Minority Networking Behind the Iron Curtain: 
The Petrozavodsk Finnish Theater and Finland, 1965–1985

Simo Mikkonen & Sampo Ikonen

University of Eastern Finland

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Hungarian Historical Review Volume 15 Issue 1 (2026): 90-115 DOI 10.38145/2026.1.90

This article examines the role of the Petrozavodsk Finnish Theater (PFT) in cultural exchanges between Finland and the Soviet Union from 1965 to 1985. As the only professional Finnish-language theater outside Finland, PFT occupied a unique position within Soviet cultural diplomacy. Despite lacking the prestige of major ensembles and the ideological weight of propaganda groups, PFT was allowed to tour Finland six times, an exceptional frequency for a Soviet troupe. These tours not only introduced Finnish audiences to a little-known minority theater but also gave PFT access to new plays, professional contacts, and opportunities to sustain Finnish-language culture in the context of Russification. Drawing on interviews, Finnish archival sources, and the diary of theater actor and cultural administrator William Hall, this article highlights both the official frameworks and the informal networks that shaped these exchanges. While the Soviet state sought to showcase its nationality policy, PFT artists used the exchanges to pursue their own goals: artistic renewal, language preservation, and community survival. This study situates PFT within the broader history of Cold War cultural diplomacy, showing how a peripheral minority institution could leverage international contacts to carve out cultural space. PFT’s story illustrates the entanglement of politics, identity, and theater across the Iron Curtain.

Keywords: cultural exchange, Cold War, minority theater, transnational networks, Karelia, Finland, Soviet Union

Cultural exchange between Finland and the Soviet Union became lively in the postwar years, despite Finland being a capitalist country. The most important forms of art in this cultural exchange were classical music and dance.1 However, theater became increasingly important in the 1960s. Directors and entire theater troupes crossed the Iron Curtain, even though the language difference presented problems not faced by music and dance. Partly because of the language barrier, the Petrozavodsk Finnish Theater (PFT),2 the only professional Finnish-language theater in the world to operate outside Finland, became particularly important in this respect. Furthermore, while cooperation took place within the broader framework of cultural exchange, it was particularly meaningful to Soviet Finnish speakers. Cooperation with Finnish theaters and directors brought new plays, new ways of doing things, and other influences from the West to Soviet Karelia, a northwestern Soviet periphery. In turn, PFT spread awareness of the Finnish community in Soviet Karelia, which was unknown to most Finns at the time.

Beginning in 1965, PFT completed six tours in Finland (in 1965, 1966, 1968, 1971, 1976, and 1984). This frequency was exceptional for any Soviet artistic ensemble, since foreign visits were strictly regulated, and few ensembles (or even individual artists) had the chance to visit Finland this many times. Furthermore, foreign tours were typically reserved for groups at a very high artistic level (such as the Leningrad Philharmonic) or groups that conveyed an ideologically significant narrative (such as the Red Army Choir). PFT was neither a leading Soviet theater nor an ideologically important institution. In addition, PFT’s troupe included children of the so-called former peoples’ enemies, or in other words people who had emigrated to the USSR from Finland and North America, whose loyalty had been questioned under Stalin.3 Although the physical terror came to an end with Stalin’s death (1953), the stigma was hard to escape. It affected, for example, people’s right to work, travel, and study throughout the Soviet era. Yet, PFT was still allowed to tour Finland and host visiting Finnish theaters and directors. This enabled PFT to network with Finnish colleagues and stage several Finnish plays that were otherwise unavailable in the USSR.

The general context of this article is the curious role played by PFT in Finnish-Soviet cultural exchange. It focuses on the interactions and transnational networks that emerged from this official cultural relationship. The formal co­operation allowed a small minority theater to operate in a difficult setting, where its existence was under constant threat. Moreover, PFT’s artists used Finnish networks to keep Finnish-language culture alive in the USSR. This article examines the importance of PFT’s Finnish networking, the context that allowed it to take place, and the group’s impact.

This paper uses data collected during research in Finnish archives. There is considerable relevant material in the National Archives of Karelia, but Russia’s war in Ukraine has made work there impossible. Nevertheless, the work the first author did in Russian archives before 2020 helped contextualize Finnish-Soviet cultural exchange and thus provided a solid foundation for this article.4 This allows me to reflect on the motivations of the Soviet authorities. On the Finnish side, the archives of the Theater Museum, the records of the Finland-Soviet Union Society (FSS), and the records of the People’s Archives were important sources. Additionally, interviews with Finnish directors and actors who visited Petrozavodsk helped me contextualize the cooperative initiatives. Finally, the diary of William Hall, a long-time actor in PFT5 who discussed the group in detail over several decades, played an important role. Hall was the son of Finnish immigrants from Canada. He wrote his diary in Finnish, but he also spoke Russian and English. He was a member of the Communist Party and an apparatchik,6 giving him exceptional insight into many social and political developments in Soviet Karelia. At the same time, it turns out, Hall was an ardent defender of Finnish culture in Soviet Karelia.

Cold War-era cultural exchange forms the context of this study. The use of art to influence foreign populations has been called cultural diplomacy, public diplomacy, and soft power.7 Common to these modes is an emphasis on state-level activity. Although PFT operated in the Soviet state system, its agenda differed from that of Soviet foreign policy and its ideological objectives. Furthermore, before the 1970s, the Finnish government was mostly passive in cultural exchange. It offered modest funding for a select few projects but did not initiate projects on its own. Instead, cultural exchange was managed by professional art establishments or by communist-leaning organizations such as FSS. In the case of PFT, traces of both can be spotted.

Finnish-language Theater in the USSR

In the Soviet era, Petrozavodsk had two theaters. One, established in 1918, was a Russian-language drama theater that also staged ballet and opera. It was a typical Soviet regional theater. PFT, on the other hand, was in many ways an exceptional Soviet establishment. It was founded by Finns residing in Petrozavodsk. Finns were a small minority in Soviet Karelia who were greatly outnumbered by Russians and Karelians. Yet, the aftermath of the Finnish Civil War in 1918 had brought a few thousand educated, leftist refugees to the area. Under the early Soviet nationality policy, Finns (Karelian was considered a Finnish dialect at the time) were deemed the national elite in the area. Even if Russians and Karelians formed most of the population, Finnish-language culture gained a strong foot­hold in Soviet Karelia. Furthermore, thousands of emigrants arrived from Finland and North America in the late 1920s and early 1930.8 They were educated and culturally active.9 In 1928, a group of Finns began training in Leningrad with the purpose of establishing a Finnish-language theater in Petrozavodsk. As a result, PFT was established in 1932.

After a lively early period, PFT plunged into a crisis as Finns were subjected to Stalinist persecution beginning in 1935.10 With the rise of Stalin’s terror, Russification became a major force that had a considerable impact on Karelia as well. After the war, the theater gradually resumed its activities with the remaining actors, but Finnish-language culture was still facing difficulties in the mid-1950s.11 In 1956, the Karelian Republic was downgraded to an autonomous republic within the Russian SFSR, further weakening the status of the Finnish language.12 PFT probably managed to remain open simply because a new generation of actors had almost completed their training at the time of the Republic’s dissolution. In 1957, 14 young actors started performing at PFT, including William Hall, Toivo Haimi, Pauli Rinne, and other individuals discussed in this article.13 The theater’s position was further stabilized when a new theater was built in central Petrozavodsk in 1965.14 While PFT seemed to be on a firmer basis than ever before, there were concerns about theater’s diminishing audience base. Audiences were vital to convince the authorities of the necessity of a Finnish-language theater in an area inhabited increasingly by Russians.15 In Finland, moreover, knowledge of Soviet Karelia and its Finnish population was very limited before the 1960s.

During World War II, Finland had waged two campaigns against the USSR. Since the autumn of 1944, when Finland had narrowly avoided Soviet occupation, the leadership of Finland had made the reduction of tensions the main objective of Finnish foreign policy. This allowed the USSR to import its culture to Finland. Additionally, the Finnish Communist Party was legalized, and the Finland-Soviet Union Society was established, significantly changing the Finnish social and political landscape. Beginning in January 1945, the USSR sent several major ensembles to Finland, ranging from the Red Army Choir to the Moiseyev Dance Ensemble.16 Up to the mid-1950s, numerous Soviet ensembles and high-profile musicians and artists visited Finland. They were hosted almost exclusively by the Finland-Soviet Union Society.17 With Stalin’s death, however, the USSR initiated major changes in its approach to foreign affairs. The USSR began to open doors for cultural exchange with Western countries, but also for foreign tourism. Music and dance still dominated cultural exchanges, mostly for linguistic reasons. This change in Soviet cultural diplomacy eventually became PFT’s trump card.

In Finland, PFT was largely unknown until the early 1960s. Already in the early 1950s, the Soviet Committee for Ties with Foreign Countries (VOKS), which managed Soviet cultural exchange, was planning to send promotional material on PFT’s productions to Finland.18 The material was likely intended to publicize PFT’s tour to Finland, but the project was aborted and the materials were never sent. Soviet authorities were still too suspicious to let Soviet Finns go to Finland. Things started to change after the mid-1950s. The opening of the USSR to tourism gradually awakened Finnish interest in Soviet Karelia.19 Meanwhile, PFT’s position was still uncertain. This is evidenced by negotiations over the future of the theater in the mid-1960s and many times afterwards. For instance, in autumn 1965, Hall wrote several times in his diary about performances that were poorly attended or even cancelled due to poor ticket sales. He feared that if PFT could not prove its worth, it might face closure.20 Due to the constantly decreasing number of Finnish speakers, PFT’s performances were already simultaneously translated into Russian through headphones attached to the seats. Interest from Finland became one of PFT’s key means of demonstrating its value to Soviet officials. Even more importantly, connections to Finland quickly expanded, allowing PFT’s key actors to pursue objectives far beyond those set by the Soviet authorities for foreign cultural exchange.

The First Tour

Plans for PFT’s tour in Finland had been in the making since the border opened and Finnish communists learned about the theater. The idea was first presented by the Finland-Soviet Union Society.21 First, artists from Soviet Karelia were able to visit Finland in 1961 and 1962, but not from PFT. The artists sent to Finland were dancers and musicians, mostly ethnic Russians.22 These visits, however, received a notable amount of publicity and indicated to Soviet authorities that Finns were very interested in the Finnish culture in the USSR. In 1963, Petrozavodsk received a chapter of the USSR-Finland Friendship Society, which were established only in places where connections to Finland were more common (and considered desirable) than elsewhere. This was a significant step towards PFT’s first foreign tour.

Finland had a vibrant theater scene at the time, with amateur and semi-professional theaters in almost every town. In the 1960s, many of these semi-pro­fessional theaters became city theaters and began receiving regular funding. Amateur theaters remained popular, however, and several were linked to workers’ movement. Most Finnish towns had workers’ clubs, which were used for theater, among other activities. Although these clubs had reached their prime decades earlier, they remained relevant into the 1970s. In Finland, the worker’s movement had been divided between communists and social democrats since 1918, with this division extending to the clubs. Finnish communists had an organization called the Center for Cultural Work (Kulttuurityön Keskus), which managed communist workers’ clubs, providing them with programs. Instead of the Finland-Soviet Union Society, it was the communist-leaning Center for Cultural Work that hosted PFT’s first four tours in Finland.

This is likely attributable to two factors. First, Finland and the USSR had signed an agreement on cultural exchange in 1960. In the mid-1960s, the Society was assigned several projects related to official cultural exchanges, and its position was thereby redefined. Due to its official responsibilities at the time, it could not participate in a project that was not part of an official cultural exchange. After all, the Finnish government was not involved in PFT’s tour in any way, not even as a funder. Another contributing factor was the simple fact that the Society had never imported a Soviet theater and was not used to organizing such tours. Finally, PFT’s tour was not a commercial project. Although Soviet musicians and ensembles were occasionally sent to Finland for the purpose of earning foreign currency, there were no financial benefits for PFT’s first tours. For PFT’s actors, the first tour was a source of enthusiasm. Although the tour took place in November 1965, rumors were circulating already in March about which plays would be chosen for the tour. This would determine who would be allowed on the trip. Hall bitterly recorded this in his diary: “I didn’t fit in.”23 The troupe was carefully prepared for the trip. It consisted of 20 people, 15 of whom were actors.24 This first tour (and many later ones) included people born in Finland, in North America, and even in Siberian exile under Stalin, based on travel records that identify Siberian prison camp sites as birthplaces.25 Considering that the troupe included several stigmatized members, the timing of the first tour was significant. The tour was being planned when Khrushchev’s term at the helm of the USSR had just ended, but the tightening of censorship and increasing social discipline were not yet reflected in the cultural sector. One significant event in this respect was the crushing of the Prague Spring in August 1968, as after this, the party’s stance on cultural life and national minorities in the Soviet Union toughened again.26 PFT’s first tours came before the Prague events, and the third had been agreed upon well before.

PFT’s first tour featured two plays: Samuil Alyoshin’s All Remains to People and Martin Andersen Nexø’s The People of Dangaard. Although both plays had been in PFT’s playlist before,27 both were revisited and “cleansed,” as Hall put it in his diary.28 Alyoshin’s play had been widely performed in the USSR and even made into a film. The play was written in 1959 and filmed in 1963 (with the lead actor being awarded the Lenin Prize). Andersen Nexø, on the other hand, was a Danish communist author. We have been unable to pinpoint the year in which the play was written, but it was staged in East Germany as early as 1951 and subsequently featured in many other socialist countries. Thus, both plays were safe choices. In practice, PFT had limited power to influence the repertory of its first tours. The repertoires of foreign tours were strictly controlled in the USSR. The result was that the plays were found a bit dull by the Finns. In general, the Finnish media showed strong interest in the tour, but the plays did not garner very good reviews.29 Part of the problem was that the venues were typically workers’ clubs, with few performances staged in actual theater buildings. Nevertheless, PFT’s staff felt that the Finns had shown considerable interest in Karelian culture. Many new contacts were established, and calls for PFT to visit Finland again were voiced throughout the tour.

During their tour in Finland, PFT’s staff also had opportunities to see local plays, such as Peter Weiss’ Marat/Sade (1964) at the National Theater.30 While they praised many actors when speaking with the Finnish media, they reported that they disliked “the pornographic content.”31 This comment reflects the fact that in the USSR, even the slightest eroticism or nudity was publicly met with disapproval. Marat, which had premiered the previous year, had spread rapidly across Europe, but not to the USSR. This case highlights how the Finnish tours provided opportunities to explore a culture that was accessible only outside the Soviet Union.

This tour was important for the Karelians. Led by Juho Miettinen, Deputy Minister of Culture of Karelia, the tour provided an opportunity to showcase the Finnish culture of Petrozavodsk around Finland. This opportunity was also seized by the Finnish media. During the tour, the newspapers highlighted the fact that PFT was the only professional Finnish-language theater company in the world operating outside Finland.32 This was also important for the Soviet authorities; allowing cultural autonomy, even for small minorities, was used as proof of the success of the Soviet nationality policy. It could not be mentioned publicly, however, that PFT was under continual pressure in a predominantly Russian-speaking city with a constantly shrinking number of Finnish-speakers.

Soviet-era histories of the theater mention PFT’s visits to Finland only briefly and in passing.33 These brief references do not come close to capturing the significance of the opening of the border for Karelians. Many had relatives in Finland who they had last seen in 1918, in the 1920s, if they had seen them at all. Liisa Sevander, for example, who took part in PFT’s second trip to Finland in 1966, remembers how her husband’s relative approached her after the performance looking for his relatives. It had been 50 years since their last meeting.34 Ernest Haapaniemi, – a stage technician whose father was from Lap­land, managed to find relatives using a phonebook at one of the tour stops. After phoning his father’s relatives, they drove several hundreds of kilometers in two cars to meet Haapaniemi. In an emotional encounter, it was revealed that the brother had little knowledge about what had happened to Ernest’s father, apart from the fact that he had departed for North America.35

This kind of personal contact was a concern for the Soviet authorities. They were able to limit such contact by making tour schedules as tight as possible, thereby limiting the members’ free time. In practice, actors compromised on sleep, and meetings often extended into the early hours. In addition to personal meetings, another ideological problem for the Soviet authorities was the encounter with consumerist society and Finnish culture. For instance, when returning from Finland in the late 1960s, William Hall wrote several times about his astonishment at the cleanliness of Finland. He sometimes wrote of his shame at the USSR’s material conditions when crossing the border; returning felt like stepping back into the past.36 Pauli Rinne, actor and director of PFT, described similar feelings. Despite the shared language, he often found himself wordless in a completely alien culture when in Finland.37

Repertoire, Venues, Artistic and Ideological Agendas

PFT made several tours to Finland within a few years (in 1965, 1966, and 1968). Common to these first three tours was that the plays could have come from the playbill of any Soviet theater. Furthermore, with only one exception, productions taken to Finland were helmed by directors from outside Karelia. The repertory was tightly controlled by the authorities. Before the tour, there were intense discussions about the plays. PFT could only state that they let “Moscow and Finland” argue about this question.38 Thus, while the plays were selected from PFT’s repertory, PFT itself did not have much say over which ones were eventually chosen. The second tour’s repertory included Karl Čapek’s The White Plague, Maxim Gorky’s Vassa Zhelezhnova, and a Finnish classic, Maiju Lassila’s When Roses Bloom. Gorky’s play was written in 1910 but premiered only in 1936, after he had revised it. Čapek’s antiwar play, which foreshadowed Nazi expansion, was first performed in 1937. It was translated into Russian in 1950 and performed widely across the socialist world. Both were directed by Russians invited specifically for the occasion. The Finnish play, a comedy from 1912, was directed by PFT’s own actor.

PFT’s second tour was its longest, lasting 2.5 weeks and visiting 16 locations around Finland. This tour was organized by the Center for Cultural Work.39 The tour focused on the northern part of Finland, especially Lapland.40 In his diary, Hall estimated that the total number of spectators for the whole tour was around 5,300.41 This can be considered a very high turnout, as some of the venues were very remote locations in the wilderness of Lapland. The exact audience figures were ideologically important from the Soviet point of view, as they were used to assess the extent of the audience the performances reached.

For the Finnish organizer, a major function of the tour was to establish a program for ideologically aligned cultural houses around Finland. Performances were only rarely held at regular theaters. Most of the time, they were held in communist clubs. In such cases, performances were at least occasionally preceded by speeches by local communist politicians. Although PFT’s staff was used to these kinds of events, it seems that some Finns would have preferred to focus on theater performances. In his diary, Hall was puzzled about why “the Finns treat all Soviets as communists.” Apparently, he did not realize that certain venues were communist workers’ houses and, as such, locales that non-communist Finns found difficult to approach. Even so, the venues during PFT’s first tours were mostly full. In one town where the performance did not draw a full house, Hall was told that this was because it was a “bourgeois town.”42

Although PFT was considered to represent the USSR, its goals for the tours were artistic rather than political. The troupe tried to give it their best, even if the interests of the Finnish organizer were at least partly political.43 The Finnish tours seem to have significantly energized PFT and its actors. They also increased local interest in the theater back in Petrozavodsk. Visits by Soviet art institutions abroad often attracted the interest of domestic audiences. This seems to have been the case with PFT as well. Local party representatives observed that in 1966, after PFT’s first tour to Finland, audience interest in theater had clearly increased.44 This raised PFT’s standing in the eyes of Soviet authorities and paved the way for more exchanges.

PFT’s third tour in Finland in 1968 was very similar to the first two.45 The two-week tour featured two plays: Vladimir Mayakovsky’s Bathhouse (1929) and Estonian Juhan Smuul’s The Wild Captain (1962). Bathhouse is an interesting choice because it is a satire that criticizes bureaucracy and totalitarianism but was also Mayakovsky’s last play before his suicide. After its premiere, the work faced severe criticism, but it was praised in theater circles. The play was revived as early as the final years of Stalin’s reign. In Finland, the play was marketed as proof that internal systemic critique was possible in the USSR, countering an argument repeatedly voiced by Finnish critics of communism. Juhan Smuul, for his part, was the chairman of the Soviet Estonian Writers’ Union and a party member. In 1952, he was awarded the Stalin Prize and wrote poems in praise of Stalin. Again, both plays had visiting directors: Ivan Petrov (1926–2012) from the Petrozavodsk Russian theater directed Bathhouse, and Epp Kaidu (1915–1976) from the Tartu Vanemuine Theater directed Captain. On the one hand, Finnish critics praised Bathhouse as an interesting piece never performed in Finland. On the other hand, it was considered partly inaccessible to the Finns, as it focused on the 1920s in the USSR, about which most Finns knew very little.46 PFT’s main achievement during its first three tours was to expand networking with Finland, leading to multifaceted cooperation in years to come. PFT’s key aim was to integrate more Finnish plays into its repertory.

A Finnish Program for Soviet Audiences

Plays imported from Finland had a special place in PFT’s repertory. PFT had been established as a Finnish theater, and in the 1930s, its repertory consisted mostly of Finnish classics. Staging new plays was trickier. Furthermore, even if PFT managed to get a script, it had to be accepted by the censors. For this reason, scripts had to be translated into Russian. Despite these obstacles, PFT managed to stage several Finnish plays in the 1960s (over half of its playbill).47 Although pre-1917 classics were mostly unproblematic, PFT also featured contemporary works by Finnish playwrights with no connections to communists. Of these, Leena Härmä’s Virtaset ja Lahtiset became one of PFT’s most popular plays, performed well over 100 times.48 It had premiered in Finland in 1957 and was adapted into a movie in 1959. PFT staged it in 1963, keeping it in their repertory throughout the 1960s.49 How the script ended up in the USSR is unknown. However, there was no copyright agreement between the USSR and Western countries. Thus, in principle, works could be published and performed easily. The main obstacle was simply censorship.

PFT’s staff often translated plays into Russian only for the censors, although the works themselves were never meant to be staged outside Petrozavodsk. Leena Härmä’s Virtaset and Lahtiset is a case in point. A similar approach was adopted for Härmä’s Viekää Tuhkakin Pesästä (1971), staged by PFT in 1974.50 Both plays are comedies. Virtaset ja Lahtiset (both very common Finnish family names) deals with the relationship between two upstart families. Viekää Tuhkakin Pesästä focuses on suburbanization and related speculation in Finland. Thus, it was possible to present both plays to the Soviet authorities as critiques of Finnish (capitalist) society.

A slightly more challenging case was the contemporary Finnish epic Under the Northern Star (1959–1962) by Väinö Linna. It dealt with late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Finnish history, placing strong emphasis on the Finnish civil war, which had driven many Finns to Soviet Karelia. This epic was the first major work to offer a balanced view of pre-1918 Finnish society, as history which until then had been written entirely from the perspective of the (right-wing) winners. This epic had a major impact in Finland. Toivo Haimi, the main director of PFT, discovered it and brought it to PFT,51 which worked on it as early as 1967.52 However, while ideological permission to begin working on the play was given, the production itself was not ready for several years.53 The premiere of the play was continuously delayed, taking place only in 1970.

PFT’s version of Under the Northern Star was Haimi’s adaptation of the book.54 The long preparation period was apparently related to the authorities’ criticism of the play’s contents. In his diary, Hall describes the trouble related to staging the play. For example, the Finnish red guard had to be portrayed as if it had been more organized (contrary to the reality), and cursing had to be notably curbed. In one scene, the red guard forced a woman to bark like a dog and then shot a man who came to her defense. Authorities considered this ideologically problematic. The end of the play was also debated. According to the authorities, it conveyed the idea that launching a revolution was a mistake, and overall, they thought the play should present a more polished image of the Finnish red guard. Hall wrote in his diary that Haimi had taken a conscious risk in this respect. Long meetings with local party representatives were arranged, who pressured Haimi to change the play. When Under the Northern Star was finally staged in 1970, it was only with many compromises.55 The play did not stay in the repertory very long and was never taken outside Petrozavodsk. Overall, Haimi’s stubbornness was necessary even to stage the play.

Haimi was the chief director of PFT (1965–1973) and then its manager. He represented PFT during most tours to Finland, together with the local vice minister for culture. Haimi was an ardent defender of Finnish culture and the Finnish language. During PFT’s tours in Finland, he actively met and spoke with Finnish actors and directors, sometimes scouting for works he could import to Petrozavodsk. Originally an actor from the class of 1957, he had also trained as a director in Moscow, graduating in 1965.

Bringing Soviet-Karelian Culture to Finland

PFT’s first tours did not include any works by Soviet Finns, but their fourth tour in 1971 featured only one play: Otatko Miut Karjalan Mua? (Will You Take Me, Karelian Land?) by Karelian author Antti Timonen (1915–1990). It was an adaptation of his book We Karelians, prepared together with the play. Theater histories pay special attention to this play because it dealt with events in Kare­lia during the critical years from 1918 to 1922. It had been well received in Karelia, partly because it was the first time local experiences of the Civil War were put on stage.56 While the Civil War was a common subject in the USSR, the narratives of this conflict were strictly controlled and typically reiterated the central government’s perspective rather than local ones.

Initially, the Soviet authorities were somewhat hesitant about allowing the play on the tour because its contents were believed to irritate Finns. The Finnish Civil War had been a highly divisive event, followed by campaigns
of Finnish voluntaries in Soviet Karelia. The play had faced criticism in the
USSR as well. Hall wrote that some authorities had considered the play re­actionary, as if it were flirting with Karelian nationalism.57 The Soviet Union was constantly balancing between highlighting minority cultures and restricting them while stamping out even the smallest germs of nationalism. Timonen’s play was one of the first in Karelia that did not fully align with the official party line. The play had originally premiered in 1969, but an improved version was developed for the Finnish tour, both directed by Toivo Haimi. However, the Soviet authorities kept repeating their concern that the play might cause unrest and protests in Finland. Hall noted that the actors had grown worried as the tour approached.58 In retrospect, this concern seems touchingly exaggerated. The play did portray Finns in a negative light by highlighting failed Finnish campaigns in Karelia, but there were no strong public reactions. If the play had discussed territories ceded by the USSR World War II, the reactions might have been different. But it focused on Karelia, which had never been part of Finland.59 It is also possible that the passages that could have provoked Finns were removed from the 1971 version.

PFT’s fourth tour was ultimately a success. The play was performed 15 times in Finland.60 According to one critic, “the play was interesting and enlightening—and also artistically strong, the best of this theater so far.” This critic also noted that the Karelian perspective was strongly apparent in the play. Furthermore, while she observed that the Red Army was presented in a clearly positive light (and Finns in a negative light), the emphasis was on the people, and propagandistic elements were mostly absent.61 The play received mainly positive reviews.62 In the end, the concern about strong reactions was unfounded.

In six years, PFT concluded four tours. Helsinki was on each tour, but overall, the geographical range was vast. For the USSR, it was important to reach as wide an audience as possible. In this respect, the Finnish Broadcasting Company (YLE) was an important partner. YLE had broadcast many concerts by Soviet musicians and was beginning to do so with theater performances. It made recordings during PFT’s tours, but it went to Petrozavodsk for more. The first such broadcast was transmitted in spring 1966.63 As Finnish directors started to visit Petrozavodsk around the same time, YLE asked them to direct several radio plays. For example, Kurt Nuotio directed Gogol’s The Gamblers and Chekhov’s The Huntsman on his first visit (1968).64 The radio version of Timonen’s 1971 play was directed by the Finn Sakari Puurunen.65 Later, YLE would also have PFT’s Toivo Haimi direct Timonen’s other plays, such as After the Storm (1972) and Birthday (1979).66 Especially early on, critiques of PFT’s television and radio performances focused on language. The language used by PFT’s actors was typically praised for its faithfulness, but the pronunciation, intonation, and rhythm were criticized.67 This criticism was reflected in the reviews of many plays,68 and it was sometimes even characterized as a hindrance that made it difficult to follow the play.69 Finnish linguists were interested in the development of Finnish in Karelia, since several decades had passed without any contact with Finland. For PFT, however, the crucial issue was credibility.

