed, and resented.

A personal moment of reflection at a café in Fiesole, Italy. (Photo: Junhee Oh/Personal Photograph)

Whether it is the woman in the grocery store eyeing me with quiet suspicion or the man on the street peering at my body with eyes of sex and fetishization, I carry an unease that never quite dissipates. The only song that plays in my head is: Am I next? Am I the next target of racial violence? Am I the next victim to be confronted by the blows of a man unsettled by the changing tapestry of Italy?

I have been lucky. This fear has not materialized violently, but it did, one day, in the words of a newspaper stand owner. Believing me to be another dumb American, he called me an animal in Italian. What he failed to anticipate was that I understood him perfectly. Living in Italy since August, my Italian has surpassed superficial standards. I knew exactly what he meant and it deeply affected me and my ability to feel comfortable in this country. Whether I want to or not, I think about it every day.

To have the privilege of moving through the world without being othered is a privilege, one I do not always have access to. This is a weight I have to bear every day, but it is not one my peers may fully understand, no matter how much they want to empathize. Whenever I express my disdain for Florence, there are layers of my experience that they are unwilling or unable to access. There are layers I refrain from accessing myself, out of sheer discomfort and a desire to preserve my sense of self. The isolation of this experience is not just about being seen but understood, and that too, feels like a privilege I am often denied.

This is not a unique experience. In confidence, I have listened to countless peers, and even NYU Florence staff, about their encounters with blatant racism—whether at the grocery store, being followed by a suspicious clerk, on a bus subjected to xenophobic scrutiny from transportation officers, or at restaurants where they are deliberately seated in the back, out of sight. Like a fleeting nightmare, these are experiences you cannot simply rid your mind of. You awake with them, go to sleep with them, and they alter your perception of the world.

Searching for a sense of belonging in Florence, many of us have turned to NYU Florence’s campus, only to find further disappointment in its lack of diversity. While NYU prides itself on being a multicultural institution, this reality has not fully translated to its study abroad site. The staff attempts to rectify this, but within those efforts lies a community disjointed and in dire need of evolution—a reality I gravely question the possibility of with today’s explicit attacks on diversity and inclusion under President Trump and Giorgia Meloni’s right-wing administrations.

Unable to feel at home on campus or in the Tuscan streets, I find myself suspended in a space where I am fighting to exist with purpose, to carve out meaning, and to understand my role in this world. The search continues, and for now, I remain caught between longing and resilience, invisibility and defiance, and a city that is indifferent to my presence and a self that refuses to be erased and screams to be heard.