Improving Finnish Language Skills

Haimi’s key objective was to use the contact with Finland as a means of improving PFT’s linguistic proficiency. Haimi felt that PFT had a national mis­sion, which could not be fulfilled by simply staging Finnish classics as the theater had done in the past. Haimi emphasized that to survive, PFT needed fresh directors and actors with impeccable Finnish skills.70 To achieve this aim, visiting Finnish directors were crucial. For PFT, language was a matter of life or death. If PFT performed in Russian, it was seen as just another Soviet theater and likely subservient to existing Russian theater. One way to fight this trend was to stage Finnish plays not performed elsewhere on Soviet stages. In his diary, Hall (now Deputy Minister of Culture of Karelia) made the summary observation that PFT’s Finnish-speaking audience was too small. To attract enough Russian speakers, its repertoire needed to include plays not performed in Russian theaters. Hall concluded that PFT needed world-class plays staged by excellent directors if it was to survive.71

When Kurt Nuotio, the first Finnish visiting director, worked with PFT in 1968, it was a major event. Nuotio had met PFT’s actors during their first tour.72 During the second tour, he was approached by Haimi. Nuotio had directed the American musical Fiddler on the Roof (1964) for Helsinki City Theater, which Haimi had seen and had been impressed by. Nuotio argued that PFT’s actors might have found the musical relatable. It discussed antisemitism, and Finns themselves were a persecuted minority. Afterwards, Haimi had sought out Nuotio, convincing him to visit PFT as a guest director. Things moved surprisingly quickly, and the visit was mentioned in a protocol of cultural exchanges as early as 1967.73 Nuotio was allowed to choose a play, and he selected Arthur Miller’s The Crucible. It had been translated into Russian but never staged in the USSR.

Nuotio visited Petrozavodsk for the first time in December 1967. According to Nuotio, people made concerted efforts to make him feel welcome, and they succeeded in this. It also became clear to him that foreigners still remained something of a rarity in Petrozavodsk at the time. On his first trip, he followed PFT’s performances. The first performance was a Russian play translated into Finnish in Petrozavodsk. It made Nuotio anxious because he hardly understood what was being said on stage. The intonation and word order were “too Russian” (Russian is structurally very different from Finnish). He relaxed a bit after the second play, a Finnish original.74 Thus, Nuotio’s experience confirms that language was indeed an issue.

In the spring of 1968, Nuotio arrived for two months to direct The Crucible. He reports having received excellent treatment, but cultural clashes were inevitable. There were also clashes with the local work culture. Abundant consumption of vodka was one problem. Nuotio recalls that on every possible occasion, toasts were raised, and days often stretched into the early hours, making it difficult to get any work done. The first workday was completely wasted. It also turned out that PFT was inexperienced in hiring foreigners. Once rehearsals began in earnest, local militia armed with submachine guns stormed the theater, taking Nuotio to the station. PFT’s management had forgotten to report the presence of a foreigner. Nuotio did not suffer long. PFT’s management arrived to reprimand the militia and take Nuotio back to resume rehearsals.75

Yet another clash ensued with the technical staff. The sets for The Crucible were repeatedly delayed. In his diary, Hall noted his embarrassment over PFT not being able to make the sets on time despite the director’s entreaties.76 In his account, Nuotio recalls how the problems began with finding all the parts needed, and then the sets were assembled sloppily. During a rehearsal, with local notables present, the sets collapsed. Nuotio started to shout for the stage manager, Sergei, but was told that Sergei had gone fishing. He then shouted for the technical director, Anatoly, who had gone with Sergei. As a result, Sergei was fired. Later, Nuotio spotted Sergei on the street and feared that Sergei might well beat him up. Instead, Sergei approached and gave him a hug. Sergei was happy about having gotten a better job at the tractor factory.77 This incident made Nuotio wonder about the socialist policy of full employment.

Miller had written The Crucible in 1953. Set in Salem in the late 1600s, it is an allegory for McCarthyism. For Nuotio, it was an allegory for persecuted dissidents in general. One evening at Haimi’s home, he discussed the Daniel-Sinyavsky trial, which had been held two years earlier. He compared the play to the fate of Soviet dissidents. Haimi agreed with Nuotio, but he pointed out that the play would be reviewed by authorities. Haimi hinted at having been interrogated by the KGB in the past, and he insisted that Nuotio keep the connection with dissidents to himself.78 Thanks to this conversation, Nuotio did not publicly make the comparison. When speaking to the local media, he said (perhaps passing on words put in his mouth) that Miller was criticizing “the absurdity and arbitrariness he experienced in the hands of the House Un-American [Activities] Committee.”79

The PFT production of The Crucible passed the scrutiny of a team of about 30 inspectors,80 premiering in May 1968. Hall wrote in his diary that many in the audience considered the play the best production PFT had ever staged.81 Sulo Tuorila, PFT’s star actor at the time and a director, agreed.82 Leninskaya Pravda ran a full-page review of The Crucible, which PFT’s staff considered exceptional. Critics also praised the production and considered it a great success.83 In 1969, The Crucible was performed in Tallinn and other parts of Estonia, underlining its success.84

Nuotio’s first visit to the USSR was widely publicized, but he felt that he was also somewhat exploited. For instance, on May Day, he greeted 12 million people on Soviet television, representing progressives in the West. In many interviews, he was asked about social problems in Finland, and he talked about his experiences as a poor student. In Finland, his naivety backfired, and he was vetted by the security police.85 This was likely also because the KGB had tried to recruit him. Although he had rejected the effort, the same man approached him again in Finland in the early 1970s. This man of Finnish descent brought him brandy and chocolates. He also tried offering Nuotio money in exchange for reports on Finnish-Swedish circles (thus effectively asking him to serve as a spy). Moreover, he knew where Nuotio’s mother lived in Helsinki, and this frightened Nuotio. The next time Nuotio met Haimi (in Finland), he told him about this and said that he dare not come to the USSR if this continued. Haimi promised to deal with the issue. Nuotio was not directly bothered by the KGB after this, neither in Finland nor in the USSR.86

Nuotio’s Second Visit

After Nuotio, PFT managed to secure another Finnish director for a visit in 1970. He directed a French play, Jean Anouilh’s Lark (about Joan of Arc). It did not have the same success as The Crucible. PFT thus started planning Nuotio’s second visit. The problem was his busy schedule.87 Nuotio returned in 1974 in a window between two commitments.88 He was asked to direct a production of the Kalevala, the Finnish national epic. In June 1974, Nuotio held rehearsals for four weeks, six days a week.89 In the autumn, Nuotio spent a few more days finalizing the play for its premiere. The choice of play made Nuotio’s second visit particularly meaningful. The production was planned to coincide with the 125th anniversary of the publication of the so-called New Kalevala in 1849 (a revised and expanded version of the Old Kalevala, published in 1835). It became another landmark event for PFT.

In Finland, a Kalevala stage boom began after the Hungarian Thalia Theater brought its interpretation to Helsinki in 1970. In 1972, Paavo Liski produced the Kalevala for the Oulu City Theater, and several other versions followed. PFT managed to ride this wave. Haimi was well informed about developments in the Finnish theater scene, and it was he who suggested the Kalevala to Nuotio. The play received better resources than most of PFT’s projects. The handbills, for example, were printed on better paper, and the cover was in color.90 Usually, PFT’s handbills were simple printouts. In the USSR, even mildly sophisticated printing required permits and approval from the authorities. Furthermore, the entire cast of the theater was used.

The Kalevala production premiered in October. The Soviet reviews were very positive. The play became another staple in PFT’s repertory. The production was then taken to Finland, but with a delay. PFT’s previous tours had been organized by Finnish communists, but after restructuring, they lacked organs capable of importing Soviet artists. Thus, PFT lost some of its earlier contacts. This time, the tour was organized by the Finland-Soviet Union Society (FSS). Although FSS had experience with tours by Soviet artists, it managed numerous simultaneous projects, which often slowed one another down. Furthermore, it had experience organizing concerts and entertainment, but not theater tours.

More importantly, PFT’s 1976 tour was part of the official cultural exchange, requiring government funding and solutions to several bureaucratic problems. Since FSS arranged the tour, Finnish internal politics were not as central as in earlier tours. While FSS had links with communists, it also had many non-communists among its members. In 1974, FSS’s theater section discussed issues related to theater exchanges between Petrozavodsk and Finland. Several Finnish theaters had expressed their interest in exchanges. Official cultural exchange worked on a reciprocal basis, necessitating state funding and approval. Each country usually paid the costs incurred within their borders. Thus, the problem was securing government approval.91 It seems that tour costs contributed to delaying PFT’s fifth tour until September 1976.

Another issue was reciprocity. Originally, Kuopio City Theater (led by Nuotio) was to visit Petrozavodsk before PFT’s fifth tour.92 However, the visit was postponed when the city administration in Kuopio withheld its funding decision.93 The tardiness of FSS played a role as well.94 As the project was part of the official exchange, issues ranged from allowances to fees and permissions.95 Eventually, PFT’s tour was much shorter than the previous ones but more professionally organized. At each tour destination, it was hosted by a Finnish theater. In addition to a production of the Kalevala, the tour included Ivan Gontsharov’s A Common Story and Ion Drutse’s The Birds of Our Youth. Thus, it included one Russian classic, one contemporary Soviet play, and one Finnish play. Drutse’s The Birds of Our Youth was also recorded by YLE.96

Kuopio City Theater ultimately made its reciprocal visit to Petrozavodsk in 1977. It was the first visit of a stable theater company from Finland. KOM, a communist-leaning traveling theater, was the only foreign professional theater to have visited Petrozavodsk. Kuopio City Theater brought an all-Finnish program. Two of the plays were classics, while a more modern work dealt with the aftermath of the Finnish Civil War.97 The visit lasted ten days, and each play was performed three times.98 Kullervo (1859/1864), by Aleksis Kivi, was based on the Kalevala. Maiju Lassila’s Rival Suitors (1913) was a comedy. The third play was Johan Bargum’s Homecoming (1975, based on a 1919 novel). As a mere reciprocal visit, the encounter does not seem to have left a strong imprint on PFT. Further­more, in retrospect, it seems to have ended the most active period in PFT’s collaboration with Finnish theaters and directors. This is not because PFT would not have wanted the collaboration to continue but rather because the ideological tides were turning, complicating collaboration.

In the 1980s, a single collaborative project with Finland materialized, again related to the Kalevala. Finnish actor and director Paavo Liski, who had experience staging Kalevala-themed plays in Finland, directed a production of the Kalevala in Tallinn in 1980. Haimi was present at the premiere, and he invited Liski to Petrozavodsk. Since the production had already been staged, they ended up choosing a production of Kanteletar.99 Like the Kalevala, Kanteletar is a collection of poems that do not form a coherent story. It was therefore made into a musical by the author Leo Suomela and composer Seppo Paakkunainen in 1976. Liski had already directed productions of Kanteletar twice in Finland (in 1976 and 1980). For PFT, the play became an opportunity to celebrate its 50th anniversary. PFT brought Kanteletar to Finland in 1984 in its final Soviet-era tour.

This tour was not supposed to be the last. There were plans to bring PFT to Finland in the late 1980s, but they were postponed several times and eventually cancelled. The perestroika period increased cultural collaborations between Finnish and Soviet art circles, but the USSR decreased its funding, and these kinds of collaborative undertakings increasingly assumed a commercial basis. PFT’s tour was not considered profitable. However, PFT was facing difficulties of its own towards the end of the Soviet era. In 1990, several actors moved to Finland, almost prompting PFT to shut down. Only by the end of the 1990s did PFT manage to overcome these setbacks.

Conclusion

Petrozavodsk Finnish Theater illustrates the surprisingly impactful role that a small minority institution could play during the Cold War. The Cold War limited mobility but also enabled certain groups and individuals to network, sometimes quite successfully. Although PFT lacked the prestige and ideological weight of leading Soviet ensembles, it became a recurring act in Finland, with more tours than almost any other Soviet institution. This was not simply the result of Moscow’s cultural diplomacy. It also offers eloquent testimony to the de­term­ination of PFT’s artists, who used the Finnish connection to sustain their language and artistic traditions under constant pressure. It must be emphasized that had the Soviet authorities not viewed PFT’s tours in Finland as ideologically useful, these tours would not have been possible. Nevertheless, when PFT was allowed in Finland, it managed to push its own agenda and create professional networks for its own benefit.

For Soviet Finns, such exchanges provided access to new plays, professional renewal, and cultural recognition at a time when Russification was steadily advancing. For Finns, PFT’s visits fostered awareness of a Finnish community across the border that was otherwise little known while also enabling professional collaboration. Beyond official agreements, the personal encounters, family reunions, and professional networks forged across the border highlight the importance of informal ties in sustaining transnational cultural life. Most importantly, there was room for maneuver and even innovation on the margins of the Soviet space. Although connections abroad were seemingly easier to forge from Moscow, marginal actors could assume more agency than the conventional understanding of center-periphery power relations would imply. PFT and its actors managed to use this agency by leveraging the overall Soviet commitment to cultural diplomacy and internationalism, along with its need for external recognition. These grand forces were exploited by a small regional theater to pursue its own agenda and also to survive and even thrive.

In retrospect, PFT’s heyday, especially in terms of cultural exchange, lasted from the late 1960s through the 1970s. Shrinking audiences, a tighter copyright regime, and the USSR’s shifting foreign policy priorities eroded PFT’s position so that, by the 1980s, its exchanges with Finland became increasingly difficult. At the same time, PFT’s legacy remains significant. It demonstrates how cultural actors working on the periphery could appropriate official structures for their own purposes, complicating the image of cultural diplomacy as a purely state-driven enterprise. The networking of PFT’s actors with Finnish actors and directors is particularly impressive. It led to some of the most important plays in PFT’s history, such as productions of the Kalevala and Kanteletar, which were used by the theater as their calling cards in the USSR.

Today, with political tensions on the rise and borders becoming increasingly closed, the story of PFT serves as a reminder of the fragility and resilience of minority cultures. Its history shows how cultural exchange, even in the shadow of the Iron Curtain, could create spaces for dialogue, artistic growth, and the survival of language and identity.

Archival Sources

Kansallisarkisto [The National Archives of Finland], Helsinki (KA)

Suomi-Neuvostoliitto-Seura [Finland-Soviet Union Society] (SNS)

A list of employees of the State Finnish Drama Theater KASNT, who will travel to Finland for a tour in August 1976. Folder 145.

Haimi, Toivo. Letter to Karvonen [n.d.]. Folder 85.

Kolmovsky, Lev. Letter to Kurt Nuotio (in Russian) [n.d.]. Folder 145.

Korhonen, Riitta. Telegram to Kokonin (in Russian), July 23, 1976. Folder 145.

Laurikainen, Uuno. Letter to the Finnish Ministry of Education, January 7, 1960. Folder 399.

Lehtinen, Kalevi. Telegram to Kokonin (in Russian), August 24, 1976. Folder 145.

Minutes of the Theater Section. August 26, 1974. Folder 145.

Reutsalo, Mauri. Letter from Reutsalo (Centre for Cultural Work) to the Soviet Ministry of Culture. October 27, 1967. Folder 85.

Teatterimuseon arkisto [Finnish Theater Museum], Eklund Collection

Haapaniemi, Ernest. Interview. April 29, 1994.

Handbill for Kalevala.

Handbill for Täällä pohjantähden alla.

Handbill for Viekää tuhkakin pesästä.

Handbill for Virtaset ja Lahtiset.

Sevander, Liisa. Interview. April 30, 1993.

Natsional’nyi arkhiv Respubliki Karelija [The National Archive of the Republic of Karelia]

Meeting notes of the Artistic Committee of the Finnish Theater. May 19, 1968. F. R-3065 (Finnish Theater), op. 2, d. 37, l. 82–3. Notes from the Eklund Collection, folder 33.

Bibliography

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Arpiainen, Leila. “Pyhän byrokratiuksen makoisa löylytys” [Sweet heat of the saint bureaucratos]. Helsingin Sanomat, November 5, 1968.

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Hall, William. Diary. Unpublished manuscript.

Helin, Irma. “Suomalainen teatteri vieraili Suomessa” [Finnish theater visited Finland]. Ajankuvat 12 (1965).

“Jyväskylän teatterin katsojamäärä nousi” [Jyväskylä theater’s ratings rose]. Helsingin Sanomat, June 26, 1967.

Kajava, Jukka. “Outo, silti toimiva ‘Syntymäpäivä’” [Weird, but workable “Birthday”]. Helsingin Sanomat, March 26, 1979.

Kajava, Jukka. “Yksitoikkoinen metsästäjä” [Monotonous hunter]. Helsingin Sanomat, June 17, 1968.

Kajava, Jukka. “Mäntylää petroskoilaisittain” [Mäntylä the Petrozavodsk way]. Helsingin Sanomat, June 16, 1966.

“Kaksi kuukautta Petroskoissa” [Two months in Petrozavodsk]. Punalippu 5 (1968): 114–16.

“Karjalasta ja kauempaa” [From Karelia and farther]. Ajankuvat 9 (1961).

Kiiranen, Venla. Valtion suomalainen draamateatteri [State Finnish Dramatheater]. Petroskoi: Karjala, 1972.

Kinnunen, Raila and Markku Lepola. “Paavo Liskin ohjaajavierailu” [Director visit of Paavo Liski]. Apu, February 15, 1980.

“Kuopion kaupunginteatterin peruskorjaus” [Kuopio City Theater’s renovation]. Helsingin Sanomat, August 3, 1976.

“Miksi mitäkin – mitä milloinkin” [Why anything – what ever]. Maaseudun Tulevaisuus, January 13, 1966.

Nuotio, Kurt. Interview with the author. October 29, 2016.

“Petroskoilaista radioteatteria” [Radiotheater from Petrozavodsk]. Kansan Uutiset, May 12, 1966.

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“Radion yleisohjelma” [Radio’s general program]. Helsingin Sanomat, November 6, 1972.

Riik, Helena. “Petroskoilaisten Huijarit” [Impostors from Petrozavodsk]. Uusi Suomi, June 12, 1968.

Siikala, Kirsikka. “Itäkarjalainen kohtalonnäytelmä” [An East Karelian drama of destiny]. Helsingin Sanomat, October 10, 1971.

“Teatterivierailu Petroskoista” [Theater visit from Petrozavodsk]. Helsingin Sanomat, October 27, 1966.

Timonen, Antti. “Karjalan suomalainen teatteri 30 v” [Finnish Theater of Karelia 30 y]. Ajankuvat 9 (1962).

“TV-2:n kevättä: Nimekkäitä elokuvia, modernia dramatiikkaa” [Famous movies, modern drama]. Etelä-Suomen Sanomat, December 27, 1966.

Valto, Elisabet. “‘Sampo’ – elävää kulttuuria” [”Sampo” – living culture]. Ajankuvat 9 (1962): 6–7.

Veltheim, Katri. “Satiirin saunaa Petroskoin teatterissa” [A bathhouse of satire at Petrozavodsk Theater]. Uusi Suomi, November 6, 1968

Veltheim, Katri. “Teatteria Petroskoista” [Theater from Petrozavodsk]. Uusi Suomi, October 10, 1971.

“Vierailu Petroskoista” [A visit from Petrozavodsk]. Helsingin Sanomat, January 11, 1971.

Secondary literature

Caute, David. The Dancer Defects: The Struggle for Cultural Supremacy during the Cold War. Oxford University Press, 2003.

Gienow-Hecht, Jessica, and Mark Donfried. Searching for a Cultural Diplomacy. New York: Berghahn, 2010.

Golubev, Alexey, and Irina Takala. The Search for a Socialist El Dorado: Finnish Immigration to Soviet Karelia from the United States and Canada in the 1930s. Michigan State University Press, 2014.

Gould-Davies, Nigel. “The Logic of Soviet Cultural Diplomacy.” Diplomatic History 27, no. 2 (2003): 193–214.

Hyytiä, Osmo. Karjalais-Suomalainen Neuvostotasavalta 1940–1956 – Kansallinen tasavalta? [Karelian-Finnish Soviet Republic 1940–1956 – A national republic?]. Helsinki: Suomen historiallinen seura, 1999.

Kilin, Juri. Suurvallan rajamaa: Neuvosto-Karjala Neuvostovaltion politiikassa 1920–1941 [Borderland of a greatpower: Soviet Karelia in Soviet politics 1920–1941]. Rovaniemi: Pohjois-Suomen historiallinen yhdistys, 2001.

Kurki, Tuulikki. “Non-Russian Language Space and Border in Russian Karelian Litera­ture.” Culture Unbound 6, no. 6 (2014): 1095–121. doi: 10.3384/cu.2000.1525.1461095

Kurki, Tuulikki. Rajan kirjailijat — Venäjän Karjalan suomenkieliset kirjailijat tilan ja identiteetin kirjoittajina [Borderland authors – Finnish authors of Russian Karelia writing space and identity]. Helsinki: SKS, 2018.

Mikkonen, Simo. “Interference or Friendly Gestures? Soviet Cultural Diplomacy and Finnish Elections, 1945–56.” Cold War History 20, no. 3 (2020): 349–65. doi 10.1080/14682745.2019.1686613

Mikkonen, Simo. ”Kansallista kulttuuria elvyttämässä: Musiikki Viron, Latvian ja Suomen kulttuuriviikoilla 1967–1969” [Revitalising national culture: Music in Estonian, Latvian and Finnish cultural weeks 1967–1969]. Musiikki 53, no. 4 (2023): 17–53.

Mikkonen, Simo. “Te olette valloittaneet meidät!” Suomen ja Neuvostoliiton taidesuhteet 1944–1960 [”You have conquered us!” Art relations of Finland and the Soviet Union 1944–1960]. Helsinki: SKS, 2019.

Mikkonen, Simo. Äänirautaa rajalle – Musiikki, Suomi ja Neuvostoliitto 1960–1985 [Send in the troupes – Music, Finland and the Soviet Union 1960–1985]. Helsinki: SKS, 2025.

Nuotio, Kurt. Everstiksi epäilty mies [Suspected as KGB colonel]. Helsinki: Otava, 2016.

Nye, Joseph. “Public Diplomacy and Soft Power.” Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science 616, no. 1 (2008): 94–109.

Rentola, Kimmo. Niin kylmää että polttaa: Kommunistit, Kekkonen ja Kreml 1947–1958 [So cold that it burns: Communists, Kekkonen and Kremlin 1947–1958]. Helsinki: Otava, 1998.

Rinne, Arto. Karjalaan kaikonneita: Suomalaisten pakolaisten kohtaloita sukutarinana [Gone to Karelia: Tales from Finnish refugees as a family narrative]. Kuhmo: Juminkeko, 2021.

Shorokhova I. V. “K voprosu o gosudarstvennom finansirovanii teatral’nogo iskusstva v Karelii v kontse 1940-h – pervoi polovine 1960-h godov” [The issue of state support for dramatic art in Karelia from the late 1940s to the first half of 1960s]. Utshebnye zapiski petrozavodskogo gosudarstvennogo universiteta 1, no. 138 (2014): 29–33.

Takala, Irina. “Suomen kieli Venäjällä” [Finnish language in Russia]. In Suomi ja Venäjä 1808–1809, edited by Timo Vihavainen and Andrei Saharov, 358–82. Helsinki: Renvall-instituutti, 2008.

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1. 1 Caute, The Dancer Defects; Mikkonen, “Te olette valloittaneet meidät!”

2. 2 The abbreviation PFT is used here for the sake of convenience and to avoid mix-ups when speaking about Finnish theater and theaters in Finland.

3. 3 Golubev and Takala, The Search for a Socialist El Dorado.

4. 4 Mikkonen, “Te olette valloittaneet meidät!”; Mikkonen, Äänirautaa rajalle.

5. 5 He was an actor from 1957 to 1972, occasionally after 1987, and full time from 1993 to 1996.

6. 6 Before 1972, he was responsible for PFT’s propaganda work as the representative of the Communist Party. In 1972, he started working in the Karelian regional committee’s cultural section. From 1974 to 1979, he was the Vice Minister for Culture of the Karelian ASSR, and from 1979 to 1987, he served as Executive Director of the Kantele song and dance group.

7. 7 See, e.g., Nye, “Public Diplomacy”; Gienow-Hecht and Donfried, Searching for a Cultural Diplomacy.

8. 8 As many as 130,000 Finns lived in the USSR at the time, at least half of whom were in Karelia. Takala, “Suomen kieli Venäjällä.”

9. 9 Their story is recorded in Golubev and Takala, The Search for a Socialist El Dorado.

10. 10 Kilin, Suurvallan Rajamaa. The Finns were the first nationality targeted in Stalin’s purges.

11. 11 Rentola, Niin Kylmää Että Polttaa, 209–15; Kurki, “Non-Russian Language Space.” PFT’s funding changed notably from 1945 to 1965. Shorokhova, “K voprosu o gosudarstvennom f inansirovanii.” 29–33.

12. 12 Hyytiä, Karjalais-Suomalainen Neuvostotasavalta, 158–59.

13. 13 Kiiranen, Valtion Suomalainen Draamateatteri; Hyytiä, Karjalais-Suomalainen Neuvostotasavalta, 158. In 1970, the theater received a new generation of 14 actors trained in Leningrad. Kiiranen, Valtion Suomalainen Draamateatteri, 68. The last Soviet generation of actors in PFT graduated in 1985. Thus, they were trained in waves about every 15 years.

14. 14 Kiiranen, Valtion Suomalainen Draamateatteri, 37. See also William Hall, diary, February 3, 1965.

15. 15 William Hall, diary, February 2, 1966; PFT archive, National Archives of the Autonomous Republic of Karelia.

16. 16 Mikkonen, “Interference or Friendly Gestures?”

17. 17 Gould-Davies, “The Logic of Soviet Cultural Diplomacy.”

18. 18 Finnish Theater Museum, Eklund Collection. VOKS’ advertising package is dated September 15, 1951.

19. 19 Timonen, “Karjalan suomalainen teatteri.”

20. 20 William Hall, diary, e.g., entries on March 15, March 25, May 27, June 28, December 8, December 12, and December 27, 1965.

21. 21 Laurikainen, Uuno. Letter to the Finnish Ministry of Education, January 7, 1960. KA, SNS, folder 399. The plan was already drafted on November 26, 1959.

22. 22 “Karjalasta ja kauempaa”; Valto, “‘Sampo’ – elävää kulttuuria.”

23. 23 William Hall, diary, April 7, 1965.

24. 24 William Hall, diary, November 22, 1965.

25. 25 A list of employees of the State Finnish Drama Theater KASNT, who will travel to Finland for a tour in August 1976. KA, SNS, folder 145.

26. 26 Mikkonen, “Kansallista kulttuuria elvyttämässä.”

27. 27 Kiiranen, Valtion Suomalainen Draamateatteri, 27.

28. 28 William Hall, diary, October 23, 1965.

29. 29 “7.XI-6.XII.”

30. 30 The full title is The Persecution and Assassination of Jean-Paul Marat as Performed by the Inmates of the Asylum of Charenton under the Direction of the Marquis de Sade.

31. 31 Helin, “Suomalainen teatteri.”

32. 32 E.g., “7.XI-6.XII”; Helin, “Suomalainen teatteri.”

33. 33 Kiiranen, Valtion Suomalainen Draamateatteri, 55.

34. 34 Sevander, Liisa. Interview. April 30, 1993. Theater Museum, Eklund Collection.

35. 35 Haapaniemi, Ernest. Interview. April 29, 1994. Theater Museum, Eklund Collection.

36. 36 William Hall, diary, November 8, 1968.

37. 37 Rinne, Karjalaan kaikonneita, 96.

38. 38 William Hall, diary, August 31, 1966.

39. 39 William Hall, diary, November 20, 1966.

40. 40 “Teatterivierailu Petroskoista.”

41. 41 William Hall, diary, November 20, 1966.

42. 42 William Hall, diary, November 20, 1966.

43. 43 “Jyväskylän teatterin katsojamäärä nousi.”

44. 44 William Hall, diary, March 17, 1966.

45. 45 Reutsalo, Mauri. Letter from Reutsalo (Centre for Cultural Work) to the Soviet Ministry of Culture. October 27, 1967. KA, SNS, folder 85.

46. 46 Veltheim, “Satiirin saunaa”; Arpiainen, “Pyhän byrokratiuksen.”

47. 47 On the history of the theater, see e.g. Kiiranen, Valtion Suomalainen Draamateatteri. Soviet-era infor­ma­tional materials on the theater contain the same information.

48. 48 Kiiranen, Valtion Suomalainen Draamateatteri, 42.

49. 49 Handbill, Virtaset ja Lahtiset. Theater Museum, Eklund Collection, folder 36.

50. 50 Handbill, Viekää Tuhkakin Pesästä, Theater Museum, Eklund Collection, folder 36.

51. 51 The work had been accepted in principle in autumn 1967, when it received approval to be rehearsed (William Hall, diary, October 11, 1967). Rehearsals were postponed several times and were finally going to begin in earnest only in November 1969 (William Hall, diary, August 29, 1969). Finally, rehearsals were postponed again to January 1970, and the date of the premier was set for March 5, 1970 (William Hall, diary, January 5, 1970).

52. 52 Lev Kolmovsky was visiting Finland in 1967 and asked the Finnish (communist-leaning) artist Tapio Tapiovaara to make the sets for this play. Haimi, Toivo. Letter to Karvonen [n.d.]. KA, SNS, folder 85.

53. 53 William Hall, diary, October 11, 1967.

54. 54 Handbill, Under the Northern Star, Theater Museum, Eklund Collection, folder 36 (playbills).

55. 55 William Hall, diary, March 12, 1970.

56. 56 Kiiranen, Valtion Suomalainen Draamateatteri, 65–67. Kurki, Rajan kirjailijat, 247–65. Kurki has studied the novel Me karjalaiset (We, the Karelians) and its reception. The work subtly challenged the centralist interpretation of the Civil War. Of course, this could not be uttered publicly. The subtle nuances were probably missed by audiences during the tour in Finland.

57. 57 William Hall, diary, September 18, 1971.

58. 58 William Hall, diary, September 17, 1971.

59. 59 William Hall, diary, September 19, 1971.

60. 60 Siikala, “Itäkarjalainen kohtalonnäytelmä.”

61. 61 Veltheim, “Teatteria Petroskoista.”

62. 62 Gröndahl, “Karelsk dramas om gästspel.”

63. 63 Kajava, “Mäntylää petroskoilaisittain.”

64. 64 “Petroskoin teatteri esittää.”

65. 65 “Vierailu Petroskoista.”

66. 66 Kajava, “Outo, silti toimiva ‘Syntymäpäivä.’”

67. 67 Riik, “Petroskoilaisten Huijarit.”

68. 68 “Petroskoilaista radioteatteria.”

69. 69 Kajava, “Yksitoikkoinen metsästäjä.”

70. 70 William Hall, diary, October 6, 1969.

71. 71 William Hall, diary, June 15, 1976.

72. 72 “Kaksi kuukautta Petroskoissa.”

73. 73 Nuotio, Interview with the author.

74. 74 Nuotio, Everstiksi epäilty mies.

75. 75 Nuotio, Everstiksi epäilty mies, 80–81, 84.

76. 76 William Hall, diary, May 17, 1968.

77. 77 Nuotio, Everstiksi epäilty mies, 89–90.

78. 78 Nuotio, interview with the author; Nuotio, Everstiksi epäilty mies, 87–88.

79. 79 “Kaksi kuukautta Petroskoissa.”

80. 80 Nuotio, Everstiksi epäilty mies, 92.

81. 81 William Hall, diary, May 23, 1968.

82. 82 Meeting Notes.

83. 83 Nuotio, Interview with the author.

84. 84 William Hall, diary, April 23–May 27, 1969.

85. 85 Nuotio, interview with the author.

86. 86 Nuotio, interview with the author.

87. 87 Nuotio, interview with the author.

88. 88 Nuotio, Everstiksi epäilty mies, 291, 295.

89. 89 Nuotio, Everstiksi epäilty mies, 295.

90. 90 Handbill, Kalevala. Theater Museum, Eklund Collection, folder 36.

91. 91 Minutes of the theater section. August 26, 1974. KA? SNS, folder 145.

92. 92 Nuotio, Everstiksi epäilty mies, 349.

93. 93 “Kuopion kaupunginteatterin peruskorjaus.”

94. 94 Nuotio, Kurt. Letter to Riitta Korhonen. March 24, 1976. KA, SNS, folder 145.

95. 95 Lehtinen, Kalevi. Telegram to Kokonin (in Russian), August 24, 1976. KA, SNS, folder 145.

96. 96 Korhonen, Riitta. Telegram to Kokonin (in Russian), July 23, 1976. KA, SNS, folder 145.

97. 97 Kolmovsky, Lev. Letter to Kurt Nuotio (in Russian) [n.d.]. KA, SNS, folder 145.

98. 98 Nuotio, Everstiksi epäilty mies, 401.

99. 99 Kinnunen and Lepola, Paavo Liskin ohjaajavierailu.

Forced Knowledge Transfer: Ancient Near Eastern Studies and
German (Jewish) Displaced Scholars in Türkiye in the 1930s and 1940s*

Sebastian Willert

Leibniz Institute for Jewish History and Culture – Simon Dubnow

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Hungarian Historical Review Volume 15 Issue 1 (2026): 58-89 DOI 10.38145/2026.1.58

In the early 1930s, the Republic of Türkiye became a significant refuge for Jewish and oppositional scholars escaping Nazi persecution in Germany. Negotiations led by German pathologist Philipp Schwartz facilitated the relocation of around 1,000 academics to Türkiye, primarily to Istanbul and Ankara. This article focuses on two displaced German (Jewish) scholars in the discipline of Ancient Near Eastern Studies. Benno Landsberger, one of the most significant figures in the field of Assyriology, was removed from his position at Leipzig University by the Nazi regime in 1935. He secured a professorship in Ankara, where he established contact with the charity organization Notgemeinschaft Deutscher Wissenschaftler im Ausland (Emergency Association for German Scholars Abroad). Landsberger played a pivotal role in mentoring refugee scholars, including his former student Fritz Rudolf Kraus, who was employed by the Turkish Ministry of Education at the Archaeological Museum in Istanbul.

This article builds on the case studies of Landsberger and Kraus to explore the dynamics of knowledge production and transfer within Türkiye, particularly in the context of the experiences and contributions of displaced scholars. It focuses on the center-periphery relations between Istanbul and Ankara, elucidating how the dichotomy between the former Imperial capital and the emerging Republican center impacted the arrival and work of refugee academics. This micro-historical approach to the presence and impact of Landsberger and Kraus in Türkiye aims to examine a pattern of mentorship and knowledge transfer, Orientalist perspectives, and their implications for work relations. It uncovers the complex interactions between local and global actors, such as charity organizations, refugees, researchers, and state institutions, amidst the contentious identity policies prevalent in the first decades of the Kemalist Republic.

Keywords: forced academic migration, knowledge transfer, ancient Near Eastern studies, Türkiye, displaced scholars

In September 1938, Aziz Ogan (1888–1956), the director of İstanbul Arkeoloji Müzeleri (Istanbul Archaeological Museums), submitted a letter to the Turkish Millî Eğitim Bakanlığı (Ministry of National Education). In this document, Aziz Ogan indicated that he had received information regarding the recruitment of a certain “Vilhelm Kraus from Germany, who would take care of the conservation of metal and earthenware artefacts for a salary of 280 Lira.”1 The director expressed his apprehension regarding the decision to appoint a German scholar, a choice made in Ankara without prior consultation with the Directorate of Museums in Istanbul. He highlighted a Turkish employee who possessed comparable qualifications, had completed the necessary training in Germany, and was already active in the museum’s laboratory as a specialist, drawing a salary of 150 Lira.2 Against this background, as Aziz Ogan argued, hiring an expatriate at considerable expense would “discourage our current employees.”3 Furthermore, Kraus had already worked in the museum for one year and, according to the director, had not made a significant impact, having failed to produce a complete inventory of the clay tablets. Eventually, Aziz Ogan questioned the rationale behind bringing in foreign expertise when domestic scholars had already demonstrated value in their roles.

Given that there was no individual by the name of Vilhelm Kraus in the museum’s staff, Aziz Ogan was most likely referring to Fritz Rudolf Kraus (1910–1991), who joined the institution in 1937, following the mediation of his former supervisor and mentor, the Assyriologist Benno Landsberger (1890–1968).4 Landsberger and Kraus were scholars who had no prospects at German universities and research institutions due to the National Socialist regime and its discriminatory, racist, anti-Semitic policies. In 1935, the Nazis had already forcibly dismissed Benno Landsberger, a professor of Oriental Philology at the University of Leipzig, from his academic position. Despite having been shielded from premature retirement due to his military service in World War I, Landsberger received notification on April 29, 1935 from Martin Mutschmann (1879–1946), the Governor of Saxony, indicating his retirement as of April 10, a decision sanctioned by the Ministry of National Education.5 This action drew upon the Law for the Restoration of the Professional Civil Service, enacted on April 7, 1933, to lend an appearance of legal legitimacy to the process.6 The suddenness of his retirement prompted Landsberger to consider returning to his birthplace of Frýdek in Czechoslovakia, but ultimately, he opted to accept a professorship in Ankara.7 In Türkiye, Benno Landsberger made significant contributions to the academic landscape and played a crucial role in supporting fellow displaced scholars, leveraging his connections within Turkish governmental circles to advocate for the further admission of refugees to the country. In 1937, two years after his arrival, he brought his former student Fritz Rudolf Kraus to Istanbul as an employee of the Archaeological Museums. From 1941, Kraus held a teaching position at Istanbul University. During his time in Türkiye, Kraus navigated a complex relationship involving his superiors based in Istanbul and various archaeologists and state representatives in Ankara. He stayed until 1949, when he was appointed associate professor of ancient Semitic philology and Near Eastern archaeology at the University of Vienna. One year earlier, Landsberger had already moved to the Oriental Institute in Chicago.

This brief narrative offers an example of the ways in which the admission of refugee scholars was marked by significant conflict, particularly in the context of Istanbul’s Arkeoloji Müzeleri. This situation was shaped by two primary forces: the forced academic migration of German scholars fleeing Nazi Germany and the authoritative power and control exerted by Ankara’s Ministry over Istanbul’s museums, wherein the ministry made personnel decisions unilaterally without consulting the museum directorate. Additionally, factors such as the German-Ottoman/Turkish rivalry, as well as cooperation in archaeology and museums, influenced this dynamic. The Orientalist attitudes of the incoming scholars towards their Turkish colleagues and superiors further complicated the professional landscape within the institution.

Against this background, with a focus on Archaeology and Assyriology, this article examines the migration of displaced scholars and the forced transfer of knowledge to the Bosporus region, situating it within the broader context of nation-building and its impact on Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Türkiye. It explores the implications of historical German-Ottoman relations, Orientalist perceptions, and the dynamics of the center-periphery relations regarding Istanbul and Ankara. Against this backdrop, this study examines Landsberger’s contributions to the careers of his former students in Ankara and Istanbul. This initiative underscores the importance of mentorship, knowledge transfer and dissemination in advancing archaeological scholarship. It sheds light on relations between local and global actors and intergovernmental, state, and non-state organizations. Notably, students such as Fritz Rudolf Kraus played a significant role in transmitting their expertise to the Archaeological Museum in the former Ottoman capital while also engaging academically at the university. In this context, the analysis explores how the dynamics of the center-periphery relationship shaped his activities and experiences in Istanbul.

German (Jewish) Academic Migration to Türkiye:
Arrival on the Shores of the Bosporus

In the 1930s, Türkiye was perceived by many German displaced scholars as a marginal academic environment, positioned at the periphery of Europe with no “European” academic tradition. This perception led many scholars to pursue opportunities in regions viewed as more prestigious, such as the United Kingdom or the United States.8 However, Türkiye evolved into a crucial node for professional prospects and support networks that provided essential aid for refugees. This development presented a viable means of evading Nazi persecution amidst the genocidal threats prevalent in the area dubbed the Bloodlands by historian Timothy D. Snyder.9 To outline the emergence of Türkiye as a significant haven for refugee scholars, we need to direct our gaze to events that unfolded in Zurich in early 1933.10

In the spring of 1933, Philipp Schwartz (1894–1977), a professor of Patho­logy at the University of Frankfurt, received alarming warnings from a colleague regarding his imminent arrest by Nazi authorities.11 Consequently, Schwartz made the decision to flee Germany, relocating with his son to Zurich. They found refuge in the residence of Schwartz’s in-laws, where his wife and daughters joined them shortly thereafter.12 Although the immediate threat of persecution seemed diminished in Zurich, Schwartz was persistently confronted with di­stressing reports about the suspension, expulsion, arrest, maltreatment, and suicides of university faculty across Germany.13 By April 1933, he had observed that many of his colleagues, typically engaged in academic pursuits in cities such as Frankfurt am Main, Berlin, and Würzburg, had been displaced and were seeking work in Switzerland. Faced with the inadequate responses regarding the integration of refugees into Swiss universities, Schwartz and fellow professors recognized the necessity of taking matters into their own hands.14 Shortly after his arrival in Zurich, Schwartz, alongside notable figures such as Max Born (1882–1970), Kurt Goldstein (1878–1965), and Siegfried Walter Loewe (1884–1963), cofounded the Beratungsstelle für Deutsche Wissenschaftler (Advisory Point for German Scholars).15 This initiative later evolved into the aforementioned Notgemeinschaft Deutscher Wissenschaftler im Ausland, which became a vital resource for German-speaking scholars fleeing persecution.16

Within a few months, the organization had compiled a comprehensive card index cataloguing individuals at risk, including some already detained in Germany or seeking asylum in exile. With the establishment of this “self-help” organization, Schwartz received counsel from Josef Messinger, the cantor and religious teacher of the Jewish community in Bern. Messinger advised Schwartz to collaborate with Albert Malche (1876–1956), a Swiss educational reformer who was tasked with restructuring the Turkish university system in 1931.17 Prior to 1931, the Turkish system of higher education was centered around one university established during the Ottoman era in Istanbul. However, this institution was perceived as a challenge to the Kemalist leadership in Ankara.

The Dârülfünûn-i Şahane (Gate of Sciences) in Istanbul, established in 1900 and modeled after the French educational system, had become increasingly contentious in the face of Türkiye’s modernization efforts. Although the university initially maintained some autonomy amid the Kemalist reforms, it gradually became associated with an anti-Kemalist, reactionary and conservative faculty.18 In light of ongoing reform discussions and particularly following Malche’s proposals, the Turkish government sought to recruit foreign scholars willing to relocate to Istanbul, ultimately aiming to dissolve the Dârülfünûn in favor of a newly established university that would be able to compete with “Western” standards.19 In 1933, Malche set out to begin a contracted tenure in Istanbul to initiate this transition.20 With the assistance of the Swiss reformer, Schwartz engaged with representatives of the Turkish Millî Eğitim Bakanlığı and eventually with its Minister of Education, Reşit Galip (1892/93–1934).21 Sup­ported by Galip, Schwartz successfully negotiated the candidacies of ap­proxim­ately 30 scholars for positions in Istanbul.22 This development allowed the Turkish government to implement significant reforms in its higher education system, and, most importantly, to abolish the former Ottoman Dârülfünûn.

Schwartz later characterized the negotiations as a reciprocal exchange between “two organisms in solidarity.”23 During their discussions, Galip re­ferenc­ed the fifteenth-century expulsion of Byzantine scholars from Constanti­nople and its subsequent impact on the Renaissance. He argued that by welcoming these scholars and thus fostering the knowledge transfer initiated by the expulsion of German scholars by the Nazi Regime, Türkiye would be positioned to “receive a gift in return from Europe.”24 This arrangement proved mutually beneficial: while the Notgemeinschaft facilitated the employment of numerous professors in Türkiye, the Turkish government could leverage their expertise to initiate educational reforms. Schwartz captured the successful outcome in the phrase “not three, but 30,” indicating that a total of 30 professors at risk of Nazi persecution would be offered positions in Türkiye.25 The outcome of these ne­gotiations alleviated concerns for both Malche and representatives of the Not­gemeinschaft.26

Ultimately, the Dârülfünûn was officially dissolved on July 31, 1933, resulting in the dismissal of 157 faculty members, including 71 full professors.27 This action underscored the government’s dedication to reimagining higher education in alignment with its modernist agenda. On August 1, 1933, İstanbul Üniversitesi officially opened its doors, marking a new chapter in Türkiye’s academic landscape. While 27 Turkish professors were employed, 38 foreign professors started at the newly established university on the shores of the Bosporus, where they engaged in various disciplines, including medicine, natural sciences, law, economics, and the humanities.28 For the employment of foreign scholars, Ankara spent 2.4 million Turkish pounds between 1934 and 1938.29 The German Foreign Office initially viewed the emigration of German scholars to Türkiye positively, hoping it would enhance diplomatic relations with a potential ally against the Soviet Union. However, the appointment of predominantly Jewish academics sparked suspicion among Nazi officials. Following a failed attempt in 1934 to influence Ankara’s modernization efforts regarding İstanbul Üniversitesi, Herbert Scurla (1905–1981), a government councilor in the German Ministry of Education, was commissioned to inspect Türkiye in 1939.30 His mission aimed to influence appointment policies, but he encountered resistance from Turkish politicians. In the same year, many five-year fixed-term contracts for German-Jewish academics were extended. Simultaneously, Ankara used expiring contracts to enforce expulsions, particularly targeting Jewish refugees, highlighting the contradictory dynamics of academic migration and political pragmatism.31

In 1933, Schwartz himself migrated to Istanbul, where he assumed the position of Head of the Department of Pathology at İstanbul Üniversitesi and played a key role in the establishment of its medical faculty. As a representative of the Notgemeinschaft, Schwartz continued to provide support to members of his network (individuals who were victims of Nazi persecution) as they navigated their transition into exile in Türkiye. While economist Fritz Demuth (1876–1965) took over the Notgemeinschaft’s chairmanship, first in Zurich and later in London from 1936 onwards, Schwartz remained the organization’s representative in Istanbul.32 This role transformed the Notgemeinschaft into an advisory entity, facilitating interactions between Turkish state and governmental institutions and persecuted scholars. In collaboration with Malche, Schwartz was instrumental in laying the groundwork for academic appointments within Türkiye. His efforts thus contributed significantly to providing a temporary avenue of opportunity for a select group of persecuted academics, making him a crucial arrival broker.33 He played a pivotal role in organizing the immigration of refugee scholars fleeing Nazi rule to Türkiye. Following the establishment of İstanbul Üniversitesi, this initiative facilitated the systematic placement of scholars, their assistants, and family members in exile.34 Consequently, the Republic of Türkiye served as a largely temporary sanctuary for scholars escaping the oppressive climate of Nazi Germany between 1933 and 1945. During this time, approximately 800 to 1,000 German-speaking academics found refuge in the country, aided signifi­cant­ly by the Notgemeinschaft. It soon took part in a global response to this emerg­ing forced academic migration, as various charity and self-help organiza­tions were established across Europe and the United States to support and facilitate op­portunities for those affected.35 As part of a global network of charity organizations, its offices in Zurich, New York, and Istanbul became pivotal points of contact, providing recommendations to universities and developing support systems for persecuted academics.36

The collaboration between the Notgemeinschaft and the Turkish government merged into the recruitment of a significant number of displaced German scholars across various disciplines by Türkiye. From the perspective of the Kemalist regime, these scholars served the national initiative, which was to pro­fessionalize the system of higher education in Türkiye. It is important to note that from the outset, the Turkish government anticipated that the foreign experts, who were referred to as such in official contexts rather than as refugees or displaced scholars, would serve in Türkiye for a designated period. Their primary role was to educate future Turkish elites who would subsequently assume responsibility for the training of Turkish academics. Furthermore, these scholars were expected to adhere to the national agenda of fostering a homogenized Turkish identity. This expectation was particularly pronounced within the domain of archaeology, especially concerning the interpretation of ancient civilizations, but also the management of Ottoman heritage. The dissolution of the Ottoman university represents a significant component within the broader context of Ankara’s multifaceted social, historical, and sociopolitical interventions.

The Kemalist Approach to the Ottoman Legacy

Kemalist nation-building was characterized by a pronounced suppression of Ottoman heritage, yet, as articulated by Hakan Yavuz, the “imperial ghost” continued and continues to haunt both the Turkish state and Turkish society, a phenomenon that has persisted since the collapse of the Ottoman Empire.37 The origins of this haunting can be traced to the transition from empire to republic, which was fundamentally a “top-down initiative.”38 This metamorphosis was predicated on a policy of state-imposed amnesia: “The legacy of the Ottoman Empire, along with its cultural practices, was never fully debated due to the Republic’s policy of ‘forgetting the Ottoman past’ to forge a new national and secular (Turkish and Western) identity.”39 Although secularization efforts within the museum sector in Istanbul had commenced during İkinci Meşrutiyet, the post-1908/09 revolutionary Second Constitutional Period, museum stakeholders resisted the complete erasure of the Ottoman era from collective memory. This perspective underscores the Müze-i Hümayun’s (Imperial Museum) role in showcasing ancient Egyptian, Greek, and Roman art, which was subsequently demoted yet maintained as a testament to a diminishing imperial legacy. The emphasis on preserving Islamic art from specific historical periods (specifically Seljuk and Ottoman) represented a preliminary step in the nostalgic reclamation of other historical eras.40 Through the preservation and musealization of Islamic relics, museum director Halil Edhem (1861–1938) advocated for an understanding of Islamic rule as a shared yet predominantly influential past in shaping Ottoman identity. This focus on the construction of a “national heritage” ultimately served to legitimize the power of the Turkish Sunni elite over the diverse ethnic mosaic of the empire’s territorial expanse. An increasing opposition to European influences within the Ottoman Empire emerged, particularly on the eve of World War I.

Despite the political and geographical changes, exhibitions of prestigious artefacts continued to convey the cultural significance of regions or states. Halil Edhem, alongside his long-time collaborator Aziz Ogan, adeptly navigated the evolving political landscape to retain their scholarly agency. Collectively, they undertook a mission to excavate Türkiye’s ancient history, emphasizing the crucial role of Turkish archaeology in the national historical narrative.41 Although Ankara emerged as the focal point for these efforts, former Ottoman officials aligned themselves with the “socio-political agenda of creating a national identity from the outset” of the Turkish Republic.42 As Zygmunt Baumann later outlined, the aims of nationalism materialized in the 1920s and 1930s,43 wherein, with regard to Türkiye, the primary objective of the national archaeological museums’ politics of memory was to validate the nation’s claims to territorial sovereignty.44 This aim is encapsulated in the comments of Selahattin Kandemir in his 1933 work “Etiler” (Hititler; Hittites): “A tree that doesn’t have its roots deep in the soil cannot grow. The root of national power is national identity. What creates national identity is national history.”45

Turkish archaeologists collaborated across disciplines with scholars and intellectuals to construct a unified historical narrative. Their collective efforts culminated in the establishment of the Türk Tarih Kurumu (Turkish History Society) on June 4, 1930. One of the foundational aspirations of the early Republican nationalism was to encompass a broad array of cultures and historical lineages within the national narrative. The Türk Tarihinin Ana Hatları (Outline of Turkish History), completed in 1930, articulated a comprehensive territorial definition of the homeland of all Turks, asserting that “the homeland of the Turks is Asia.”46 Building on this premise, the publication addressed the influence of the “Turks” on various civilizations within this expansive continental context. This work laid the groundwork for the Türk Tarih Tezi (Turkish History Thesis), which permeated educational materials. In essence, the thesis romanticized and glorified Turkish history, positing that the Turks were an ancient people whose origins lay in Central Asia. Through a series of migrations, they eventually populated regions extending to present-day Türkiye, enriching local civilizations across diverse territories from China and India to the MENA region, the Balkans, and parts of Europe.47 The thesis also contended that the Turks were direct descendants of the Hittites and Sumerians, thereby legitimizing their influential role across various civilizations and territories, including the Aegean.48 Ultimately, this thesis functioned as a justification for territorial claims in Anatolia, while also reflecting a yearning for a homogenous society, representing the Turks as the “legitimate heirs” to these ancient civilizations.49

The first two decades of the Turkish Republic marked a significant chapter in the intersection of archaeology and national identity in Türkiye. This era was characterized by two primary objectives: the Kemalist initiative to forge a national identity and the simultaneous efforts to erase the Ottoman legacy. The Turkish state actively utilized archaeology as a tool for nation-building, prompting extensive efforts by archaeologists to uncover material evidence that would support this narrative. During this timeframe, several Turkish archaeological excavations were undertaken at sites deemed important to contribute to the burgeoning narrative of Turkish nationalism.50 The process of de-legitimizing the Ottoman legacy within the Republic of Türkiye reached its peak in the educational sector in 1933, when the Kemalist government made use of the re­cruit­­ment of German displaced scholars to systematically dismantle the

Dârülfünûn-i Şahane. This symbolized a significant power transition from the former Ottoman capital to the new republican center. Ankara, a remote Anatolian town during the Ottoman period, emerged as the epicenter of modern, secular republicanism, deliberately distancing itself from Istanbul’s imperial legacy. This shift consolidated power in Ankara, marginalized the Ottoman legacy in the former capital on the shores of the Bosporus, and established a new center-periphery dynamic. As Ankara became the political capital, it redefined the relationship between the two cities, positioning itself as the focal point of political authority while Istanbul remained the cultural and economic hub. This ongoing contention over resources and influence mirrored deep divides, which were further manifested in the positioning and personnel policies within museums.

Cultivating Foreign Expertise in Türkiye

“There is no doubt,” wrote Aziz Ogan to the Minister of National Education, Saffet Arıkan (1888–1947), in 1936, “that great importance has been attached to antiquities and museum affairs in our country since the proclamation of the [Turkish] Republic.”51 Expressing his regret over not having had the opportunity to meet with Arıkan in Ankara, the director of Istanbul’s Archaeological Museums emphasized that the minister had committed to visiting the museum in Istanbul. However, Aziz Ogan aimed to highlight an urgent issue regarding the education and training of Turkish students in the field of archaeology. He noted that while many young Turkish scholars were pursuing degrees in various archaeological departments, there was a critical need for the cultivation of qualified experts capable of conducting scientific research and the dissemination of knowledge on valuable and rare artefacts housed in Turkish museums. This included carpets, manuscripts, miniatures, weapons, ceramics, and tiles of Iranian, Chinese, Japanese, and European origins. Aziz Ogan stressed the importance of swift action in addressing this gap, stating, “If we are to rely on the Istanbul Archaeological Museums, I regret to say that we have no experts knowledgeable about the aforementioned works in the Topkapı Sarayı [Topkapı Palace] and other museums, nor do we have individuals capable of comprehending literature in Western languages pertinent to these subjects.”52 Consequently, Aziz Ogan urged the minister to prioritize “that a few of the young people sent to Europe for education should be trained as Orientalists,” thereby enhancing the expertise available in Türkiye’s cultural heritage institutions.53

In the 1930s, Turkish students participated in various exchange programs. However, Aziz Ogan’s call for a structured transfer of knowledge from Europe to Türkiye, specifically concerning the education of Turkish students in Ar­chaeology, yielded outcomes that diverged from his original intentions. Notably, a significant number of displaced German (Jewish) scholars who sought refuge in Türkiye included experts in disciplines such as Archaeology, Assyriology, and Near Eastern Studies. These scholars shared their expertise with Turkish students, but they also supported and fostered their own professional networks, thereby influencing the academic environment in their host country. The contributions of refugee scholars to the formation of arrival infrastructures in Türkiye are poignantly illustrated through the case study of Benno Landsberger, who migrated to Ankara in 1935, approximately one year before Aziz Ogan reached out to Saffet Arıkan. Although the specific circumstances surrounding Landsberger’s initial contact remain unclear, it is plausible that the Not­gemein­schaft might have played a role in facilitating Landsberger’s appointment as a professor at the newly established Dil ve Tarih-Coğrafya Fakültesi (Faculty of Language, History, and Geography).54 Faced with uncertainty regarding the acceptance of this invitation, Landsberger ultimately made the decision to move to Ankara, motivated by the hope to engage in scholarly endeavors in a peaceful setting.55 Upon his arrival in Türkiye, Landsberger encountered substantial challenges associated with forced migration and the practicalities of a forced knowledge transfer, particularly the language barrier. It was difficult for him as an exiled scholar to access his research materials, as he had been separated from these resources due to his displacement. To mitigate this, he organized shipments of his books from Saxony to Ankara and the purchase of parts of the library of his deceased academic teacher Heinrich Zimmern (1862–1931) to lay the found­ation for his academic work in exile.56 Moreover, the abrupt interruption of his research activities in Leipzig significantly impacted him, especially as his former institution denied him the opportunity to continue supervising his doctoral students.57 In December 1935, Landsberger communicated a sense of “despair” in a postcard to a student, expressing his isolation from academic develop­­ments in Germany and the lack of interaction with colleagues.58 He made efforts to maintain correspondence with former colleagues and students, despite the restrictions imposed by the National Socialist Regime that effectively precluded his return.59

Early in his exile, Landsberger voiced considerable anxiety regarding the prospect of isolation and his perception of being relegated to the periphery of the academic community to which he was accustomed. He felt increasingly disconnected from his prior projects, colleagues, and students. For Landsberger, as for many other academics seeking refuge in Türkiye, the country was initially envisioned as a temporary refuge, merely a stepping stone towards potential relocation to the United States. Consequently, he wrote an application for the position of “Chair for Semitic Languages” at Columbia University in New York shortly after his arrival in Ankara. Although the application is undated, it was likely composed in 1936.60 While this attempt to emigrate was either never thoroughly followed by Landsberger or ultimately unsuccessful, it may have facilitated his gradual acclimatization to his new environment. Subsequently, Landsberger made significant strides to adapt to life in Türkiye, acquiring proficiency in Turkish and beginning to teach and publish in the language.61 Additionally, he encountered further obstacles, particularly in the realm of archaeology, as scholars at Turkish universities were expected to align their research with national priorities. In this context, Landsberger was confronted with a central goal of early republican nationalism, which aimed to create a homogeneous cultural identity that would establish a historical connection to the state’s territory by constructing a coherent national narrative.

The state-sponsored focus on ancient civilizations, notably the Sumerians and Hittites, as the foundational roots of the “Turkish people” underscores a selective disregard for other significant ancient cultures. Landsberger critically examined the role of the Faculty of Language, History, and Geography at Ankara University, established in the academic year 1935–1936, asserting that its primary aim was to reinforce the prevailing state ideology.62 As previously outlined, this state initiative involved the construction of a narrative that emphasized the perceived superiority of Turkish culture through historical and linguistic research.63 In light of these developments, Mustafa Kemal (1881–1938) placed significant emphasis on the academic faculty. The passing of the Prime Minister in 1938 raised concerns for Kraus, who argued that the fields of Archaeology and Assyriology, represented by four professors in Türkiye, along with his own position at the museum, were a direct result of the Kemalist interest in archaeology and philology. Kraus feared that the future of these disciplines within the modern educational framework might be jeopardized or further constrained.64

While acknowledging the criticisms of the nationalist objectives and scientific methodologies prevalent in Turkish scholarship, Landsberger also recognized Türkiye’s potential as a refuge for individuals escaping the persecution of the Nazi regime in the mid-1930s. He identified a unique opportunity to act as a broker for refugees, advocating for the needs of persecuted Jews by facilitating local support systems and coordinating employment contracts. Fritz Rudolf Kraus, a former student of Landsberger at Leipzig University, was among the scholars whom he helped secure a position in Türkiye.

Fritz Rudolf Kraus in Istanbul

As an arrival broker, Landsberger played a crucial role in preparing, negotiating, and concluding Kraus’s contract, despite his former student’s hesitation regarding the work contract and the inherent relocation to Istanbul. Before agreeing to sign the contract, which was initially limited to ten months, Kraus sought the opinion of his former professor. From Ankara, Landsberger referenced the views of Paul Koschaker (1879–1951), a lawyer and legal historian affiliated with the University of Leipzig and subsequently with the Seminar for Oriental Legal History in Berlin.65 Aware of the limited options available to those facing per­secution, Landsberger encouraged Kraus to sign the contract. Additionally, he provided Kraus with essential practical advice concerning his impending arrival in Istanbul.66

In preparation for his possible relocation to the Bosporus, Kraus undertook several inquiries in Leipzig. He solicited his father’s opinion by sending a draft of the contract with Reşat Şemsettin (1903–1953), a representative from Ankara’s Ministry of Education. He also took into consideration the necessary permits for his travel, including the deregistration from military service. He meticulously measured his books to ascertain the logistics of their shipment to Istanbul.67 Ultimately, Landsberger succeeded in persuading Kraus to accept the position in Türkiye, reiterating the importance of signing the contract.68 Landsberger further recommended that Kraus establish contact with his future employer, the archaeologist Aziz Ogan, prior to his departure for Istanbul.69 Eventually, on July 14, 1937, Kraus formalized his contract with the Turkish Ministry of Culture in the building of the Turkish Embassy in Berlin, subsequently arriving in Istanbul on July 28 and commencing his work at the İstanbul Arkeoloji Müze­leri on August 2.70 Throughout his transitional process, Kraus received consistent support from his doctoral supervisor, Landsberger. This assistance included recommendations for local contacts and a commitment to provide financial support until Kraus received his first salary, facilitating his settlement and the management of living expenses.71 Notably, Kraus arrived in Istanbul without any financial reserves, having not received payment by the end of August 1937, which led him to accept Landsberger’s offer.72 Additionally, as noted by Jan Schmidt, Kraus benefited from financial aid provided by the Notgemeinschaft during his time in Istanbul.73

The correspondence between Landsberger and Kraus also contained internal information regarding work contexts in Istanbul and Ankara. Kraus reported to Landsberger that he had had a conflict with his supervisor, Aziz Ogan, on the very first day of his appointment, suggesting that the clash could have been avoided had he possessed more experience in the “Orient.”74 Kraus expressed dissatisfaction with his superior’s apparent lack of commitment and voiced concerns over the task of cataloguing the museum’s entire collection of clay tablets, a duty that fell short of his professional expectations and standards. He relayed that such a task could be accomplished by anyone, implying a perceived misallocation of his expertise.75 Kraus further highlighted the in­adequacy of Ogan’s understanding of the necessary actions and objectives associated with the role, pointing to an arrogance and Orientalist perception on his part in relation to his Turkish supervisor.76 In contrast, Aziz Ogan brought considerable experience to the role, having trained under Halil Edhem, the director of the Müze-i Hümayun (Imperial Museum, now İstanbul Arkeoloji Müzeleri) in Istanbul, and, eventually, becoming his successor as museum director in Istanbul. Aziz Ogan was instrumental in advocating for the autonomy and independence of Ottoman archaeology against foreign influences, actively opposing the paternalistic attitudes and notions of inferiority promoted by Prussian-German archaeologists toward Ottoman and Turkish scholars.77 Aziz Ogan had collaborated with German archaeologists on efforts to preserve archaeological sites in Syria in 1917–18, and after 1923, Ogan played a significant role in establishing the Archaeological Museum in Smyrna/Izmir.78 Both he and Halil Edhem later resisted the republican government’s neglect of Ottoman heritage. During the Late Ottoman Empire, Aziz Ogan and Halil Edhem had disappointing encounters with Prussian-German archaeologists. The latter refused to perceive Ottoman colleagues as equals and prioritized the scramble for objects for their own metropole.79 Potentially, the appointment of Fritz Rudolf Kraus was reminiscent of this unpleasant memory for the Turkish archaeologist Aziz Ogan, who perceived the presence of the young refugee scholar in his institution critically. However, he did not directly pursue Kraus’s dismissal, but rather appeared to acquiesce to the presence of the foreign scholar and the role of the central government in Ankara in determining personnel choices.

Aziz Ogan expressed dissatisfaction regarding the decision by Ankara to employ German archaeologists at the Archaeological Museum in Istanbul, further complicating his professional engagement with Kraus.80 From the onset of their collaborative work, contrasting perspectives on work and scientific endeavors emerged, resulting in initial tensions that also influenced relationships with other Turkish colleagues at the museum. Kraus perceived that Ogan re­garded him as an unwelcome presence, a view compounded by the belief that he had been assigned to assist the director against his will and was viewed pejoratively as Landsberger’s “young man,” tasked with performing scientific labor. Kraus characterized the atmosphere at the Istanbul Museum as “hostile to Ankara and reactionary,” suggesting a reluctance among staff to engage with him due to their perceived inadequacies in his field of expertise.81 He noted the overarching desire among Turkish colleagues to remain unperturbed by someone who was both diligent and knowledgeable, which he believed created a sense of embarrass­ment regarding their own professional capabilities.82 This climate was reflected in assertions made in articles published in the national daily newspaper Cumhuriyet (Republic), which promoted the view that scientific contributions at Turkish universities should originate from capable “Turkish scholars” trained in Ankara, Istanbul, and Europe.83

Kraus’s arrival at the museum coincided with the—for Kraus—unfortunate circumstance of Samuel Noah Kramer (1897–1990), a Sumerologist dismissed from the University of Chicago, being awarded a Guggenheim Foundation scholarship to research the clay tablet collection at the Istanbul Archaeological Museum from 1937 to 1938. According to Kraus, Kramer offered to undertake the cataloguing responsibilities assigned to Kraus, further complicating the position of the refugee scholar.84 For decades, the tablets had received minor attention. A pivotal moment occurred when Landsberger dedicated his efforts to the collections and successfully obtained support from the Ministry of Culture and Education for systematic preservation and cataloguing. Landsberger’s commitment was not solely rooted in his passion for academic advancement; it stemmed from a desire to foster educational opportunities for his Turkish students and to employ Kraus.85

Notably, Fritz Rudolf Kraus did not report any instances of anti-Semitic remarks or acts by his Turkish superiors or colleagues in his correspondence with Landsberger or family members. However, like many Jewish scholars in Türkiye, he spent his years in exile in a degree of isolation from Turkish society.86 Despite professional contacts, his personal interactions primarily involved other foreign exiles, contributing to a sense of separation. The distanced position of many exiled scholars from non-persecuted Germans did not shield them from anti-Semitism in their immediate environment.87 Kraus’s attempts to engage with Istanbul University for seminars and potential professorship were met with animosity from German professor Helmuth Bossert (1889–1961), who exhibited a widely criticized affinity for the National Socialist Regime and expressed reluctance to allow Kraus, whom he referred to derogatorily as a “half-Jew,” to participate in his academic seminars or assume a position as a colleague.88 This resistance from Bossert, combined with the uncertain status of Kraus’s contract, exacerbated the challenges Kraus faced during his period of exile. However, Bossert was employed by the Turkish government to publish Hittite sources, and he incited controversy with certain aspects of his theoretical contributions.89

(En-)Forced External Expertise

Kraus’s appointment by the Ankara authorities generated some concerns, particularly among the Museum’s staff and Aziz Ogan. As noted at the beginning, the museum director informed Ankara of the presence of a Turkish employee assuming Kraus’s responsibilities at a reduced salary. In seeking employees for the workshops at the museums, as Aziz Ogan underlined, the directorate would prioritize individuals who embodied modesty and were inclined to serve as assistants rather than those aspiring to senior positions with high salaries. Since the director’s appointment at the museum, he was committed to sustaining the laboratory’s operations, which played a pivotal role in training specialists from within the community of Turkish scholars. Aziz Ogan explained that his commitment would stem from his conviction that significant and reliable results could only be expected from individuals who were familiar with the Turkish language and cultural context. However, since he was unable to ascertain the exact impact of Kraus on the museum, he proposed that the directorate’s perspective would be solicited regarding future personnel brought into the museum.90

In his efforts to secure academic opportunities for Kraus, Benno Landsberger, Kraus’s former doctoral advisor, lobbied the Turkish authorities and collaborated with Cevat Dursunoğlu (1892–1970), General Advisor for Higher Education Affairs at the Turkish Ministry of Education.91 Consequently, the decision was made to appoint Kraus to the Istanbul Archaeological Museums. This ap­point­ment, however, was executed unilaterally by the authorities and faced considerable opposition from the museum’s administration, especially Aziz Ogan, who per­ceived it as a threat to his autonomy and asserted his right to manage personnel decisions independently.

The response to the complaint was unequivocal. On September 15, 1938, Saffet Arıkan addressed the matter by sending a letter to Istanbul. In his reply, Arıkan acknowledged the request made by Aziz Ogan, expressing his esteem for the museum director as both a colleague and a friend. Nevertheless, he emphasized that he put his “primary duty above all else.” Ultimately, he insisted that he was “the superior who will decide whether to seek an opinion […].”92 Arıkan concluded his message with a firm assertion of this commitment: “I hope this letter will be the first and last of its kind from you.”93 There is no documented evidence indicating that Aziz Ogan made further attempts to appeal Kraus’s appointment. However, the museum director persisted in creating barriers for Kraus, notably by not applying in a timely manner for the extension of his contract upon expiration. The archival records substantiate Kraus’s unstable contractual status, particularly given that his contract underwent annual renewal between 1940 and 1949.94 These manipulative tactics proved largely ineffective, however, as Kraus consistently secured contract renewals through his networks in Ankara, albeit often under conditions that provided only minimal stability.

Kraus sought to leverage his position and professional connections to influence not only the terms of his contract but also the personnel decisions within the museum. In April 1941, on the day of the signing of a new contract, Kraus wrote to his mentor, Landsberger, indicating that the new agreement was valid for only nine months, despite the Ministry of Culture having the authority to conclude a one-year contract. Kraus expressed his discontent with this small “‘security’- and recovery period,” labeling it “unpleasant.”95 Additionally, the new contract introduced a stipulation that prohibited the publication of museum texts without prior permission, a restriction that extended beyond the duration of the contract itself, whereas previously, such a prohibition was applicable only during the term of the agreement.96

Kraus utilized his correspondence to convey information to Landsberger regarding recent personnel developments, particularly addressing “the question of müzecilik [museum service].”97 In addition to his role in cataloguing clay tablets, Kraus’s new employment contract mandated that he also oversee the training of graduates in Sumerology and Assyriology. Kraus expressed concerns over the ambiguity of this requirement, characterizing the two academics involved, Muazzez İlmiye Çığ (1914–2024) and Hatice Kızılyay, as “decent, well-behaved, docile,” yet he contested their ambition. He noted that their work ethic resembled “that of younger schoolchildren who have been left unsupervised for 14 months.”98 Kraus further critiqued the prevailing practices within the museum, highlighting a pattern of tardiness and early departures among the staff. He gave an unfavorable evaluation of their performance, remarking that they typically managed to catalogue only 100 to 120 edited Boğazköy tablets, a figure he deemed inadequate, as he anticipated a yield three times greater.99 Additionally, Kraus lamented a pervasive attitude centered on “hakkimiz” (our rights), contrasting it with the absence of discourse regarding “vazifemiz” (our duties).100

In his critique of academic education in Türkiye, Kraus underscored a prevailing tendency in the field that individuals were not expected to develop independent capabilities. Specifically, he noted that as “Etitoloji şubesi mezun” (Graduates of the Department of Hittitology), they had been assured of the opportunity to engage with Hittitological collections in cities such as Istanbul or Ankara. Nevertheless, their aspirations did not align with roles as museum officials; instead, they expressed a desire to collaborate on unedited Hittite texts. Kraus was tasked with providing private instruction in Akkadian and Sumerian, with the intention of transferring his expertise to these graduates. He expressed concern regarding their apparent reluctance to engage with subjects beyond their established focus. In this context, Kraus highlighted a critical discrepancy between his contractual obligations and the expectations placed upon him. According to a stringent interpretation of his employment agreement, he found himself under no formal obligation to assist the two graduates of Hittitology, who were anticipated to acquire knowledge of “müzecilik,” probably referring to the training in conservation, from him. This situation placed Kraus in a precarious position, as he was mandated to file monthly reports while being cognizant of a clause in his contract that allowed for dismissal without compensation on grounds of “muvaffakiyetsizlik” (failure).101 Kraus ultimately conveyed to Landsberger that the Directorate of Antiquities in Ankara was progressing towards establishing a coherent concept, perspective, and com­mitment regarding the field of museum studies.102 He expressed dissatisfaction with the vagueness of the obligations outlined in his employment contract, seeking clarity regarding his responsibilities. Kraus remarked, “The emergence of the first graduates from the Ankyran [Ankara] faculty, who are now serving as the initial cohort of Turkish museum professionals educated in scientific methodologies yet lacking a clear vision of interest in their future careers, presents an unfortunate spectacle. They are essentially spending their time in museum positions, subsisting on modest state-provided salaries.”103 Furthermore, Kraus emphasized the need for museum officials to receive proper training within Türkiye, urging Landsberger to advocate for this initiative in Ankara.104

Kraus perceived his “museum service-duties” as a cumbersome obligation. To navigate this challenge, he proposed fulfilling his contractual requirements through a one-hour lecture.105 Landsberger viewed this as a valuable opportunity for Kraus to expand his knowledge and remarked, “Should you acquire and disseminate a general understanding of museum practices, informed by the journals you have discovered and the numerous experiences you have gained from various museum impressions, it would be highly beneficial. Such an endeavor would neither hinder the consolidation of your expertise, as I had anti­cipated and you agreed upon, nor conflict with your contractual com­mit­ments.”106

The correspondence ultimately highlights that Kraus aimed to utilize his time at the museum to impart his knowledge to Turkish experts. However, this desire for knowledge transfer was complicated by precarious employment contract conditions and ambiguous language regarding Kraus’s responsibilities. On the one hand, Kraus’s strong sense of duty motivated his commitment to the dissemination of knowledge; on the other hand, he harbored concerns about potential contractual repercussions (specifically, the risk of contract termination) should he be deemed in breach of contract while working in Istanbul. In contrast, the situation in Ankara presented a different dynamic, as Landsberger found himself overwhelmed with a heavy workload, mainly focusing on the education of future Turkish Assyriologists. Landsberger expressed concern for the upcoming academic years, highlighting his commitment to completing “three to five doctoral theses, a history lecture, a history seminar, and various doctoral and other classes.”107 In his correspondence, Landsberger addressed the involvement of Muazzez İlmiye Çığ and Hatice Kızılyay, referring to their role in the museum as the “chapter of deficiency.”108 He assured Kraus of his intention to investigate the issue further and contended that the contributions of both women to the museum were limited. He proposed that one be reassigned to a different position, possibly as a librarian. Additionally, he recommended that the other focus on the organization of the clay tablet collection, suggesting her appointment as the ad­ministrator for this initiative.109

The displaced scholars’ initiatives demonstrate that they actively sought to influence the personnel decisions within the museum, despite the repercussions these decisions had for Turkish employees. This engagement not only facilitated operational responsibilities but also contributed to enhancing the museum’s overall effectiveness and its training programs. Ultimately, the advocacy by Landsberger, who collaborated with Hans Gustav Güterbock (1908–2000) to lobby the ministry in Ankara, was pivotal. They persuasively contended that they had been given tasks that did not suit their expertise. Landsberger suggested appointing Hatice as Kraus’s assistant, while Muazzez was deemed “unsuitable” for roles as a librarian or bibliographer. Nevertheless, both scholars remained within the museum’s services and, in 1952, they collaborated with Kraus and later Landsberger to publish a work on clay tablets from Nippur.110

In addition to his museum work, Kraus, like Landsberger, received the chance to transition gradually to a more active role in teaching, and he was appointed by the university to teach courses in Ancient Near Eastern History. His lectures drew significantly on the discoveries made during his cataloguing endeavors in the Archaeological Museums. Kraus got his first experience as a teacher in 1940, when he participated informally and without compensation in a seminar on the Cimmerians. Initially, Kraus instructed in German and utilized an interpreter to communicate with students. Eventually, he adapted and began delivering his lectures in Turkish. After approximately one and a half years of advocacy from Landsberger at the Ministry of Education in Ankara, Kraus secured a position as a paid assistant lecturer in Sumerian and Assyrian at Istanbul University in January 1942. The initial contract was set to expire on May 31, 1943, but it was subsequently renewed.111 Kraus held his first class on March 9, 1942, within the Dolmabahçe Palace premises, as the old structure on the university campus in Beyazıt had been deemed unsafe and later succumbed to fire. He typically had between 30 to 50 students in his classes, predominantly female. The educational contributions of German Assyriologists, Hittitologists, and Archaeologists, including Landsberger, Güterbock, and Kraus, formed to a large extent the foundation for the study of Sumerology, Assyriology, and related fields in Türkiye. These academic disciplines continue to be a vital part of the curriculum at Turkish universities today. As Jan Schmidt noted, among the most notable students of Landsberger, Güterbock, and Kraus was Muazzez İlmiye Çığ, who was initially intended to be trained as a conservationist under Kraus’s mentorship. In addition, several other scholars engaged with Kraus during his presence in Istanbul, including Mustafa Kalaç, Halet Çambel (1916–2014), Emin Bilgiç (1916–1996), and Muhibbe Darga (1921–2018).112

Conclusion

The experiences of refugee scholars in Kemalist Türkiye during the 1930s and 1940s offer a revealing case study of significant and multifaceted engagement with forced knowledge transfer. The experiences of Benno Landsberger in Ankara and Fritz Rudolf Kraus in Istanbul exemplify the diverse attitudes of Turkish authorities, institutions, and colleagues toward foreign expertise, ranging from full support of newly arrived individuals to concerted efforts to impede their prospects. Simultaneously, the case studies of Landsberger and Kraus represent a pattern of knowledge transfer and show the impact of Jewish refugee scholars in Türkiye. While operating within the framework of Turkish state doctrine, which was centered around the homogenization of the country, both Landsberger and Kraus played instrumental roles in mentoring a generation of scholars, thereby ensuring the continuation and evolution of scholarly traditions in Türkiye. Ultimately, their contributions not only advanced the academic profession but also laid the groundwork for a scientific infrastructure that could compete on a global scale, echoing the aspirations of the Kemalist vision for a modern Türkiye. The arrival of persecuted scholars from Nazi Germany enriched the academic landscape in the host country and contributed to the modernization of higher education.

Despite varying degrees of acceptance, it is evident that Turkish authorities recognized the invaluable opportunity presented by these refugee academics and sought to harness their expertise to advance the nation’s academic and identity-political ambitions. This strategic instrumentalization of the brain drain from Nazi Germany allowed the Turkish state to dismantle the remnants of the Ottoman Dârülfünûn and to implement crucial reforms that aligned with Kemalist ideals. The involvement of various state authorities on the Turkish side and the non-governmental Notgemeinschaft underscores the collaborative efforts that facilitated this transformative process. To facilitate the effective transfer of knowledge in Near Eastern Studies, Landsberger leveraged his distinctive position in Ankara to establish an infrastructure for newcomers. This initiative was supported by his network of contacts within Turkish ministries, enabling a robust framework for collaboration, influence, and information exchange. In this context, it is noteworthy that Landsberger relied on Cevat Dursunoğlu and Saffet Arıkan to advocate on behalf of his protégés.113 Si­multaneously, he engaged with the Notgemeinschaft to develop a support infra­­structure that aimed to maintain a high degree of independence from Turkish government agencies and representatives.

Despite the underlying homogenizing tendencies of the Kemalist project, scholars like Landsberger and Kraus used their positions to establish collaborative efforts and influence educational practices, thereby enriching the academic landscape. While some correspondence, such as that of Fritz Rudolf Kraus, reveals an Orientalist perspective, the overall contributions of these exiled scholars to the training of Turkish professionals and the development of archaeology and Near Eastern Studies in Türkiye reflect the positive outcomes of this enforced knowledge transfer.

Within this delicate atmosphere, refugee scholars faced extreme uncertainties and had little space for their resilience. Still, they contributed extensively to knowledge production in their host country in the case of Ancient Near Eastern Studies in the 1930s and 1940s and left their imprint on the system of higher education in Türkiye.

Archival Sources

Archiv für Zeitgeschichte, ETH Zürich (AfZ)

IB JUNA-Archiv/HD 1167

Universität Leipzig, Altorientalisches Institut, Landesberger Archives (AINES-LU)

Boğaziçi Üniversitesi Arşiv ve Dokümantasyon Merkezi [Boğaziçi University Archives and Documentation Center] (BÜADM-AOK)

OGNIST0103802

Politisches Archiv des Auswärtigen Amts (PA-AA)

RAV 107/163

T.C. Cumhurbaşkanlığı Devlet Arşivleri Başkanlığı, Cumhuriyet Arşivi [Turkish Presidency State Archives of the Republic of Türkiye, Republic Archives Department], Ankara (TCDA-CA)

30-18-1-2/34-16-7, 30-18-1-2/90-18-10; 30-18-1-2/99-69-19; 30-18-1-2/101-16-4; 30-18-1-2/101-33-8; 30-18-1-2/102-43-17; 30-18-1-2/105-38-13; 30-18-1-2/110-27-9; 30-18-1-2/116-20-4; 30-18-1-2/118-105-16

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Schmidt, Jan. “Fritz Rudolf Kraus in Istanbul (1937–1949) and the Development of Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Turkey.” Bibliotheca Orientalis 67, no. 1–2 (2010): 5–22. doi 10.2143/BIOR.67.1.2052734

Schwartz, Philipp. Notgemeinschaft: Zur Emigration deutscher Wissenschaftler nach 1933 in die Türkei. Marburg: Metropolis, 1995.

Snyder, Timothy. Bloodlands: Europe between Hitler and Stalin. New York: Basic Books, 2010.

Streck, Michael P. “Altorientalistik.” In Geschichte der Universität Leipzig 1409–2009, vol. 4, Fakultäten, Institute, Zentrale Einrichtungen, edited by Ulrich von Hehl, Uwe John, and Manfred Rudersdorf, 345–66. Leipzig: Leipziger Universitätsverlag, 2009.

Strohmeier, Martin. “Der zeitgeschichtliche und politische Rahmen der türkischen Universitätsreform und die Rolle der deutschen Wissenschaftsemigranten.” In Deutsche Wissenschaftler im türkischen Exil: Die Wissenschaftsmigration in die Türkei 1933–1945, edited by Christopher Kubaseck, and Günter Seufert, 67–75. Würzburg: Ergon Verlag, 2016.

Şen, Faruk, and Dirk Halm, eds. Exil unter Halbmond und Stern: Herbert Scurlas Bericht über die Tätigkeit Deutscher Hochschullehrer in der Türkei während der Zeit des Nationalsozialismus. Essen: Klartext, 2007.

Tanyeri-Erdemir, Tuğba. “Archaeology as a Source of National Pride in the Early Years of the Turkish Republic.” Journal of Field Archaeology 31, no. 4 (2006): 381–93.

Türk Tarihinin Ana Hatları [Outline of Turkish history]. Edited by Afet Hanım, Mehmet Tevfik, Samih Rifat, Akçura Yusuf, Reşit Galip, Hasan Cemil, Sadri Maksudi, Şemsettin Bey, Vasıf Bey, and Yusuf Ziya. Istanbul: Devlet Matbaası, 1930.

Vacín, Luděk, and Jitka Sýkorová. The Unknown Benno Landsberger: A Biographical Sketch of an Assyriological Altmeister’s Development, Exile, and Personal Life. Leipziger Alt­orientalische Studien 10. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2018.

Veenhof, Klaas R. “Fritz Rudolf Kraus (21.3.1910–19.1.1991).” Archiv für Orientforschung 38–39 (1991): 262–65.

Verein Aktives Museum Berlin, editor. Haymatloz. Exil in der Türkei, 1933–1945 Schriften­reihe des Vereins Aktives Museum 8. Berlin: Verein Aktives Museum, 2000.

Widmann, Horst. Exil und Bildungshilfe: Die deutschsprachige akademische Emigration in die Türkei nach 1933. Mit einer Bio-Bibliographie der emigrierten Hochschullehrer im Anhang. Bern: H. Lang; Frankfurt am Main: P. Lang, 1973.

Willert, Sebastian. “The Archaeology of the Imperial Past: ‘Nostalgizing’ in the German and Turkish Museums of the Interwar Period.” Acta Universitatis Carolinae – Studia Territorialia 2 (2023): 11–41. doi 10.14712/23363231.2023.14

Willert, Sebastian. Kulturbesitz: Konflikte um archäologische Objekte in der deutsch-osmanischen Politik, 1898–1918. Göttingen: Wallstein Verlag, 2024.

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1. 1 Boğaziçi Üniversitesi Arşiv ve Dokümantasyon Merkezi, Aziz Ogan Koleksiyonu (hereafter BÜADM-AOK), OGNIST0103802, Aziz Ogan to Saffet Arıkan, no place, 3.9.[1]938.

2. 2 BÜADM-AOK, OGNIST0103802, Aziz Ogan referred to Nurettin Akbulut (1898–1977). For Akbulut’s contribution to conservation of cultural assets in Türkiye: Yarlıgaş, “Türkiye’de Kültür Varlıkları Konservasyonunun.”

3. 3 BÜADM-AOK, OGNIST0103802, Aziz Ogan to Saffet Arıkan, no place, 3.9.[1]938.

4. 4 For biographical overviews, see Veenhof, “Fritz Rudolf Kraus,” 262–65; Güterbock, “Benno Lands­berger,” 203–6.

5. 5 University Archive Leipzig (hereafter UAL), PA 0676, 85, Geyer to Benno Landsberger, Dresden, April 29, 1935. See also: UAL, Data Sheet Benno Landsberger, Leipzig, n. date, ibid., 1.

6. 6 UAL, PA 0676, 85, Geyer to Benno Landsberger, Dresden, April 29, 1935.

7. 7 Vacín, Landsberger, 5 and 65.

8. 8 Fischer-Defoy, “Notgemeinschaft,” 31; Widmann, Exil und Bildungshilfe.

9. 9 Snyder, Bloodlands.

10. 10 In this context, it is important to note that Türkiye also served as a refuge for Hungarian academics persecuted by the Nazi regime. For instance, in 1934, the legal scholar András Bartalan Schwarz (1886–1953) accepted a position as an instructor of Roman and comparative law at İstanbul Üniversitesi. In 1933, he was deprived of his professorship at the University of Freiburg (Breisgau) by the National Socialists. He subsequently migrated to England, where he taught in London and Oxford. Hamza, “András Bartalan Schwarz (1886–1953).” Furthermore, the Turkish government invited Hungarian experts to assist in the modernization of different sectors of the country, including the system of higher education, administration, and infrastructure. Emre Saral provides a “List of Hungarian experts appointed by the Council of Ministers.” Saral, “Türkiye-Macaristan ilişkileri,” 472–96. For general research on Hungarian-Turkish relations in the 1930s, see: Karagülmez, Türkiye-Macaristan siyasi ilişkileri and Çolak, “Atatürk döneminde kültürel, siyasi ve ekonomik bakımdan Türk-Macar ilişkileri (1919–1938).”

11. 11 Schwartz, Notgemeinschaft, 39; Pauli et al., “Philipp Schwartz,” 550.

12. 12 Schwartz, Notgemeinschaft, 40.

13. 13 Ibid.

14. 14 Ibid.

15. 15 Archiv für Zeitgeschichte (hereafter AfZ), ETH Zürich, Schriftgut: IB JUNA-Archiv/HD 1167, Uebersicht über die Tätigkeit der Notgemeinschaft Deutscher Wissenschaftler im Auslande, Zürich, während des Jahres 1933/34, Zürich, 1. Mai 1934, 1. See also: Benzenhöfer et al., Goldstein, 24, footnote 36; Schmidt, “Fritz Rudolf.”

16. 16 Schwartz, Notgemeinschaft, 42; Fischer-Defoy, “Prolog,” 11; Guttstadt, Türkei, 213; Benzenhöfer et al., Goldstein, 23–26.

17. 17 AfZ, Schriftgut: IB JUNA-Archiv/HD 1167, Uebersicht über die Tätigkeit der Notgemeinschaft 1933/34, Zürich, 1. Mai 1934, 1. See also: Peukert, “Einleitung,” 12. In detail: Schwartz, Notgemeinschaft, 41–43. See also: Guttstadt, Türkei, 212–14; Kreft, “Der vergessene Retter,” 124–25. About Messinger, see: Abelin, “Messinger, Josef.”

18. 18 Guttstadt, Türkei, 212–13, 213 Fn. 204. About Dârülfünûn’s history: Kuran, “Küçük Said Paşa,” 125; İhsanoğlu, Darülfünun; İhsanoğlu, The House of Science; Yalçın, Entwicklungstendenzen.

19. 19 Guttstadt, Türkei, 213.

20. 20 T.C. Cumhurbaşkanlığı Devlet Arşivleri Başkanlığı, Cumhuriyet Arşivi (hereafter TCDA-CA), Ankara, 30-18-1-2/34-16-7, Decree Mustafa Kemal, Ankara, 13 March 1933.

21. 21 Schwartz, Notgemeinschaft, 44–45.

22. 22 Ibid., 45.

23. 23 Ibid., 46.

24. 24 Ibid., 47.

25. 25 Ibid.

26. 26 Ibid., 47–48.

27. 27 Schwartz, Notgemeinschaft, 41–43; Peukert, “Einleitung,” 12; Guttstadt, Türkei, 212–14; Konuk, Auer­bach, 61.

28. 28 Fischer-Defoy, “Notgemeinschaft,” 31; Fischer-Defoy, “Prolog,” 11; Erichsen, “Deutsche Wissen­schaftler,” 41.

29. 29 Fischer-Defoy, “Prolog,” 11; Konuk, Auerbach, 50.

30. 30 The report signed by Jürgens, a Foreign Office’s employee, does not have a date but mentions a visit to Istanbul from June 5 to 13. Although the specific year is not stated, it was likely 1934. The report serves as documentation for an oral report titled “Notes on Constantinople.” Politisches Archiv des Auswärtigen Amts (hereafter PA-AA), RAV 107/163, n. pag., Notes on Constantinople, no place, no date. For Scurla’s mission, see Fischer-Defoy, “Prolog,” 11. For in depth research on the so-called “Scurla-Report,” see Grothusen, Der Scurla-Bericht and Şen and Halm, Exil unter Halbmond und Stern.

31. 31 Fischer-Defoy, “Prolog,” 11; Aktives Museum Faschismus und Widerstand in Berlin, Haymatloz, 34.

32. 32 Demuth, “Emigration,” 10. See also Neumark, Zuflucht am Bosporus; Möckelmann, Wartesaal Ankara.

33. 33 For the concept of the “arrival broker,” see Hans, “Arrival brokers,” 381.

34. 34 Schwartz, Notgemeinschaft, 44–50; Guttstadt, Türkei, 213.

35. 35 Löhr, “Solidarity.”

36. 36 Demuth, “Notgemeinschaft,” 10–12.

37. 37 Yavuz, Nostalgia, 6.

38. 38 Ibid., 6.

39. 39 Ibid.

40. 40 Willert, “Nostalgizing,” 19–24.

41. 41 Tanyeri-Erdemir, “Archaeology,” 381.

42. 42 Ibid., 382.

43. 43 Baumann, Retrotopia, 80.

44. 44 Willert, “Nostalgizing,” 20.

45. 45 Kandemir, Etiler (Hititler), 3. Also quoted in Tanyeri-Erdemir, Archaeology, 382.

46. 46 Türk Tarih Kurumu, Türk Tarihinin Ana Hatları, 275.

47. 47 Ibid. For a short discussion on its contents, see Tanyeri-Erdemir, Archaeology, 382.

48. 48 Türk Tarih Kurumu, Türk Tarihinin Ana Hatları, 275; Tanyeri-Erdemir, Archaeology, 382; Dinler, “The Knife’s Edge of the Present,” 739.

49. 49 Dinler, “The Knife’s Edge of the Present,” 740.

50. 50 Among them were sites such as Göllüdağ, Alacahöyük, Ankara, and Sarayburnu (Istanbul). Tanyeri-Erdemir, Archaeology, 384. See also Dinler, The Knife’s Edge of the Present, 741.

51. 51 BÜADM-AOK, OGNIST0103802, Aziz Ogan to Saffet Arıkan, no place, 10.8.[1]936.

52. 52 Ibid.

53. 53 Ibid.

54. 54 Reismann, Turkey’s Modernization, 62; Vacín, Landsberger, 66.

55. 55 Vacín, Landsberger, 66–67; Streck, “Altorientalistik,” 358.

56. 56 Archive of the Institute for Near Eastern Studies of Leipzig University, Landsberger Archives (hereafter AINES-LU), no. 3, Benno Landsberger to Karl Friedrich Müller, Friedek, September 17, 1935. Material accessible online via https://www.gkr.uni-leipzig.de/en/draft/altorientalisches-institut/forschung/landsberger-archives; Vacín, Landsberger, 69.

57. 57 UAL, PA 0676, fol. 103, Göpfert to rector of Leipzig University, Dresden, June 15, 1935.

58. 58 AINES-LU, no. 8, Benno Landsberger to Karl Friedrich Müller, Ankara, December 19, 1935.

59. 59 Ibid.

60. 60 AINES-LU, no. 5, Benno Landsberger to Columbia University, no place, no date. On May 22, 1936, the chair holder Richard James Horatio Gottheil (1862–1936) died, leaving the professorship vacant. Bloch, “Gottheil,” 2–3; Oelsner, “Benno Landsberger.” Vacín contended that Landsberger ultimately “dropped the idea” of migrating to the United States. Landsberger communicated to Kraus that he was “not active enough” to pursue this idea. This statement may imply that he either did not exert sufficient effort in completing the application or chose not to submit it, leaving the draft unaddressed. Vacín, Landsberger, 66, fn. 246 and 73 fn. 268; Benno Landsberger to Fritz Rudolf Kraus, Ankara, June 18, 1939, in Schmidt, Istanbul, 383.

61. 61 See for example Landsberger, Sam’al. Karatepe.

62. 62 AINES-LU, no. 1, Benno Landsberger to Karl Friedrich Müller, Ankara, December 12, 1937. Modern research examines the role of the Faculty regarding the construction of a Turkish identity. In this regard, Hayriye Erbaş portrays the Faculty as “a cornerstone of the Republic,” underlining its role to enforce state ideology. Erbaş, Bir Cumhuriyet Çınarı. Close ties existed between the Ministry of Education into the Faculty, parts of it served as “kind of a think tank of the Republic.” Xypolia, “Racist Aspects of Modern Turkish Nationalism,” 118–19.

63. 63 Laut, Das Türkische als Ursprache, 16–52; Strohmeier, “Wissenschaftsemigranten,” 72.

64. 64 Fritz Rudolf Kraus to Werner Kraus, Istanbul, November 10, 1938, in Schmidt, Istanbul, 298.

65. 65 Ibid.

66. 66 Ibid. See also: Benno Landsberger to Fritz Rudolf Kraus, Leiden, August 16, 1937, in Schmidt, Istanbul, 75.

67. 67 Fritz Rudolf Kraus to Siegfried Kraus, Leipzig, June 23, 1937, in Schmidt, Istanbul, 53.

68. 68 Benno Landsberger to Fritz Rudolf Kraus, Ankara, June 26, 1937, in Schmidt, Istanbul, 53–54.

69. 69 Ibid., 55.

70. 70 Notarized translation of the employment contract, July 14, 1937, in Schmidt, Istanbul, 58; Fritz Rudolf Kraus to Benno Landsberger, Istanbul, August 10, 1937, in Schmidt, Istanbul, 64; Fritz Rudolf Kraus to Benno Landsberger, Istanbul, August 10, 1937, in Schmidt, Istanbul, 64; Fritz Rudolf Kraus to Werner Kraus, Istanbul, September 19, 1937, in Schmidt, Istanbul, 92. See also: Fritz Rudolf Kraus to Leonie Zuntz, October 7, 1937, in, Schmidt, Istanbul, 103.

71. 71 Ibid., 54–55. See also Benno Landsberger to Fritz Rudolf Kraus, Ankara, June 26, 1937, in Schmidt, Istanbul, 55; Benno Landsberger to Fritz Rudolf Kraus, Leiden, August 16, 1937, in Schmidt, Istanbul, 75.

72. 72 Fritz Rudolf Kraus to Benno Landsberger, Istanbul, August 25, 1937, in Schmidt, Istanbul, 82.

73. 73 Schmidt, “Introduction,” 25.

74. 74 Fritz Rudolf Kraus to Benno Landsberger, Istanbul, August 10, 1937, in Schmidt, Istanbul, 64.

75. 75 Ibid.

76. 76 Ibid., 65.

77. 77 Willert, Kulturbesitz, 552.

78. 78 Willert, Kulturbesitz, 694–713; Willert, “Nostalgizing.”

79. 79 Willert, Kulturbesitz, 791–92.

80. 80 Benno Landsberger to Fritz Rudolf Kraus, Ankara, May 14, 1942, in Schmidt, Istanbul, 822; Benno Landsberger to Fritz Rudolf Kraus, Ankara, May 30, 1942, in Schmidt, Istanbul, 828.

81. 81 Fritz Rudolf Kraus to Hans Ehelolf, Istanbul, August 8, 1937, in: Schmidt, Istanbul, 70.

82. 82 Fritz Rudolf Kraus to Benno Landsberger, Istanbul, August 10, 1937, in: Schmidt, Istanbul, 64.

83. 83 Fritz Rudolf Kraus to Hans Ehelolf, Istanbul, August 12, 1937, in: Schmidt, Istanbul, 70. See for example Nadi, “L’Université” and “La collaboration.”

84. 84 Kramer, In the World of Sumer, 51–57; Schmidt, Istanbul, 70, fn. 32.

85. 85 Schmidt, “Fritz Rudolf Kraus,” 11.

86. 86 Hillebrecht, “Vertürken?,” 162–71.

87. 87 The community of German refugees in Türkiye described themselves as “Colony B,” formed as a distinct group in opposition to a pro-National Socialist faction known as “Colony A.” The latter group persisted in Türkiye until 1945 and included official representatives of Nazi Germany and expatriate supporters of the Nazi state. Hoss and Büchau, “Deutsche Kolonie B,” 100–11.

88. 88 Fritz Rudolf Kraus to Benno Landsberger, Istanbul, March 9, 1940, in Schmidt, Istanbul, 480.

89. 89 Notizen über Konstantinopel als Unterlage für mündlichen Bericht, o.O, o.D., PA-AA, RAV 107/163, 9.

90. 90 BÜADM-AOK, OGNIST0103802, Aziz Ogan to Saffet Arıkan, no place, 3.9.[1]938.

91. 91 Benno Landsberger to Fritz Rudolf Kraus, Leiden, August 16, 1937, in Schmidt, Istanbul, 75–76.

92. 92 BÜADM-AOK, OGNIST0103802, Saffet Arıkan to Aziz Ogan, no place, 15.9.[1]938.

93. 93 BÜADM-AOK, OGNIST0103802, Saffet Arıkan to Aziz Ogan, no place, 15.9.[1]938.

94. 94 See decrees and work permits signed by the president of the Republic of Türkiye, Mustafa İsmet İnönü (1884–1973); preserved in TCDA-CA, Ankara, 30-18-1-2/90-18-10, Ankara, February 28, 1940; ibid., 30-18-1-2/99-69-19, Ankara, August 4, 1942; ibid., 30-18-1-2/101-16-4, Ankara, March 6, 1943; ibid., 30-18-1-2/101-33-8, Ankara, May 12, 1943; ibid., 30-18-1-2/102-43-17, Ankara, June 15, 1943; ibid., 30-18-1-2/105-38-13, Ankara, June 10, 1944; ibid., 30-18-1-2/110-27-9, Ankara, April 14, 1946; ibid., 30-18-1-2/116-20-4, Ankara, March 13, 1948; ibid., 30-18-1-2/118-105-16, Ankara, March 19, 1949. Decree Mustafa Kemal, Ankara, 13 March 1933.

95. 95 Fritz Rudolf Kraus to Benno Landsberger, Istanbul, 9.4.1941, in Schmidt, Istanbul, 712.

96. 96 Ibid.

97. 97 Ibid.

98. 98 Ibid.

99. 99 Ibid.

100. 100 Ibid., 713.

101. 101 Ibid.

102. 102 Ibid.

103. 103 Ibid., 714.

104. 104 Ibid.

105. 105 Benno Landsberger to Fritz Rudolf Kraus, Ankara, September 28, 1941, in Schmidt, Istanbul, 719.

106. 106 Ibid., 720.

107. 107 Ibid.

108. 108 Ibid.

109. 109 Ibid.

110. 110 Çığ, et al., Eski Babil Zamanına Ait Nippur Hukukî Vesikaları; Çığ et al., Eski Babil Zamanina Ait Nippur Menşeli İki Okul Kitabi.

111. 111 Schmidt, “Fritz Rudolf Kraus,” 16.

112. 112 Ibid., 16–17.

113. 113 When Saffet Arıkan was Turkish ambassador in Germany between 1942 and 1944, Landsberger urged him to intercede on behalf of his mother to enable her emigration to Türkiye. Benno Landsberger to Fritz Rudolf Kraus, no place, December 17, 1942, in: Schmidt, Istanbul, 898–899. See also: Vacín, Landsberger, 83–84.

* I would like to thank the editors of The Hungarian Historical Review and both reviewers for their valuable comments and suggestions. Research for this article was conducted at the Leibniz Institute for Jewish History and Culture – Simon Dubnow in Leipzig. Funded by the Alfred Landecker Foundation, this study is part of my project, “Flight of Knowledge: Forced Migration of Jewish Scholars to Europe, America and the Middle East, 1933–1945.”

Shared Visions, Local Realities: Industrial Architecture Model Exchanges 
across the Habsburg Empire*

Raluca-Maria Trifa

Ion Mincu University of Architecture and Urbanism, Bucharest

This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.

Hungarian Historical Review Volume 15 Issue 1 (2026): 30-57 DOI 10.38145/2026.1.30

In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the Habsburg Empire experienced an accelerated process of urban modernization driven by industrialization and infrastructural expansion. These developments were shaped by the mobility of architects and engineers trained primarily in Vienna and Budapest, whose professional trajectories connected imperial centers with regional cities. Focusing on Brno, Pécs, Timişoara, and Rijeka, this article examines the circulation of industrial architectural models across the Monarchy and challenges linear center-periphery interpretations of modernization. It argues that architectural transfer operated through multidirectional exchanges facilitated by educational institutions, professional networks, public competitions, municipal administrations, state monopolies, and private enterprises. While standardized solutions were widely employed, their implementation was mediated by local economic conditions, administrative frameworks, and municipal initiatives. The article highlights how regional cities functioned as active sites of adaptation and experimentation rather than passive recipients of metropolitan models. The study contributes to a more nuanced understanding of industrial architecture as a key agent of imperial integration, while also addressing the tensions, negotiations, and local specificities that shaped modernization processes.

Keywords: Habsburg Empire, architectural exchange, industrial heritage, infrastructure development, regional adaptation

Introduction

At the turn of the twentieth century, the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy underwent a profound and uneven process of modernization, driven by industrial expansion and the rapid development of infrastructure. While earlier phases of urban growth had prioritized civic architecture in response to demographic and social change, the later decades of the nineteenth century were increasingly dominated by industrial and infrastructural projects. Railway stations, bridges, power plants, water supply and sewage systems, factories, warehouses, and workers’ housing reshaped the urban fabric of both imperial capitals and provincial cities. These transformations did not follow a uniform or centrally imposed model. Rather, they emerged through complex interactions between imperial institutions, local administrations, and mobile professional networks operating across the empire’s diverse territories.

Against this background, the article examines industrial architecture as a key medium of knowledge transfer within the Habsburg Empire, focusing on the circulation of architectural models, technical expertise, and professional practices between imperial centers and regional cities. Rather than interpreting mo­dernization through a simple center-periphery framework, it argues that industrial architecture developed through multidirectional exchanges that com­bined re­cur­rent typologies with local adaptation. Vienna and Budapest functioned as important reference points, but provincial centers were not passive recipients of metropolitan models. Instead, they acted as active sites where architectural and technical solutions were tested and refined in response to specific economic, geographic, and administrative conditions.

The study focuses on four regional cities that occupied distinct positions within the administrative and political structure of the Dual Monarchy, ranging from the Free Royal Cities of Brno (Brünn), Pécs, and Timişoara (Temesvár; Temeschwar) to the exceptional status of Rijeka (Fiume) as a Corpus Separatum. Geographically and economically, they represented diverse profiles: Brno as an industrial center and the capital of Moravia; Pécs as a mining and manufacturing city in southern Transleithania; Timişoara as the administrative and economic core of the Banat region; and Rijeka as Hungary’s main Adriatic port. Despite these differences, all four were deeply embedded in imperial modernization processes through infrastructural development, state-regulated industries, and the circulation of architects and engineers trained in common educational frame­works. Moreover, the same architects and engineers appear recurrently, alongside other professionals active at the regional level, indicating dense and sustained circulation of expertise rather than episodic transfer. Figures such as Ferenc Pfaff, Szilárd Zielinski, Lajos Zobel, Eduard Ast, and Bruno Bauer contributed to major industrial and infrastructural projects in several of the cities studied. Their careers reveal continuity in design approaches rather than isolated acts of imitation, underscoring how architectural models circulated primarily through professional practice rather than formal prescription.

Building on this observation, the analysis traces three interconnected pro­cesses. First, it examines how imperial economic policies, educational institutions, and infrastructure investments created structural conditions for professional mobility. Second, it analyses how architects and engineers developed typified yet flexible architectural solutions, particularly in sectors such as railways, utilities, and state monopolies. Third, it investigates how these models were implemented locally, revealing patterns of adaptation shaped by urban governance, material availability, and regional building traditions. By combining comparative urban analysis with biographical and institutional perspectives, the study reconstructs networks of knowledge transfer that operated both vertically, between capitals and provinces, and laterally, among regional centers.

By foregrounding industrial architecture as both a material outcome and an instrument of imperial integration, this article contributes to a growing body of scholarship that reconsiders modernization in the Habsburg Empire as a negotiated and relational process. It challenges narratives that privilege metro­politan dominance or national frameworks, highlighting instead the role of professional networks and technical expertise in shaping a shared yet differentiated built environment. In doing so, it offers a framework for an understanding of industrial heritage not as an isolated category of utilitarian construction but as a vital component of urban identity, the legacy of which continues to inform contemporary debates on preservation and adaptive reuse.

Industrialization and Urban Transformation in the Dual Monarchy

Guided by a mercantilist vision aimed at maximizing the exploitation of raw materials and consolidating internal markets, the Habsburg Monarchy ex­perienced a prolonged and dynamic phase of economic expansion in the nine­teenth century. Industrialization advanced alongside the development of trans­port systems, energy infrastructure, and modern urban services, reshaping the spatial organization of the empire and generating a sustained demand for highly qualified specialists. The mobility of architects, engineers, and technicians facilitated the transfer of knowledge and the adaptation of architectural models to diverse local contexts. Yet, while politically unified, Cisleithania and Transleithania pursued distinct trajectories. Austria, with its early industrial base, was slowed by the 1873 crash, whereas Hungary pursued a centralized strategy, channeling investments toward infrastructure and industry in its still under­developed eastern regions. The result was a competitive but polycentric model of development in which imperial policies were reinforced by locally calibrated initiatives.

Legislative reform emerged as a key instrument to stimulate industrial growth, providing the legal framework for fiscal incentives and institutional support. While primarily economic in intent, these measures were especially significant in shaping the architectural scale, typology, and spatial distribution of industrial facilities. Local authorities actively guided industrial modernization through tariffs, tax exemptions, subsidies, preferential railway rates, and provision of land, materials, or utilities to attract investment. The scope, intensity, and timing of these measures varied across the Monarchy, reflecting both the uneven geography of industrialization and the initiatives of local elites, with general policies adapted to specific local contexts. In Brno, protectionist tariffs introduced from the 1850s supported textile production, while after the 1873 economic crisis duties were relaxed to stimulate recovery.1 In Pécs, a subsidy program introduced in 1881 for mechanized factories was later extended from 1890 until 1907, alongside grants, preferential railway tariffs, and support for technical education.2 Timişoara adopted a proactive mix of free land, tax exemptions, and reduced energy costs, later including building materials and electricity, conditional on reinvestment and local employment.3 Similarly, in Rijeka, the 1872 abolition of guilds and modern commercial legislation, combined with fiscal incentives and support for raw materials, fostered business growth, with state support increasingly targeting maritime industries, culminating in the 1907 law for naval construction.4

Legal and economic frameworks alone cannot account for the accelerating pace of industrialization without corresponding social reforms that expanded the urban workforce and transformed the demographic structure of cities. Three key legislative measures had a profound impact on urban growth in the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy: the abolition of serfdom in 1848, which released rural populations and enabled mobility towards towns and cities; the dissolution of the guild system, lifting long-standing restrictions on craftsmen; and the 1840 decision of the Hungarian Diet to permit Jews to settle in urban areas.5 Taken together, these reforms significantly expanded the urban labor force and created the social conditions necessary for rapid industrialization, generating sustained demand for technical and architectural expertise in emerging industrial centers.

Population movements driven by industrialization placed growing pressure on transport systems, making infrastructure a decisive factor in urban transformation. Early development relied largely on private capital, with entrepreneurs financing extraction and manufacturing facilities, but as industrial activity expanded, existing networks proved insufficient. This prompted large-scale investments in railways, stations, bridges, water systems, and power facilities. By the middle of the century, the increasing complexity of industrial and urban networks encouraged closer coordination between private enterprise and the state, exemplified by companies such as the First Danube Steam Navigation Company (Erste Donau-Dampfschiffahrts-Gesellschaft - DDSG; Első Duna-Gőzhajózási Társaság – DGT)6 and the Imperial-Royal Privileged Austrian State Railway Company (Kaiserlich-Koeniglich-Privilegirte Oesterreichische Staats-Eisenbahn-Gesellschaft - StEG; Osztrák Államvasút-Társaság – OÁV).7 Their expansion created a unified imperial network linking extraction sites, production centers, and export terminals, while also enabling the long-distance mobility of skilled professionals.

Budapest and Vienna set the pace for this modernization, both symbolically and institutionally. The opening of Pesti Indóház (1845–1846)8 and Wien West­bahnhof (1858)9 marked the symbolic and functional start of the railway system that soon expanded across the Monarchy. Over the course of the following decades, new transport facilities reinforced the integration of peripheral regions into the imperial flows of trade, finance, and labor. Within this dynamic, cities such as Brno, Pécs, Timişoara, and Rijeka gained the status of regional industrial centers, deeply embedded in the empire’s economic and transport structure. For example, Brno’s manufacturing sector relied on coal from the nearby Rosice-Oslavany basin, linked to the city by early rail connections later integrated into the StEG network.10 Similarly, Pécs’s growth was fueled by Baranya coal, with DGT investing in mines, rail links, and worker settlements.11 Meanwhile, Timişoara’s industrialization was tied to the Banat Mountain mines, connected through the StEG railway and DDSG Danube routes.12 Rijeka, on the other hand, strategically located on the Adriatic, was linked after 1867 to the Hungarian railway system, becoming a major export hub alongside Trieste.13

The physical evolution of these centers reflected broader urban mo­derniz­ation patterns. Although in many of the cities under study systematic urban planning in the modern sense had begun in the late eighteenth century, with the dismantling of fortifications and civic construction programs, industrial architecture only became a visible and consistent presence in the nineteenth century. Its emergence was reinforced by a wave of urban modernization measures, including the extension of sewage networks, the upgrading of water supply systems, the electrification of public spaces, and the introduction of tramway lines. The growing need to connect residential districts with newly developed industrial zones made efficient urban transport essential. Electric trams offered a reliable, hygienic, and affordable solution, reducing commuting times and boosting productivity in industrial cities. This network expanded into the provinces from the late nineteenth century, with Bratislava (1895), Brno (1896), Budapest (1897), Rijeka, and Timişoara (1899) among the first to adopt it, followed by cities such as Pécs in 1913.14

Parallel investments in education and training sustained industrial and urban transformation, while providing systematic foundations for professional mobility and enabled the consistent application of similar architectural solutions across diverse regional contexts. State and municipal authorities expanded higher education, technical schools, and vocational training. Building on earlier European trends from Britain and France, in which engineering and technologi­cal disciplines had separated from craft-based methods,15 these institutions provided a scientifically grounded technical education, with curricula emphasizing mathematics, drawing, and applied skills to meet the practical demands of industrialization.16 Specialized higher schools were created in parallel with technical universities in cities such as Prague (Polytechnic Institute, 1806), Vienna (Imperial and Royal Polytechnic Institute, 1815),17 and Budapest (Royal Joseph Technical University, 1871),18 offering study programs aligned with the industrial priorities of the state. In parallel, state and local administrations promoted practical training through an extensive network of vocational schools and ap­prenticeship programs, especially in the cities in the provinces.19 Local adaptations included Brno’s textile-oriented evening courses and the vocational systems of Timişoara, Pécs, and Rijeka,20 while industrial secondary schools, trade schools, professional institutes, and even programs for women broadened access and linked training directly to industrial and urban growth.

Systematic standardization emerged primarily through state monopolies and large-scale infrastructure projects that required coordinated architectural solutions. Typical projects for infrastructure projects, such as railway stations, warehouses, factories, and worker’s housing, were replicated in different areas, often developed by agencies subordinate to the authorities or large design firms.21 This approach created professional opportunities for architects who could develop flexible typological solutions while maintaining visual coherence across diverse contexts. Complementing these measures, architectural and engineering publications, journals, and technical manuals disseminated typified plans, practical guidelines, and shared professional standards. In addition, industrial and urban developments were made accessible to a broader public through extensive monographs produced in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.22 Together, these publications and professional networks favored the development of industrial building types that could be transferred and reused across different urban contexts.

Modernization required sophisticated financial mechanisms that connected imperial capital markets with regional development needs. Chambers of Com­merce, first established in Vienna in 1848 and soon extended to centers such as Pest, Bratislava (Pozsony; Pressburg), Timişoara, Rijeka, Debrecen, Košice (Kassa; Kaschau), Braşov (Brassó; Kronstadt), Cluj-Napoca (Kolozsvár: Klaus­en­burg), Sopron, Zagreb (Zágráb; Agram) and Osijek (Esseg; Essegg),23 provided logistical and advisory support to entrepreneurs and municipal authorities. Complementing them, professional associations represented industrialists and workers, supporting vocational training, setting technical standards, and ar­ticulating shared interests across the Monarchy.24 Modernization also relied on an expanding financial infrastructure: banks, credit cooperatives, and savings funds supplied capital for industrial and infrastructure investments. Large Viennese and Budapest banks extended branches into provincial centers,25 channeling resources into key industrial projects and integrating local economies into wider imperial networks. Local and mixed-capital banks, often controlled by influential families or private investors, supported municipal initiatives, provided advantageous loans, and sometimes became direct shareholders in industrial enterprises, shaping strategic decisions and ensuring financial stability.26 Closely tied to financial institutions and municipal policies, local elites also played a decisive role in industrialization and urban modernization efforts. Progressive mayors, merchants, bankers, and industrialist families frequently acted as investors and policymakers, holding positions on municipal councils and in Chambers of Commerce and professional associations.27

These interlinked processes of legislative reform, infrastructure development, urban planning, education, financial support, and elite engagement transformed the Dual Monarchy’s industrial and urban landscape, creating systematic demand for architectural expertise while providing mechanisms for its circulation. This process established the foundations for the professional networks and knowledge transfer mechanisms examined in the following section.

Professional Networks and Transfer of Industrial Architectural Models:
Between Periphery and Economic Centrality

The spread of industrial models, design principles, and construction techniques in the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy was not an isolated or sporadic phenomenon but rather occurred through a complex and interconnected network of educational institutions, professional exchanges, publishing channels, and indi­vidual actors. Architects and engineers were highly mobile, often training at major academic centers and gaining experience through internships in leading design offices. Municipal architects played a key role, mediating between city administrations and external firms and facilitating the adoption of new stylistic trends and technical solutions. Professional associations, exhibitions, world’s fairs, publications, and study trips further circulated architectural ideas. Many practitioners pursued commissions across the Monarchy, adapting their work to local conditions while following broader imperial currents. Vienna and Budapest provided principal stylistic and technical directions, but provincial cities such as Timişoara, Pécs, Brno, and Rijeka offered fertile ground for experimentation. This section examines the mechanisms through which technical knowledge and models were transmitted, identifying key actors, institutional mechanisms, and circulation patterns that shaped imperial industrial architecture.

A key element of this professional landscape was the academic training of architects and engineers at the Technical Universities of Vienna, Prague, and later Budapest, which pioneered modern technical education in Central Europe and inspired subsequent institutions in Brno, Graz, and Kraków. By the late nineteenth century, these state-funded programs had nurtured a new generation of architects and engineers whose training combined rigorous university courses, internships in leading design offices, practical experience on major construction sites, and scholarships abroad. Students learned from prominent professors, became familiar with emerging construction materials (such as iron and reinforced concrete), and explored stylistic currents ranging from Historicism to Secession. This shared academic environment forged a common professional culture, and it allowed graduates to adapt their knowledge to the specific con­ditions of their home regions. Architects and engineers educated at the Budapest Technical University, including Ferenc Pfaff, Andor Pilch, Lajos Zobel, László Székely, Mihály Kajlinger, and Szilárd Zielinski,28 carried this knowledge into capital cities and provincial centers, while Bruno Bauer (Prague), Karl Schlimp (Prague, Vienna) or Josef Unger (Vienna) exemplify similar paths from other Central European polytechnics.

The dissemination of architectural models throughout the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy relied heavily on major architectural offices collaborating closely with the authorities, alongside specialists in state or private institutions responsible for large-scale infrastructure projects. Their activity, spanning civil, industrial, and infrastructural architecture facilitated the circulation of expertise and the adaptation of architectural models on an imperial scale, contributing to the development of a unified stylistic repertoire recognizable throughout the Monarchy. In this context, standardization emerged as a key mechanism, particularly evident in transport infrastructure and industrial facilities within sectors under state monopoly. As the railway network expanded into a backbone of imperial integration, it simultaneously became a prime site for the codification of architectural expertise. The repeated application of typological models for stations, workshops, technical facilities, and workers’ housing created a coherent visual and functional identity across both capitals and provincial towns. In this context, railway architecture demonstrates that imperial standardization operated not as uniformity but as a controlled framework within which local variation was both possible and expected.

In Cisleithania, engineers such as Tomáš Novák (Kaiser-Ferdinands-Nordbahn), together with Josef Unger (Österreichische Nordwestbahn), contributed decisively to shaping a coherent industrial aesthetic in Moravia and Austria through the repeated use of templates for stations and workers’ housing for railway employees29. Karl (Carl) Schlimp was a particularly prominent figure. Schlimp began his career with the Südbahn-Eisenbahngesellschaft in Vienna before becoming chief architect and later head of the building department of the Österreichische Nordwestbahn. He oversaw the design of over 70 railway stations and associated infrastructural projects. He applied standard, symmetrical layouts for four size-based station classes, adapted to local conditions and operational needs. Moderate Renaissance elements and local materials for facades, cornices, and roof gables were often incorporated, while exposed brickwork became the defining feature of his work.30 Key projects include stations in Vienna, Prague, Znojmo (Znaim), and Jihlava (Iglau).

A parallel and even more representative trajectory can be observed in Hungary through the work of Ferenc Pfaff.31 A graduate of the Budapest Technical University, Pfaff served as chief architect of the Hungarian State Railways (MÁV) between 1887 and 1909, where he designed and coordinated the construction of over 50 railway stations, employing a scalable system of typological models. While standardized in their functional logic, these stations were locally adapted through variations in plan layout, façade articulation, decorative vocabulary, and building materials, which often turned them into urban landmarks. Notable stations de­signed by Pfaff include Zagreb (1890–1892), Rijeka (1892), Timişoara (1898–1899), Pécs (1898–1899), Osijek (1898–1899), Szeged (1902), Cluj-Napoca (1902), and Arad (1905–1910). Pfaff’s work extended beyond passenger buildings to technical facilities, repair workshops, residential ensembles for railway employees in Budapest, as well as emblematic projects, such as the Transport Pavilion at the 1896 Millennium Exhibition and infrastructural works in the port city of Rijeka.

A similar logic guided state-controlled industries, particularly tobacco pro­duction, where architects and engineers employed by central authorities designed and coordinated multiple factories across the Monarchy, often reusing ar­chi­tectural solutions to optimize costs and efficiency. Lajos Zobel, a Budapest Tech­nical University graduate, embodied this approach as architect and financial advisor of the Royal Central Tobacco Excise Directorate.32 From 1902 to 1914, Zobel designed or supervised major factories, such as the Óbudai and Lágy­má­nyosi tobacco plants in Budapest, as well as the Pécs Tobacco Factory, likely collaborating with Szilárd Zielinski or his disciples for reinforced concrete structures. He was also involved in the construction or extension of factories in Timişoara, Rijeka, Miskolc, Carei (Nagykároly; Grosskarol), Sfântu Gheorghe (Szentgyörgy; Sankt Georgen), Vásárosnamény, and Spišská Belá (Szepesbéla). Beyond these works, Zobel is credited with the Pavilion of the Central Directorate of Tobacco Excise at the 1896 Millennium Exhibition in Budapest.

Private architectural practices developed parallel circulation systems focused on technological innovation and modular construction techniques. These networks operated through professional partnerships, licensing agreements, and collaborative projects that distributed advanced construction methods across the monarchy’s industrial centers. In Transleithania, Szilárd Zielinski, a Budapest Technical University graduate trained in Paris at Eiffel’s firm, pioneered reinforced concrete in industrial and utility buildings.33 From 1889, his office produced works using the Hennebique system, including the Ericsson Factory, the Rolling Mill Silo in Buda, and the Albergo per gli emigranti in Rijeka, a transit hotel combining reinforced concrete engineering with Secessionist aesthetics. His most recognizable works are the water towers in the Kőbánya, Istenhegyi, and Margitsziget neighborhoods of Budapest, as well as similar edifices in Szeged, Timişoara, Beočin (Belcsény), and other cities across the Monarchy. Despite minor differences in scale or detailing, these structures form a coherent typological family, adhering to shared architectural and structural principles that ensure visual unity and construction efficiency. Although they cannot be con­sidered exact replicas or the result of strict standardization, these towers employ similar construction solutions, tailored to the local context and the specific requirements of each site. Zielinski trained engineers such as Árpád Gút and Jenő Gergely, who continued his approach in projects like the Fehérhegy water tower and other industrial facilities in Pécs, often collaborating with architect Andor Pilch.

A similar logic of typification and local adaptation can be seen in Cisleithania. Bruno Bauer, a graduate of Prague Technical University who established his own industrial architecture office in Vienna, exemplifies this approach. Between 1907 and 1938, he designed over 380 industrial buildings, mainly using reinforced concrete, predominantly textile mills organized as single-story halls (Shedbau) or multi-story structures (Hochausbau). His projects were built across Cisleithanian and Transleithanian cities (including Vienna, Prague, Brno, Jihlava, and Moson­magyaróvár), combining structural efficiency and modular construction with careful attention to aesthetics and visual coherence.34 Many of his projects were executed in collaboration with structural engineer and contractor Eduard Ast, who developed a regional network of offices in Pécs, Brno, and Liberec to coordinate large-scale industrial works.35 The company Ast & Co. specialized in adapting standardized Monier and Hennebique systems to local conditions, achieving a balance of structural efficiency and distinctive style. Their work included textile factories in Litvínov (Oberleutensdorf), Bielsko-Biała (Bielitz-Biala), and Brno, as well as the Schuckert & Co. industrial complex in Vienna. The firm was also involved in mining construction, designing and executing extraction shafts at the Kukla mine in Oslavany near Brno, and at the Szent István and Széchenyi mines in the Baranya region near Pécs, all commissioned by Joseph Schöngut’s Viennese office. Another notable achievement was the water tower in Szolnok, the technical and aesthetic solutions of which closely paralleled Zielinski’s works, reflecting not only the shared typological and structural principles circulating among professionals but also the subtle rivalries and exchanges that shaped industrial architecture across the monarchy.

Municipal authorities played a decisive role in shaping the translation of industrial and infrastructural architectural models across the Habsburg Empire, directly influencing how modernization took form at the urban level. Through regulation, fiscal policies, land allocation, and design competitions, they determined how metropolitan architectural models were adapted to local conditions. Municipal technical offices were central to this process, with chief architects and heads of engineering departments acting as key mediators between local needs and trans-imperial professional networks. Predominantly trained in Vienna or Budapest, these professionals brought contemporary technical standards and design principles into provincial contexts. Beyond mere trans­mission, they actively filtered, adjusted, and recalibrated metropolitan models, drawing on their familiarity with current architectural debates and personal connections to leading architects. In this capacity, they could either commission established designers or themselves oversee and reinterpret projects, influencing not only technical implementation but also the aesthetic orientation of urban development, while adapting designs to local stylistic traditions, available resources, and specific urban contexts.

The institutional position of the municipal chief architect emerged relatively late in most of the cities discussed here, generally after 1900, as part of broader efforts to impose greater coherence on urban development. This consolidation was driven primarily by the growing complexity of urban regulation and infrastructure management rather than by the immediate demands of industrial construction, resulting in distinct local configurations of municipal architectural authority. These differences may be partly explained by variations in the timing and industrialization patterns, as well as by prevailing modes of project com­missioning in each city. Such differences also determined the degree to which cities could experiment with metropolitan models, with administrative, financial, and jurisdictional constraints shaping both the scope and form of architectural interventions.

In Rijeka and Timişoara, architects holding municipal positions operated at the intersection of municipal administration and private practice. By combining private commissions with responsibilities in municipal technical departments, they were directly involved in the planning and execution of industrial and infrastructural projects, allowing them to adapt metropolitan architectural models to local conditions. A notable example is Giovanni Rubinich, who ob­tained the title of engineer-architect from the Royal Joseph Technical Uni­ver­sity of Budapest in 1900 and was subsequently employed by the Municipal Technical Office in Rijeka.36 From this position, he designed and oversaw an impressive number of utilitarian and industrial buildings in the region. Although administrative and linguistic challenges limited the scope of his practice, his municipal role allowed him to test and refine practical design solutions, developing a hybrid architectural language that combined functional rationality with Liberty-style elements responsive to local tastes. His contemporary and fellow graduate, László Székely, was appointed chief architect of Timişoara in 1903.37 Considered the most prolific architect of the city, Székely played a decisive role in shaping the urban landscape during the peak period of modernization, designing an impressive number of civil and industrial buildings and often integrating Secessionist motifs into the edifices, from hydrotechnical works and factories to public utility buildings and workers’ housing.

A different configuration can be observed in Pécs and Brno, where municipal technical offices played a more indirect role in relation to industrial architecture. Municipal architects and engineers focused primarily on public buildings, while their influence on industrial projects was exerted indirectly through regulatory oversight, technical supervision, and participation in advisory and evaluative bodies. In Pécs, they acted mainly as mediators and supervisors, adapting imperial models indirectly rather than engaging in direct design. Figures such Kálmán Kovácsfi, József Némethy, Lajos Burgstaller, and János Rauch provided guidance, but frequent vacancies, low salaries, heavy responsibilities, and a shortage of qualified personnel, many of whom sought higher-paying work in the railways or private sector, limited municipal authority. As a result, urban development remained largely ad hoc, and without a comprehensive plan, modernization progressed in a fragmented and incremental pattern.38 In Brno, the institu­tionalization of municipal architectural authority under through figures such as Franz Holik, trained in Vienna and appointed the city’s first municipal architect,39 favored regulatory and administrative roles over direct design involvement. Holik’s responsibilities included the design and artistic aspects of public buildings, the assessment of submitted projects from an artistic perspective, and the development of urban and regulatory plans. Although he focused on public and residential buildings, Holik influenced the development of industrial and infrastructural projects through his role as a mediator, shaping how imperial models were interpreted, supervised, and adapted to Brno’s Bohemian-influenced aesthetics.

This dual function exercised by municipal architects often intersected with another essential mechanism in the circulation of architectural knowledge: cross-regional professional practice within the Austro-Hungarian realm, driven by the dynamics of investment and the demand for both public and private projects. Figures like László Székely and Mihály Kajlinger were frequently commissioned beyond their official jurisdictions, extending their influence across multiple urban centers. Trained in Budapest, Mihály Kajlinger first distinguished himself through projects in the capital, contributing to the Central Pumping Station and overseeing major water supply facilities, including the Káposztásmegyer, Főváros plants, and the Buda pumping stations.40 Building on this experience, Kajlinger coordinated water supply systems in cities including Rijeka, Timişoara, Târgu Mureş (Marosvásárhely; Neumarkt), Szombathely, and Miskolc. Similarly, László Székely extended his architectural practice beyond Timişoara, designing slaughter­houses and related facilities in Zrenjanin, Pančevo (Pancsova; Pan­tschowa), Sombor (Zombor), and Arad.41 Their mobility underscores the per­mea­bility of provincial boundaries and the interconnectedness of urban modernization efforts within the monarchy.

This professional circulation often intersected with the mobility of architectural models and capital, driven by investors and entrepreneurs who reoriented their businesses in response to regional economic dynamics. Following the Viennese stock market crash of 1873, numerous entrepreneurs from Bohemia and Moravia chose to relocate their investments to territories within Transleithania, where industrial development was in full expansion. In this process, investments were systematically accompanied by the transfer of archi­tectural and technological patterns specific to their regions of origin. A significant example is the Hat Factory in Timişoara, financially supported by shareholders Wilhelm Keller, Wilhelm Riecken, and Emil Gerhard Pick, all originally from the Bohemian city of Litvínov. Within the composition of the industrial complex in Timişoara and in the design of the administrative pavilion, one can easily identify direct influences from the factories previously owned by these investors in Bohemia.42

Equally important is the fact that craftsmen and technicians also participated in regional mobility, contributing to the standardization of construction techniques and detailing, as well as to the technological and practical transfer of knowledge. Another relevant case is that of János Himerli, a specialist in glove production, who, after gaining professional experience in workshops and tanneries in Timişoara, Arad, Pest, Vienna, Graz, Salzburg, and Bohemia, founded a factory in Pécs.43 The new facility would go on to become one of the most important glove factories in the region.

Study trips, documented in reports and travel journals, played a crucial role in the spread of construction typologies and innovative technologies. An illustrative example is János Krátky’s 1898 report, based on systematic visits to slaughterhouses in France, Belgium, and Germany.44 The report contains detailed documentation on organizational methods, technical equipment, and sanitation systems, and due to its thoroughness, it was most likely widely circulated within professional circles, surpassing the status of a mere ad­mi­nist­rative study. The impact of these exchanges is visible in the design of major slaughterhouses in Vienna, Budapest, and Prague which, although initially inspired by Western models, became references in turn for similar developments in provincial cities of the monarchy. These complexes often share common architectural traits: symmetrical plans, monumental architecture, dominant vertical elements, and gateways adorned with zoomorphic sculptures, frequently featuring groups of bulls, meant to combine functional coherence with symbolic gravitas. However, despite these recurring patterns, each architect applied local adaptations, balancing replication with personal reinterpretation.

Practical experience on various construction sites complemented these written sources. Visits to industrial centers in Western Europe exposed architects to best practices in infrastructure and public architecture, shaping designs throughout the monarchy. This process is well documented in the specialized literature, with the chief architect of Timişoara serving as a notable example. Székely himself benefited from such exchanges. In 1899–1900, he received a scholarship for a study trip to Italy, gaining direct exposure to international architectural models and urban programs. During his studies, he also worked in several Budapest offices, including the Grünwald & Schiffer office on the Káposztásmegyer Waterworks, where he likely met engineer Mihály Kajlinger, later involved in Timişoara’s water supply system. After graduation, Székely served as assistant to Professor Győző Czigler, coordinating construction sites in Budapest and remaining closely connected to major architectural develop­ments.45

Another essential vector in the dissemination of architectural and technical models within the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy was participation in national and international exhibitions. The Universal Exhibitions in Vienna (1873), Budapest (1896), Paris (1889, 1900), and Milan (1906), along with numerous industrial fairs (e.g., the Industrial and Agricultural Exhibition of Banat in 1891, marked by the presence of Emperor Franz Joseph in Timişoara),46 offered the ideal platform for professional training and the exchange of ideas, presenting technological innovations and stylistic experiments to a broad audience. Architects and engineers from the monarchy were involved both as authors of pavilions and as active observers. Figures such as Lajos Zobel and Ferenc Pfaff served not only as designers of national or corporate pavilions but also as participants in architectural competitions dedicated to these structures.47 In parallel, numerous other professionals visited the exhibitions as spectators, familiarizing themselves with the materials, construction systems, and spatial solutions presented at these major events. For many of them, contact with new models had a visible impact on their subsequent architectural language, con­tributing to the stylistic hybridization and formal refinement that characterize much of the industrial and civic architecture within the monarchy.

Professional associations and technical publications played a complementary role in the organization and circulation of knowledge within the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy. Specialized books48 and journals such as Die Österreichische Ingenieur- und Architekten-Zeitschrift, Wiener Bauindustrie-Zeitung, Wiener Bauhütte, All­gemeine Bauzeitung, Zentralblatt der Bauverwaltung, Deutsche Bauzeitung, Der Indust­rie­bau, Betonszemle, and Építő Ipar49 circulated widely, offering detailed articles, visual documentation, and debates on technologies, materials, and construction systems. These publications contributed to the creation of a shared vocabulary and reference framework among dispersed professional communities, thus helping to overcome linguistic and regional barriers in the spread of architectural models. However, some of these journals were primarily oriented toward elite circles, paying little attention to practices and projects from the non-academic construction industry.50

Together, the mechanisms discussed above formed a complex network of education, mobility, and mediation, facilitating the circulation of architectural and technological knowledge within the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy. This process contributed significantly to the development of a modern built environ­ment, marked by a cosmopolitan influence carefully adapted to local particularities. Notably, architects and engineers left their imprint on cities that, at first glance, appeared entirely disparate, differing in size, geography, governance, linguistic and ethnic composition, economic role, and cultural context. Their work demonstrates how professional networks enabled the diffusion of knowledge and design principles, allowing individual practitioners to shape the urban and industrial landscapes of a diverse imperial landscape.

Conclusion

The circulation of industrial architectural models within the Habsburg Empire reveals a sophisticated system of knowledge transfer that transcended conven­tional center-periphery hierarchies. Rather than operating through simple dif­fusion from Vienna and Budapest to regional cities, architectural expertise moved through complex, multidirectional networks that connected educational institutions, professional practices, state monopolies, and private enterprises across the dual monarchy’s diverse territories.

Industrial transformation thus can be understood not only as an economic process but also as a mechanism of imperial integration. Designed as an instrument of administrative efficiency and a strategic response to the empire’s fragmented political and territorial structure, the standardization of industrial architecture played a central role in modernization. In state-controlled sectors such as railways or tobacco production, typified design solutions created a unified visual language that reinforced imperial cohesion while accommodating local building traditions, material resources, and construction practices. This apparently uniform approach did not suppress regional distinctiveness but actively en­couraged it: architects and engineers developed modular systems that were both technically rigorous and flexible enough to respond to diverse topographic conditions, climatic zones, and cultural environments. The capacity of the Habsburg system to balance evenness and adaptation in equal measure created a unique framework of knowledge transfer that continued to operate even after the political dissolution of the monarchy.

Stylistic integration further reinforced this dynamic. The incorporation of the most fashionable artistic currents of the time (Historicism, Secession, and related aesthetics) reveals that these buildings were never purely utilitarian. Ornament, proportion, and spatial articulation were employed to elevate the status of industrial facilities and signal their integration into the urban fabric as symbols of progress and modernity. In parallel, the circulation of the most advanced construction techniques and materials, illustrates the efficiency and reach of professional networks. Within a relatively brief period, innovations such as reinforced concrete or standardized steel components spread from Vienna and Budapest to regional centers, enabling systematic industrial modernization while accommodating local construction practices and aesthetic preferences.

This integrated approach offers several critical insights that extend beyond architectural history. Imperial integration proved most effective when supported by institutional flexibility, rather than by the imposition of rigid uniformity. The strength of the Habsburg system lay in its ability to foster professional networks that could adapt systematically to a wide variety of local conditions. In this light, imperial integration depended less on enforcing a standardized cultural model and more on cultivating shared technical competencies, which established a common professional language across the empire’s varied territories. Within this framework, peripheral regions emerged as true laboratories of modernization. Far from being passive recipients of metropolitan models, cities such as Timişoara, Pécs, and Rijeka became active sites of experimentation, where architectural solutions were tested, adjusted, and perfected before shaping broader imperial development.

The case studies reveal, however, that local implementation was rarely straightforward. In various cities, municipal authorities often faced staffing shortages, limited authority, and budgetary constraints, leading to delays, partial adaptations, or even abandoned projects. The mobility of architects and engineers, while essential for the transfer of knowledge, required coordination across multiple cities and firms, sometimes giving rise to professional rivalries, competing interpretations of typologies, or deliberate replication of successful solutions. From this perspective, the dissemination of architectural models appears less as a smooth transfer and more as a negotiated process, where local actors and conditions left a visible imprint on the built environment.

The Habsburg case therefore offers a model with contemporary relevance. It shows how systematic knowledge circulation can accelerate technological progress without erasing regional traditions, a lesson pertinent to current debates on technology transfer, heritage preservation, and adaptive reuse in multicultural contexts. Recognition of industrial architecture as the product of such networks allows for more informed conservation strategies, situating these structures not as isolated monuments but as integral components of the urban fabric shaped by shared expertise across an entire region.

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1. 1 Mertová and Ryšková, The Cultural Heritage of the Brno Wool Industry, 32–35.

2. 2 Kaposi, Pécs gazdasági fejlődése, 1867–2000, 48.

3. 3 Borovszky, Magyarország vármegyéi és városai – Temesvár, 270; Haţegan, Camera de Comerţ, Industrie şi Agricultură Timişoara, 62.

4. 4 Pelles and Zsigmond, A fiumei magyar kereskedelmi tengerészet története, 50, 146.

5. 5 Horel, Multicultural Cities of the Habsburg Empire, 40.

6. 6 DDSG/DGT was founded in 1829 following an imperial patent granted in 1828 to John Andrews and Joseph Pritchard, which conferred exclusive steam navigation rights on the Danube; organized as a joint-stock company with exceptional legal privileges, including a 15-year monopoly later extended to the Hungarian Crown in 1831, it ultimately merged in 1874 with the United Hungarian Steam Navigation Company (Egyesült Magyar Gőzhajózási Társaság – EMGT). See Gonda, A magyar hajózás, 24–26.

7. 7 StEG/OÁV was founded in 1854–1855 by Viennese and French bankers, many also involved in DDSG/DGT, through the acquisition of former Austrian state railway assets, operating across Austrian and Hungarian territories to support the transport of industrial, mining, and forestry resources. Following the 1873 crisis, expansion slowed and nationalization advanced, with Hungary establishing Royal Hungarian State Railways (Magyar Királyi Államvasutak – MÁV) in 1868 and acquiring StEG’s Hungarian network by 1891, while full nationalization was completed by 1909. See Gräf, Domeniul bănăţean al StEG 1855–1920, 49–50; Jancsó, Bánát első vasútja, 21; Strach, Geschichte der Eisenbahnen der Österreichisch-Ungarischen Monarchie, vol. 3, 148.

8. 8 Sisa, Hungarian Architecture and Design 1800–1900, 655, 656.

9. 9 Strach, Geschichte der Eisenbahnen der Österreichisch-Ungarischen Monarchie, vol. 3, 449.

10. 10 The Brno-Rosice railway, initiated in 1851 by coal mine owners under Johann Ernst Herring to link Brno’s industry with local coal resources, was operated by the k.k. Ausschliesslich Privilegierte Brünn-Rossitzer Eisenbahn and acquired by StEG in 1879. Matěj et al., Cultural Monuments of the Rosice-Oslavany Industrial Area, 27–31, 42–46.

11. 11 DGT’s arrival in Baranya in 1852 transformed small mining operations into large enterprises. DGT opened its first mine in 1853 and later built the Üszög-Mohács railway for coal transport. The company developed self-sufficient mining colonies and, by 1923, controlled all major mines in the region (Pécsbánya, Szabolcs, Somogy and Vasas), becoming the leading mining company in Baranya. Kaposi, Pécs gazdasági fejlődése, 48–56, 113–19; Kaposi and Vonyó, Pécs története VI, 115–21, 223–27.

12. 12 The Oraviţa-Jasenova-Baziaş railway line, the first in Banat, was completed by StEG and inaugurated in 1854. The following year, StEG acquired two major domains, one in Bohemia and the other in southern Banat, which included the metallurgical plants and mines of Reşiţa, Bocşa, Oraviţa, and Anina, along with over 120,000 hectares of land. Jancsó, Bánát első vasútja, 38; Gräf, Domeniul bănăţean al StEG, 50.

13. 13 Railway expansion to Rijeka was delayed by Austrian dominance, which prioritized Trieste, but after 1867, Hungary regained control and pursued rail links connecting the Pannonian Plain to the Adriatic coast to facilitate the rapid export of grains and other goods. By 1873, Rijeka had been integrated into the Hungarian hinterland through lines built or acquired by MÁV. Pelles and Zsigmond, A fiumei magyar kereskedelmi tengerészet története, 18, 21–25, 28, 36–38.

14. 14 Horváth et al., Ezerarcú vasút II; Weinreich, “Pfaff Ferenc legjelentősebb felvételi épületei,” 284–90.

15. 15 Greinert, Mass Vocational Education and Training in Europe, 51–56.

16. 16 In Hungary, drawing, as a core discipline within the curriculum of higher education institutions dedicated to training engineers and architects, was standardized through manuals published by the Ministry of Commerce and Industry (Székely, Az ország tükrei, 36). At the Budapest State Industrial Higher School, the curriculum covered general architecture, building materials, construction techniques, architectural drawing and design models, as well as the design of basic residential and agricultural buildings. It also in­cluded a mandatory summer internship during the studies. Kelecsényi, “Tanszékek, építési irodák, építész­irodák,” 66.

17. 17 Greinert, Mass Vocational Education and Training in Europe, 67.

18. 18 Before the Royal Joseph Technical University was founded, Hungarian specialists trained at leading institutions, including Technische Hochschule Berlin, Karlsruhe Polytechnic, Akademie der Schönen Künste Vienna, ETH Zürich, and École des Beaux-Arts Paris, often supported by state scholarships (Royal Hungarian Scholarship) or professional grants (Engineers’ and Architects’ Union Scholarship).

19. 19 In Cisleithania, the Imperial and Royal Ministry of Trade coordinated secondary technical education: Realschulen became seven-year schools for higher technical studies, two-year Fachschulen replaced ap­prentice­ships, Staats-Gewerbeschulen unified vocational, craft, technical, and advanced training, and Fortbildungsschulen offered evening and Sunday courses. By the 1890s, sixteen such schools operated in Vienna, Graz, Prague, Chernivtsi, and Brno. The 1907 reform granted public status, standardized curricula and workshops, and created a proto-dual system combining school and workplace training. See Greinert, Mass Vocational Education and Training in Europe, 68–73. In Hungary, technical education expanded rapidly from 18 in 1884 to 230 by 1888, with industrial education organized into higher industrial schools (Budapest, Košice), trade schools (five by 1906), and vocational schools providing both theoretical and practical training in metallurgy, wood, textiles, leather, and construction. Székely, Az ország tükrei, 33–36.

20. 20 In 1852, the Chamber of Commerce and Industry in Brno laid the foundations for specialized education by introducing a vocational system based on three-year evening courses, completed in 1860 with the establishment of a higher weaving college. Timişoara established an industrial vocational school in 1882, offering training in metalwork, carpentry, and mechanical engineering, supported by municipal and private scholarships. Pécs expanded its industrial and apprenticeship schools after the 1884 Industrial Law, with major employers like Zsolnay sponsoring specialized training. Rijeka developed maritime and commercial education through the Maritime Academy and the State Higher Commercial School (1881), though industrial education remained fragmented due to frequent administrative changes. (Mertová and Ryšková. The Cultural Heritage of the Brno Wool Industry, 32; Munteanu and Munteanu, Timişoara, 369–79; Kaposi and Vonyó, Pécs Története VI, 281–305; Borovszky, Magyarország vármegyéi és városai - Fiume).

21. 21 Carl Arnold Séquin-Bronner’s firm (founded 1879) applied a rationalist approach across the Monarchy, designing 183 industrial facilities with modular metal structures, reinforced concrete floors, and standardized façades adapted to local contexts (Beran, Bruno Bauer a industriální architektura, 12-14). Similarly, Philipp Jakob Manz’s firm prioritized serial production and typification, creating buildings from standardized steel, concrete, and masonry modules with only minor variations in form (Beran, Industrial Architecture: Creators and Plans, 44; Renz, “Philipp Jakob Manz (1861–1936): Industriearchitekt und Unternehmer”). As the first contractor in the Czech lands to independently plan and execute large-scale industrial projects, Viktor Beneš was particularly active in the sugar industry from the 1890s, leaving a mark on refineries and workers’ housing in both Cisleithania and Transleithania (Beran, “Viktor Beneš, architekt a stavitel průmyslových závodů”).

22. 22 Examples from Cisleithania include Die Gross-Industrie Oesterreichs (Leopold Weiss, 1898), while Transleithania is represented by Magyarország vármegyéi és városai (Samu Borovszky, 1896–1914).

23. 23 Haţegan, Camera de Comerţ, Industrie şi Agricultură Timişoara, 189–92.

24. 24 Cisleithania saw the establishment of numerous such organizations, including Brno’s Women Employment Association (1873), the Industrialists’ Club (1875), the Central Association of Austrian Industrialists (1892), the Federation of Austrian Industrialists (1897), the Association of Czech Textile Industrialists (1902), and the Moravian and Silesian Industrialists’ Association (1912). (Brünner Frauenerwerb-Vereines, Festschrift zur Erinnerung an den 40 jährigen Bestand; Jindra and Jakubec, Economic Rise of the Czech Lands I, 19).

25. 25 The first local branches of the Austro-Hungarian State Bank appeared after 1878 in cities including Cluj-Napoca, Bratislava, Szeged, Győr, and Nagykanizsa. In Pécs, the bank operated from 1880 as a subsidiary of Nagykanizsa, becoming independent in 1887, while in Timişoara it appeared only after 1890. In Rijeka, the first financial institution was the Municipal Savings Bank (1858), followed by Banca Fiumana, a branch of the Austro-Hungarian Bank, in 1870. (Haţegan, Camera de Comerţ, Industrie şi Agricultură Timişoara, 29; Pelles and Zsigmond, A fiumei magyar kereskedelmi tengerészet története, 210, 70; Hunyadi, Szövetkezetek Erdélyben és Európában, 40–41).

26. 26 Local and foreign banks supported Rijeka’s port development and related industries, including shipbuilding, processing, and consumer goods, notably backing the Oil Refinery Company, the Rice Mill Company, the Danubius Machine, Wagon and Ship Factory, supported by the Hungarian General Credit Bank, as well as the Cocoa and Chocolate Factory, developed with the support of the Fiume Credit Bank (Pelles and Zsigmond, A fiumei magyar kereskedelmi tengerészet története, 159).

27. 27 Notable names include Heinrich Offermann and the Löw-Beer, Tugendhat, and Stiassni families in Brno; Alfred Fränkel, Emil Gerhard Pick, Mór Weisz, Eduard Prohászka in Timişoara; Vilmos Zsolnay and Janos Hamerli in Pécs; Andrea Lodovico Adamich, Luigi Ossoinack, Robert Whitehead, Walter Crafton Smith, and Charles Meynier in Rijeka.

28. 28 Kelecsényi, “Tanszékek, építési irodák, építészirodák.”

29. 29 See Miloš et al., Cultural Monuments of the Rosice-Oslavany Industrial Area; Prokop, On the Jewish Legacy in Viennese Architecture, 14–18.

30. 30 See Korbel, “Profesní a společenský vzestup českých architektů a stavitelů v 19. století.”

31. 31 See Horváth et al., Ezerarcú vasút II, 128–31; Aničić, R.I.P. - Riječka industrijska priča; Sisa, Hungarian Architecture and Design 1800–1900; Weinreich, “Pfaff Ferenc legjelentősebb felvételi épületei”; Levardy, “Pfaff Ferencre emlékezünk halála századik évfordulóján.”; Damjanović and Brajković. “Kompleks željezničkog kolodvora u Karlovcu”; Gelléri, Az Ezredéves Országos Kiállítás Kalauza; Palinić and Bjelanović, “Wooden Structures in the Historic Port of Rijeka.”

32. 32 See Lővei, A műemlékvédelem táguló körei, 79, 83; Déry, “Budapest XI. Budafoki úti dohánygyár raktárépület”; Gelléri, Az Ezredéves Országos Kiállítás Kalauza.

33. 33 See Hajós, Szilárd Zielinski; Jancsó, A Temesvár-Lippa-Radna helyi érdekű vasút története; Glavočić, Arhitektura secesije u Rijeci; Lovra and Bereczki, “Early Use of the Reinforced Concrete”; Holló, “Koncepcióváltás a 19/20. század fordulóján az ipari építészetben”; Gudelj, “Grand Hotels Around the Kvarner Bay”; Gábor-Szabó, “100-Year-Old Water Towers of the Zielinski Engineers’ Bureau”; Márton, “Zielinski Szilárd az úttörő mérnök.”

34. 34 See Beran, Bruno Bauer a industriální architektura, 22, 27–29; Beran, Industrial Architecture: Creators and Plans; Mertová and Ryšková, The Cultural Heritage of the Brno Wool Industry; Miloš et al., Cultural Monuments of the Rosice-Oslavany Industrial Area.

35. 35 See Beran, Bruno Bauer a industriální architektura; Pilkhoffer, Bányászat és építészet Pécsett a 19–20. században; Béla, “Kiegyezés és bányászat”; Gábor-Szabó, “100-Year-Old Water Towers of the Zielinski Engineers’ Bureau.”

36. 36 Pustišek, Giovanni Rubinich, 3.

37. 37 Pintilie, “Documente din arhive particulare – László Székely.”

38. 38 Pilkhoffer, Pécs építészete a századfordulón, 60–66.

39. 39 See Filip, “Franz Holik (1874–1943). První městský architekt v Brně.”; Králiková, “Kounicova ulica v Brne - Stavebný a urbanistický vývoj.”

40. 40 See Károlyi, Víz-Rajz, 14-19, 54; Pană, Emil A. Dandea. Un moţ primar la Târgu-Mureş, 92; Haţegan and Vlaicu, Alimentarea cu apă a Timişoarei, 35.

41. 41 Szekernyés, Székely László, 47.

42. 42 Trifa, “De la măiestrie la decădere.”

43. 43 Márfi, “A pécsi Hamerli család története és irathagyatéka.”

44. 44 János Krátky, an engineer employed by the Budapest municipality, was sent in 1898 on a study trip to Western European cities to examine the equipment and interior fittings of slaughterhouses and pig markets. His report, titled Úti jelentés a külföldi (németországi) sertésközvágóhidak és sertésvásárok belső berendezéseinek és felszereléseinek tanulmányozása czéljából 1898. évi október hó 6-tól 28-ig tett tanulmányútról [Travel report of a study trip from October 6 to 28, 1898, for the purpose of studying the internal equipment and installations of foreign (German) pig slaughterhouses and pig markets] was compiled to support the construction of a new slaughterhouse in Budapest, complementary to the existing one.

45. 45 See Szekernyés, Székely László.

46. 46 Haţegan, Camera de Comerţ, Industrie şi Agricultură Timişoara, 30–35.

47. 47 See Székely, Az ország tükrei; Székely, Ephemeral Architecture in Central Eastern Europe; Székely, Nemzet, ipar, művészet: A kolozsvári I. Ferenc József Iparmúzeum.

48. 48 Ludwig Utz, Engineer and Director of the Imperial and Royal Institute for Textile Industry in Vienna, presents numerous examples of industrial architecture in Moderne Fabrikanlagen (Leipzig: Uhlands technischer Verlag, Otto Politzky, 1907), with detailed attention to technical solutions and structural details, factory building types (including specialized solutions for textile, metal, chemical, food, and paper industries), and fireproofing strategies. Similarly, Georg Osthoff’s work Die Schlachthöfe und Viehmärkte der Neuzeit (Leipzig: Scholtze, 1881), circulated widely at the time and served as the basis for the design of numerous slaughterhouses, including the one in Brno.

49. 49 See Beran, Industrial Architecture: Creators and Plans, 41–43; Lovra and Bereczki, “Early Use of the Reinforced Concrete.”

50. 50 Beran, Industrial Architecture: Creators and Plans, 39–41.

* This work was supported by a grant from the Romanian Ministry of Research, Innovation and Digitization, CNCS – UEFISCDI, project number PN-IV-P2-2.1-BSO-2023-0005, within PNCDI IV. The research builds upon the project developed within the New Europe College framework, entitled Bridging Histories: Unveiling the Industrial Evolution Across the Habsburg Empire’s Periphery. The author gratefully acknowledges the support and resources provided by these initiatives.

Mediators of Knowledge between Marginality and Mobility: Ludwig Gumplowicz
and the Making of Italian Elite Sociology*

Kornel Trojan

Ludwig Boltzmann Institute for Research on Consequences of War, Graz

This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.

Hungarian Historical Review Volume 15 Issue 1 (2026): 3-29 DOI 10.38145/2026.1.3

This article examines how Ludwig Gumplowicz’s trajectory from Krakow to Graz mediated between his Polish-Galician experiences and the emergence of Italian elite sociology. It argues that Gumplowicz’s sociology developed along a periphery-center-periphery path: first shaped in the conflicted milieu of Krakow, then institutionalized in Graz as part of the German-speaking academic heartlands of the Habsburg Empire, and finally reexported to the Italian-speaking Küstenland and to what was later to become a unified Italy, where it was appropriated and transformed by early elite theorists such as Gaetano Mosca and Roberto Michels.

Conceptually, the article refines center-periphery approaches by treating them as heuristic and relational rather than as fixed hierarchies. So-called peripheries appear not as passive recipients but as centers of circulation in their own right. Italian students in Graz emerge as key cultural and scholarly mediators: through their mobility, translations, and professional networks, they carried Gumplowicz’s conflict sociology southward and helped recast it into Italian elite sociology.

Empirically, the article reconstructs the multilingual, mobile university landscape of the late Habsburg Empire and traces how patronage, academic travel, and journal networks enabled the southward transfer of ideas about sociology. In doing so, it contributes to debates on transnational intellectual history, the history of sociology, and Habsburg university history, using the case of Gumplowicz to show how regional universities and student mobility played a disproportionate role in the “viral,” adaptive circulation of concepts.

Keywords: Ludwig Gumplowicz, Italian elite sociology, conflict sociology, knowledge transfer, center-periphery, Habsburg Empire, academic mobility, Roberto Michels

Introduction

Ludwig Gumplowicz (1838–1909) is, apart from Joseph Alois Schumpeter (1883–1950), arguably the most internationally renowned social scientist as­sociated with the University of Graz. From a history-of-science perspective, however, his trajectory is paradoxical: a marginal, often embattled figure in the Habsburg Empire’s academic field who nonetheless became a major reference point for early Italian sociology and has been described as one of the founders of the conflict school of sociology.1 This article takes that tension as its starting point.2

Rather than focusing primarily on Gumplowicz’s outsider status in Graz or his position within Austrian academic society (as much of the secondary literature has done),3 the article poses a different question: how did Gumplowicz’s movement from Krakow to Graz enable his Polish-Galician experiences to inform and further the emergence of Italian elite sociology?

Conceptually, the article refines center-periphery approaches by showing how “intermediate” academic sites such as Graz functioned as relational nodes in a Habsburg migration space, where peripheries could act as active producers and transformers of sociological knowledge. In this case, it asks how concepts shaped in the social and national conflicts of Galicia and then appropriated in Graz were transformed and put to work within Italian sociology, especially in the development of what is now known as Italian elite theory. Geatano Mosca, Ro­ber­to Michels, and Vilfredo Pareto formulated a series of arguments about the inevitability of the concentration of power in the hands of minorities, the “circulation of elites,” and the oligarchic tendencies of modern organizations that would shape political sociology throughout the twentieth century.4

The article uses the notion of periphery-center-periphery to describe a trajectory in which ideas are formed in a provincial setting of the Habsburg Empire (Krakow), institutionalized in an imperial heartland (Graz, part of the “center”), and reexported to another periphery (the Küstenland, especially Trieste, and adjacent Italian-speaking regions and from there to a later unified Italy), where they again are transformed and help lay the foundations for Italian elite sociology in unified Italy. From this perspective, Gumplowicz’s biography is read as a movement along this arc: originating in Krakow, a provincial yet intellectually vibrant periphery of the Empire; moving to Graz, where he was able to establish his sociology; and from there, through his Italian students, reaching Italian lands within the monarchy, often seen as peripheral intellectual spaces but ones in which his theories took deep root.

In using the language of periphery and center, the article treats this framework as a heuristic rather than a fixed hierarchy. As political and academic capital, Vienna constituted the main imperial center, while Graz functioned as a secondary regional hub or “intermediate node” within a wider academic field. The term “center” is thus used for the German-speaking academic heartlands of the Habsburg Empire. A relational perspective is therefore more appropriate: positions shift with scale (local, imperial, transnational), and so-called peripheries can themselves become centers of circulation in specific networks. Graz exemplifies this dynamic. Though, below Vienna in the imperial hierarchy and home to an “outsider” like Gumplowicz, in this case, the university operated as a relay station in the southward transfer of sociological ideas. Italian students in Graz, far from passive recipients on the periphery, emerge as coproducers and transformers of knowledge whose mobility and mediation were essential to the formation of early Italian sociology.

To illuminate these processes, the article goes beyond Gumplowicz’s individual biography to reconstruct the multilingual and mobile university land­scape of the late Habsburg Empire. It traces how professional ties, patronage, and student mobility created networks of circulation that cut across formal hierarchies of center and periphery. In this configuration, Graz appears as a node linking Galician experiences and Italian receptions. Gumplowicz’s arrival in Graz was facilitated by academic networks (notably his former teacher Gustav Demelius), and his later influence in Italy depended decisively on Italian students in Graz, who acted as cultural and scholarly mediators between north and south.

By following Gumplowicz’s ideas along these routes (from Krakow to Graz and from Graz to the Italian-speaking peripheries), the discussion below examines how concepts travel between centers and peripheries; how transnational student mobility and professional networks shape the circulation of knowledge; and how intellectuals such as Gumplowicz operate as mediators who translate biographical experiences into disciplinary innovations.

In doing so, the article contributes to three interconnected debates: trans­national intellectual history (by tracing multilingual and asymmetrical networks of circulation), the history of sociology (by highlighting the role of conflict sociology in the formation of Italian elite theory), and the history of Habsburg universities and academic mobility (by showing how seemingly secondary universities like Graz could play a disproportionate role in the internationalization of knowledge).

Academic Mobility and Intellectual Exchange in the Habsburg Empire

Gumplowicz’s influence on Italian elite sociology cannot be understood without considering the intellectual and institutional environment in which his sociology took shape. The universities of the Habsburg Empire had recently undergone a period of reform. After the revolution of 1848, during a brief liberal interlude before the onset of neo-absolutism, the government introduced a series of measures that reshaped academic life. The abolition of censorship and the liberalization of exchange with non-Habsburg countries facilitated a greater circulation of people and ideas both across the provinces and beyond the Empire’s borders, creating opportunities that had been severely restricted for students and scholars under Klemens von Metternich. At the same time, the founding of an Imperial Academy of Sciences aimed to unite scholars from across the monarchy, reinforcing the role of universities as central nodes in a transnational intellectual network.5

These reforms created the conditions for a profound transformation of the sciences, which until then had largely been confined to local institutions such as museums, noble societies, and royal collections. Universities now became centers of both intellectual innovation and political debate: initially instruments of a courtly and integrative state nationalism, but increasingly contested spaces shaped by nationalist actors.

Following the liberalization of legislation after 1848, students and scholars rapidly became increasingly mobile, from the perspectives of both numbers and scope. The Habsburg universities became markedly multilingual and transregional. Gustav Otruba estimated that in 1863 almost 50 percent of the students at the University of Graz did not speak German as their first language (by 1910, this figure had declined to about 30 percent), and that in the 1890s more than 20 percent of students in Graz came from outside the Habsburg Empire. Regardless of the problematic nature of the category “mother tongue,” these statistics underscore the extent to which Habsburg universities functioned as hubs of student mobility and cross-cultural exchange.6

In this sense, the University of Graz must be seen as part of a wider network of institutions that enabled knowledge transfer across the Empire. It was pre­cisely this environment, which was multilingual, transnational, and shaped by constant circulation, that allowed Gumplowicz to formulate his sociology and connect with the Italian students who would become decisive intermediaries in carrying his ideas southward.

Krakow as Periphery: Intellectual Beginnings, Identity, Conflict, and Failure

Ludwig Gumplowicz was born in 1838 in Krakow into a German-speaking, reform-oriented Jewish family. He attended the well-known Polish-language St. Anna Gymnasium and subsequently studied law in Krakow and Vienna. After completing his degree, he worked as a lawyer, municipal politician, journalist, and editor of Kraj (Country), the first liberal daily newspaper in Krakow, and he published numerous works on Jewish history.7

The question of his identity, both religious and national, preoccupied the young Gumplowicz, son of a representative of enlightened Judaism, the Haskalah, as much as the question of Judaism itself. Which Jewish or national identity (Polish or German) should he adopt? Issues underlying these questions, such as national tensions, Jewish identity and culture, political power, and theories of the state, would later become central aspects of his sociology. Thus, his sociology was strongly shaped by his time in Krakow and his “Galician socialization.”8

Seen from the perspective of the Habsburg Empire, Krakow represented the periphery of the monarchy’s intellectual world, an environment marked by cultural hybridity, national tensions, and fragile institutional structures. It was pre­cisely this peripheral experience that sharpened Gumplowicz’s sensitivity to diversity and conflict among ethnic communities, themes that became foundational to his conflict sociology.

In the 1860s and 1870s, local politics were dominated by debates over the relationship between Jewish identities, Polish nationalism, Catholicism, and the Habs­burg state. As a lawyer, municipal politician, and editor of Kraj, Gumplowicz intervened directly in these conflicts through articles and pamphlets on Jewish emancipation and national identity. In these texts, he rejected attempts to fuse nationality with religion or “race,” analyzed the sharp tensions between Polish elites, the Catholic Church, and Jewish communities, and described Polish society as a historically evolved “amalgam” of competing collective groups. Many of these early Krakow pamphlets and journalistic texts are accessible today both in edited form, via the source collection Dwa życia Ludwika Gumplowicza, and digital facsimiles and transcribed versions in Edition Ludwig Gumplowicz, maintained by the archive of the history of sociology in Austria (AGSÖ) and the University of Graz. 9 These early writings already frame social life in terms of clashing group interests and asymmetrical power relations, foreshadowing Gumplowicz’s later formulation of the idea that the state embodies the victory of some groups over others. During the period of growing autonomy in Galicia around 1870, first, his academic ambitions were thwarted by a failed attempt at habilitation at the Jagiellonian University, and then his political-journalistic career collapsed with the bankruptcy of Kraj in 1874. After this double failure, he found himself compelled to seek a new beginning.10

New Academic Beginnings in Graz: Living for Science Rather than from It

In 1875, at the age of 37, Gumplowicz relocated with his family from Krakow to Graz. The move was less a personal decision than the product of professional and intellectual networks within the Habsburg Empire. It was likely arranged by his former teacher, Gustav Demelius (1831–1891), professor of Roman law at the Jagiellonian University.11 Demelius thus acted as a scholarly go-between, illustrating how institutional ties opened routes of mobility for intellectuals across the monarchy. Such linkages reveal how the Habsburg migration space supported not only student movement but also the cross-border careers of academics like Gumplowicz.

Once in Graz, Gumplowicz registered as a defense attorney and quickly entered the city’s intellectual life, delivering a public lecture in late September. On February 12, 1876 he applied for habilitation in legal and political philosophy. Despite initial hurdles, he received habilitation in general constitutional law on December 15, 1876 and began teaching as a Privatdozent (unsalaried lecturer) at the University of Graz. 12

His Privatdozent years were financially precarious. Repeated petitions for aid mention strained circumstances. He depended on annual ministry stipends of 600–800 gulden and minimal student fees. Whether he augmented this through legal practice or exam tutoring remains unclear, but frequent changes of residence suggest that the family wrestled with financial difficulties. This meager income was all the more inadequate given that, by the time of his habilitation, Gumplowicz was 38, married, and the father of three children, ages twelve, ten, and seven. In these years, he lived for science rather than from it.13

Later, Demelius again played a decisive role by supporting Gumplowicz’s appointment as professor extraordinarius, submitting the formal application for “the appointment of Dr. Gumplowicz as professor extraordinarius.”14 This intervention highlights once more the significance of professional networks and patronage structures as mechanisms of knowledge transfer. These relationships were not only vehicles for ideas but also institutional levers that allowed scholars to gain positions, visibility, and the capacity to shape emerging disciplines. From 1882 onward, Gumplowicz received a salary of 1,200 gulden as Extraordinarius, along with an “activity allowance” of 420 gulden. With his promotion to full professor (ordinarius) in 1893, his salary rose further, ensuring financial stability in the last decades of his life.15

Institutionalizing Sociology in Graz: The Formation of Gumplowicz’s Conflict Sociology

Yet it was only after his appointment in 1882 as professor extraordinarius of constitutional and administrative law in Graz (a position that also alleviated the financial insecurities his family had faced) that Gumplowicz openly aligned himself with the then still fragile and disputed discipline of sociology. Over the course of the next decade, he published the works that defined his contribution to the field: Der Rassenkampf. Sociologische Untersuchungen (1883), Grundriß der Sociologie (1885), and Die sociologische Staatsidee (1892). His subsequent promotion in 1893 to full professor of administrative science and Austrian administrative law consolidated his standing within the University of Graz.16

As a jurist, Gumplowicz described himself as a positivist “to the point of exaggeration.”17 In sociology, which he increasingly recognized as his true intellectual domain, he adhered to a positivist method and identified as an empiricist, though he generally employed empirical material in an illustrative rather than systematic fashion. More importantly, he viewed sociology as a practical and political science, a means of explaining and legitimizing the stabilization of power and domination.18

This orientation cannot be understood without reference to the periphery-center-periphery trajectory of his career. In Krakow (periphery), his sensitivity to conflict, minority status, and national tensions first took form. In Graz (center), he could refine these experiences, transform them into theoretical frameworks, and give them disciplinary legitimacy. From there, through the mediation of his Italian students, these insights circulated southward into Italy (periphery within the Habsburg Empire), where they were reinterpreted and became foundational for the development of elite sociology.

Gumplowicz’s use of the terms “race” (Rasse) and “race struggle” (Rassen­kampf) has often led to his retrospective classification as a Social Darwinist or proponent of biological race theory. In the intellectual context of the late nineteenth century, however, his vocabulary functioned primarily as a sociological shorthand for historically formed social groups. Gumplowicz explicitly distanced himself from biologism and did not ground his analysis in hereditary racial hierarchies. Instead, he employed “race” to denote historically evolved social collectivities that distinguished themselves from others through a strong sense of shared identity and solidarity. He defined “races” in ethnic, national, religious, and political terms, rather than in the biological sense that later became increasingly prominent. For Gumplowicz, “race” was basically a sociological term. It denoted solidary groups with a strong Wir-Gefühl (sense of “we”) that differentiated themselves from others and struggled over domination and resources. Thus, he used “race struggle” to describe enduring conflicts between such groups over power and domination. He also insisted that history was a continuous process of mixture and amalgamation of these groups, a notion which again points away from rigid biological categories. 19

Gumplowicz’s insistence on the necessity of stabilizing relations of power was deeply rooted in his own encounters with the fraught conflicts among the nationalities of Cisleithania. He interpreted the sharp cleavages he observed between Polish landowning elites, Ruthenian/Ukrainian peasants, and Jewish communities, as well as the tensions among national groupings within the Habsburg monarchy, as expressions of an ongoing “eternal struggle of races,” a strong sense of “we” against “they.”20 This perspective ultimately culminated in his theory of the state, which he defined as an institutionalized form of domination: its primary function, he argued, was to translate the victory of one ethnic group (or coalition of groups) into enduring structures of subjugation. “Never and nowhere have states arisen in any other way, than through the con­quest of foreign peoples,”21 he declared. In this formulation, the essential contours of his conflict sociology become visible: society and state are inseparably linked, and the dynamics of struggle and domination lie at their very foundation.22

From Isolation to Transnational Impact: Outsider in Austria,
Founding Father Abroad

Many studies dealing with the life and work of Ludwig Gumplowicz address the theme of the marginal existence of this late Habsburg social theorist. The image of a misunderstood genius is a favored and recurrent motif in numerous biographical and autobiographical portrayals.23 Drawing to a large extent on Gumplowicz’s presentations of his own life and career, other narratives of his place and contributions have tended to depict him as a stranger who suffered personal misfortunes and Graz as his place of exile. From the perspective of the sociology of knowledge, his position as a social outsider (his double hyphenated identity as a Jew in Galicia and a patriotic Pole in Cisleithania) has been linked with his vehement critique of traditional jurisprudence. Put somewhat polemically: his deviant behavior as a scholar and his minority status as a sociologist within the legal profession have been interpreted as expressions of his socially marginal position.24

This assessment can be traced back to the portrait painted of him in 1926 by his student Franz Oppenheimer (1864–1943):

As a Jew and a Pole he sees things doubly “from below”; he recognizes the partie honteuse of the society and state in which he lives with full clarity […]; yet as an academically educated man he always remains a bourgeois. […] Because he saw “from below,” he penetrated to the weaknesses of the state; because he still saw far too much “from above,” he was unable to believe in anything better and cast himself into the arms of sociological pessimism.25

Gumplowicz never felt at home in Graz. In his letters to Lester F. Ward and others, he repeatedly writes of his loneliness, social withdrawal, and life in complete solitude. He laments the dissolution of the Polish student association Ognisko and even likens his years in Graz to a “Babylonian captivity.”26

Yet this intellectual and social isolation within Graz should not obscure the fact that his ideas circulated widely through other channels. Gumplowicz himself carefully cultivated the role of the misunderstood genius in his homeland. In his publications as well as in his private letters, he repeatedly portrayed himself as a prophet of the new science of sociology who was not understood in his own country. In other words, he cast himself as an unheard prophet, in a double sense, amid the intellectual barrenness of Austrian jurisprudence. Time and again, the combative Krakow scholar accused his Austrian colleagues of attempting to silence him, though he would then point out, with proud satisfaction, that abroad (namely in Italy, France, and the United States) he had received the recognition he deserved and his sociological teachings had taken root. By 1900, he already enjoyed the status of a founding father of sociology in the United States. Through Lester Ward (1841–1913) and Albion Small (1854–1926), his sociology gained wide influence.27

At the University of Graz, Gumplowicz was an outsider with his ideas, yet he was now in a position to make his research widely known through an active publishing practice, particularly abroad. This was facilitated by his multilingualism, his steadily growing network, and his fundamentally cosmopolitan outlook. He thus embodied an early example of the internationalization of research and of Graz as a site of scholarship. This cosmopolitan orientation was also reflected in the publication history of his works. As early as the 1890s, Gumplowicz’s Grundriß der Soziologie (1885) left the German-language context through translation: in 1899, it appeared in English as Outlines of Sociology, trans­lated by Frederick W. Moore and published by the American Academy of Political and Social Science in Philadelphia, making Gumplowicz’s group- and conflict-oriented sociology available to an emerging American disciplinary public.28 In the Romance languages, Der Rassenkampf circulated under translated titles. Spanish bibliographical overviews note a version entitled La lucha de razas, issued by the Madrid publishing house La España Moderna at the beginning of the twentieth century.29 In Italy, Gumplowicz’s key concepts were disseminated less through full book translations than through extensive reviews, excerpts, and programmatic essays in journals such as Rivista italiana di sociologia and via the writings of mediators like Franco Savorgnan, who systematically introduced his conflict sociology to Italian readers.30 Recent historiography also stresses that by the early twentieth century, Gumplowicz’s major works were available or discussed in several languages (including English, Italian, and Spanish), a fact that underpinned his reputation. The transnational significance of Gumplowicz lies in a paradox: marginalized within Graz (one of the imperial academic centers), his sociology nevertheless found fertile ground in the peripheries of the Habsburg world, above all in Italy.

Italian Students as Mediators of Knowledge Transfer

Italian students in Graz acted as mediators who carried Gumplowicz’s conflict sociology southward, where it was not received as the marginal voice of an outsider but as a valuable theoretical resource for the emerging field of elite sociology. In a sense, Italian students at the University of Graz could also be regarded as outsiders, since despite their large numbers, Italian was not officially permitted as a language of instruction. The very fact that they studied in Graz at all was mainly due to the absence of a university in Trieste, despite repeated demands. Between 1875 and 1910, when Gumplowicz taught at the University of Graz, the student body included a significant proportion of non-German-speaking students, reflecting the multilingual and mobile character of Habsburg higher education.31

In addition to professional disputes, Gumplowicz’s years as ordinarius appear to have brought increasing ideological conflicts with certain members of the faculty.32 His animosity toward what he perceived as an increasingly Germanized academic landscape should be understood against this backdrop. His letters from these years reveal that both his Polish patriotism and his rejection of the German-speaking academic mainstream became more pronounced.33

Perhaps out of a sense of solidarity, Gumplowicz maintained especially close contact with Italian students, who were strongly represented at the University of Graz. Not only was he authorized to conduct examinations in Italian, but in 1895, he was also elected by the faculty as its representative to the administrative committee of the support fund for students.34 In these roles, he operated within professional and student networks that linked Graz to other academic centers, facilitating mobility across linguistic and national boundaries. Such networks were essential mechanisms of knowledge transfer, turning local contacts into transnational channels of intellectual circulation.35

The rise of German nationalism around 1900, with its racist undertones, was repugnant to Gumplowicz. In 1903, he wrote in a letter to a Polish colleague about a student from Lemberg enrolled at the University of Graz, whom he described as a “model pupil.”36 The young man was “diligent and talented” and focused exclusively “on his studies.” Yet at his state law examination he fell victim to “the aversion of local professors to anything that is not German.”37 His poor German proved an insurmountable obstacle. Gumplowicz reported that he had advised the Lemberg student not to attempt the examination again: “The greatest fool, if he is a German, passes, while the best candidate, whether Slovene or Pole, fails! Now there is war here, not justice!”38 At the moment, he wrote, the mood among the German professors in Graz was very tense: “politics, not merit, decided the fate of examination candidates.”39 For Gumplowicz, this experience further reinforced the importance of transnational student communities. It was through such networks, rather than through the increasingly nationalized local faculty, that knowledge could circulate across borders and shape emerging disciplines, such as Italian sociology.

The Reception of Gumplowicz’s Sociology in Italy

Gumplowicz’s position as a professor at the University of Graz, along with his sympathies for the many Italian, Hungarian, Slovene, and Croatian students there, facilitated the reception of his work in the countries of origin of these students. Building on his close personal contacts with Italian students, which gave Gumplowicz and his sociology a certain degree of popularity in Italy, an intensive scholarly exchange also developed with Italian sociologists. In the relevant Italian professional journals, Gumplowicz was frequently published and reviewed.40 He himself also valued his Italian colleagues and their contributions to the discipline of sociology. As he commented in one of his letters,

One can boldly assert that in the last three decades Italy has outstripped not only the Romance nations but also Germany in the field of political science. Not in the number of books; in that respect Germany and also France are far ahead. But in the inner value and substance of its political literature. [The Germans] have been far surpassed by Italian political science.41

In turn, Gumplowicz’s ideas were widely discussed in sociological and historical journals. First and foremost through his publications in Rivista italiana di sociologia42 (Italy’s leading sociological journal, published bimonthly), he was able to gain recognition among Italian scholars such as Gaetano Mosca, Michel Angelo Vaccaro, Mario Morasso, and Roberto Michels.43 The reception of Rassenkampf in Italy took place primarily in the context of political journalism rather than within sociology itself, which only further enhanced the popularity of this concept. Among the German-speaking sociologists received in Italy, Gumplowicz was accorded a particularly prominent status. The journal itself functioned as part of a broader professional network that connected Graz with emerging Italian centers of sociology, demonstrating how institutional platforms mediated the southward transfer of ideas. Crucially, Italian students in Graz acted as cultural and scholarly mediators. They were not merely passive recipients of Gumplowicz’s ideas but active brokers who translated his conflict sociology into their own intellectual and linguistic frameworks. By bringing these insights back to Italy, they ensured that Gumplowicz’s sociology entered into dialogue with the distinctive concerns of Italian intellectual life, particularly the emergence of elite sociology.44

Gumplowicz’s contacts in Italy and his active exchange with the scholarly community there are further demonstrated by the fact that of the 500 books and writings he bequeathed to the University of Graz Library in 1908, a substantial portion consisted of sociological works from Italy, often with personal dedications.45 He also regarded Franco Savorgnan, a native of Trieste, as his most diligent student. In a letter to the Polish historian Jan K. Kochanowski, Gumplowicz offered the following characterization: “It is an interesting fact that my most gifted student [Savorgnan] is an Italian—after him come the Slovenes and a Croat […]—and only then the Germans, but at a great distance.”46

Franco Savorgnan (1879–1963) was far more than a promising student who then disappears from view. Born in Trieste, he studied law at the University of Graz, where he became Gumplowicz’s favorite pupil, and he remained in contact with him after taking his degree in 1903. Returning to Trieste, he was active as a collaborator of the aforementioned Rivista italiana di sociologia, explicitly promoting Gumplowicz’s work in Italy and thus acting, already in the years around the turn of the century, as a key mediator between Austrian and Italian sociological milieus. In 1908, he began an academic career at the Scuola superiore di commercio in Trieste (serving as its director from 1912 to 1915), and, after taking refuge in Italy during World War I, he held chairs of statistics in Cagliari, Messina, Modena, Pisa, and finally Rome, where he held the chair of statistics and demography until 1954 and served as president of the Istituto centrale di statistica (Istat) in the 1930s and early 1940s. His early sociological writings as well as numerous reviews and essays in Rivista italiana di sociologia repeatedly cite and discuss Gumplowicz and are read in the literature as an important vehicle for the dissemination and adaptation of Austrian conflict sociology within Italian debates on elites, demography, and national questions.47

Although Savorgnan was the only Italian student of Gumplowicz whose biography can be reconstructed in detail, he was by no means an isolated case. Faculty statistics and archival records show that Italians formed one of the largest non-German groups at the University of Graz around 1900.48 While these sources rarely link individual names explicitly to Gumplowicz’s lectures, they nonetheless document a sizeable cohort of Italian law students who passed through Graz during his tenure. As Weiler and Strassoldo have emphasized, Savorgnan thus appears less as a lone disciple than as the best-documented representative of a broader, largely anonymous milieu of Italian students for whom Graz and Gumplowicz’s conflict sociology became an important intellectual reference point.49

In this sense, Gumplowicz’s sociology spread less in a linear or deterministic manner than through a dynamic of circulation and adaptation. His ideas depended on hosts: Italian students in Graz, especially Franco Savorgnan. They adopted, transmitted, and transformed Gumplowicz’s ideas within their own intellectual environment. This mechanism resonates with Michael Vogrin’s critique of technological determinism, where he describes the spread of in­novations not as an inevitable unfolding of inner logic but as a “viral” dynamic shaped by interdependent contexts.50

Italian Elite Sociology and Its Dialogue with Gumplowicz’s Conflict Sociology

What later came to be known as Italian elite sociology developed in the decades around 1900 in close connection with broader European debates about power, democracy, and mass society. The core figures usually associated with this “Italian school of elites” are Gaetano Mosca (1858–1941), Vilfredo Pareto (1848–1923), and Roberto Michels (1876–1936).

Although each of these authors drew on diverse intellectual resources, their work bears clear affinities with (and in some cases explicit debts to) the conflict sociology of Ludwig Gumplowicz. Italian elite sociology reworked his focus on intergroup struggle and conquest into analyses of organized minorities, party leaderships, and ruling classes. In this sense, the reception of Gumplowicz in Italy can be read as a paradigmatic instance of how concepts travel: “race struggle” and state formation, once translated into the Italian context, became key building blocks in theories of elite domination and oligarchy.51

Gaetano Mosca and the Theory of the Ruling Class

Mosca’s central contribution, first elaborated in Elementi di scienza politica 52 (1896) and later widely known through its English version The Ruling Class, 53 is the claim that in every society a politically organized minority rules over a disorganized majority. He conceptualized this minority as a “political class,” stressing not only the social and economic privileges of this class but above all its superior organization, cohesion, and control over the means of coercion and persuasion. Mosca rejected the notion of popular sovereignty as a sociological description and argued instead that all political regimes (monarchies, liberal parliamentary systems, and mass democracies alike) rest on domination by an organized elite. What changes historically is not the existence of a ruling class but its composition, recruitment patterns, and legitimating “political formula,” which consists of a set of beliefs that justify elite rule in the eyes of both rulers and ruled. Elite circulation and renewal are possible, but rule by a small group is inescapable.54

In developing this perspective, Mosca engaged with a range of authors in public law, social theory, and political science. Among these, contemporaries and later commentators have highlighted his explicit references to Ludwig Gump­lowicz. In The Ruling Class, Mosca cites Der Rassenkampf approvingly when discussing the historical struggles between social groups and the formation of ruling minorities. While he did not adopt Gumplowicz’s vocabulary of “race” uncritically, he drew on the underlying idea that the state emerges from the victory of some groups over others and the institutionalization of relations of domination.55

At the same time, Mosca shifted the analytical focus from relatively broad, quasi-ethnic “races” to more specifically political groupings. Where Gumplowicz emphasized conquests between tribes and peoples, Mosca concentrated on parties, bureaucracies, and organized elites within modern nation-states. The continuity lies in the shared insistence on conflict and inequality as constitutive features of social order; the innovation lies in recoding these conflicts as struggles between ruling and ruled, organized minorities and disorganized majorities.56

Roberto Michels and the Iron Law of Oligarchy

Roberto Michels, who moved between German and Italian academic milieus and joined the circle around Mosca and Pareto, radicalized these insights in his famous study Zur Soziologie des Parteiwesens in der modernen Demokratie (1911), later translated as Political Parties. Observing the German Social Democratic Party and other mass organizations, he formulated the “iron law of oligarchy”: the claim that all complex organizations, even those inspired by democratic ideals, tend inexorably to develop oligarchic leadership structures.57

For Michels, the organizational necessities of large-scale parties, being the need for delegation, professional leadership, and technical expertise, inevitably produce a leadership stratum that consolidates its position and becomes increasingly independent of the rank and file. Democracy thus generates its own oligarchies, and mass parties reproduce within themselves the same patterns of domination that they contest in wider society. Michels explicitly acknowledged his intellectual debts to both Mosca and Gumplowicz. In Political Parties, he cites Der Rassenkampf as a pioneering attempt to derive political institutions from relations of domination between social groups, and he credits Gumplowicz with having shown how the state ultimately embodies the victory of some groups over others.58

Yet, as in Mosca’s case, Michels transposed this framework from the plane of ethnic or “racial” conflict to the inner lives of parties, unions, and associations. The key antagonism in his analysis is no longer between conquering and con­quered peoples, but between party elites and ordinary members.59

In this way, Michels can be seen as translating Gumplowicz’s conflict sociology into the idiom of organizational sociology and democratic theory. The “state as conquest” becomes the “party as oligarchy.” The “eternal struggle of races” becomes the “enduring tension among leaders,” a tension that is found in the struggles among leaders within modern mass organizations.60

Italian Elite Sociology as Transformation of Conflict Sociology

Taken together, Mosca and Michels (with Pareto as a third, partly distinct figure) are often described as constituting an “Italian school of elites.” What unites them is less a shared methodology than a set of substantive claims: that elites are inescapable; that political power is concentrated in organized minorities; and that democratic forms do not abolish but reconfigure the mechanisms of domination.61

The reception of Gumplowicz’s work in Italy contributed significantly to this development. As Raimondo Strassoldo and Bernd Weiler have shown, Italian scholars engaged intensively with Der Rassenkampf, Grundriß der Soziologie, and Die sociologische Staatsidee. In the Italian context, however, the language of “race” was often downplayed or reinterpreted, and the emphasis shifted toward political organization, elites, and the mechanisms of rule.62

From this perspective, Italian elite sociology can be read as a creative trans­formation of Gumplowicz’s conflict sociology under new institutional and intel­lectual conditions. Some prominent lines of continuity and revision stand out.

From race struggle to elite-mass conflict

The fact that Mosca and Michels moved from Gumplowicz’s language of “race struggle” (Rassenkampf) to a vocabulary of elites and masses is best understood in its historical and intellectual context. Around 1880–1900, Gumplowicz still used Rasse in a broadly sociological sense to denote historically grown collectivities (ethnic, national, religious, or political groups) rather than biological races in the later, strictly racist sense. Contemporary readers like Sarah E. Simons also treated “race” in sociological debates as a flexible category of group difference and conflict, not as any notion of rigid biological essence.63

By the time Mosca and Michels were developing their theories (1890s–1910s), the semantic and political landscape had shifted. “Race” was increasingly tied to biological racism and eugenic discourse, especially in Central and Western Europe, and less suited for the kind of general theory of power in constitutional states that they were after. Mosca’s central problem was not inter-ethnic conflict but the persistence of minority rule in formally liberal regimes. He therefore recast Gumplowicz’s conflict perspective in terms of classe politica and “ruling class”: a structurally organized minority that governs a disorganized majority on the basis of organization, competence, and control of key resources rather than racial properties. Drawing on his experiences with mass parties and trade unions, Michels likewise shifted the focus from quasi-ethnic “races” to the internal dynamics of modern organizations. His “iron law of oligarchy” explains how leadership cliques inevitably form within democratic parties and unions because of the technical demands of organization and representation. Here, the central opposition is no longer among competing “races” but between the leaders and the led within mass democracy.64

In this sense, Mosca and Michels retain Gumplowicz’s core intuition (history as structured by enduring conflicts between unequal groups), but they translate it into a new grammar that better fits the political and intellectual conditions of turn-of-the-century Italy and Germany. As Raimondo Strassoldo and Jan Pakulski have argued, classical elite theory generalizes earlier conflict sociology (including Gumplowicz) into a theory of organized minorities and disorganized majorities, sidelining “race” in favor of institutional, organizational, and political categories. This shift also reflects the Italians’ substantive interests: they were less concerned with the multiethnic tensions of the Habsburg world than they were with the crises of liberal parliamentarism, clientelism, and mass parties in a recently unified nation-state.65

From conquest to organization

According to Gumplowicz’s theory, the state originates in conquest: victorious groups subjugate the defeated and transform this asymmetry into lasting structures of rule. “Race struggle” is thus the motor of history, and the state is little more than the stabilized outcome of successful domination.66 Mosca and Michels retained the idea that all political order rests on inequality and domination, but they reframed it in terms of organization rather than conquest. For Mosca, every society is divided between the ruling class and the ruled, and the persistence of elite rule depends less on original acts of violence than on the superior “political organization” of minorities, meaning control of the administrative machinery, parties, and means of persuasion.67 Analyzing modern mass parties, Michels radicalized this insight into his “iron law of oligarchy”: even organizations founded on democratic and egalitarian ideals tend, as they grow, to concentrate power in the hands of a professional leadership that monopolizes information and technical expertise.68

Italian elite theorists thus translated Gumplowicz’s emphasis on conflict and domination into a language attuned to the problems of early twentieth-century mass politics. Instead of conquering “races,” it is now disciplined party elites, parliamentary leaders, and bureaucratic cadres who secure and reproduce power. What remains from Gumplowicz is the anti-harmonistic premise that inequality is structural rather than accidental. What changes is the analytic focus, from ethnically or historically defined collectivities to the organizational mechanisms that allow small, cohesive minorities to rule over large, fragmented majorities in formally democratic regimes.69

From static hierarchy to circulation and adaptation

Whereas Gumplowicz’s account sometimes presents relations of domination as relatively stable outcomes of conquest (enduring hierarchies in which victorious groups impose lasting control over the vanquished), Italian elite sociologists placed greater emphasis on the circulation and renewal of ruling minorities over time. Mosca conceptualized the “classe politica” not as a fixed caste but as a re­latively small group that is continually replenished and partially reshaped through recruitment, cooptation, and the selective opening of political and administrative careers to outsiders. Stability lies less in the permanence of specific families or factions than in the persistence of a ruling minority as such.70 Working on parties and unions rather than state elites, Michels similarly analyzed how leadership strata are reproduced and replaced within mass organizations: new cohorts of leaders emerge, consolidate their position, and may eventually be challenged and succeeded by rivals, even as the oligarchic structure of organization remains in place.71 In both cases, the focus shifts from a comparatively static image of “races” locked in struggle to a more dynamic understanding of how elites adapt, renew themselves, and integrate segments of the masses, a move that, while retaining Gumplowicz’s core insight about structural inequality, translates it into a theory of elite rotation under modern conditions of mass politics.72

Whereas Gumplowicz sometimes appears to treat group domination as relatively stable, Italian elite sociologists emphasized the circulation and replacement of elites over time. In Mosca’s case, this appears as the gradual renewal of the classe politica; in Michels’s work, as the succession of leadership cohorts within parties and unions.73

Strassoldo has argued that the strong Austrian (and specifically Graz) imprint on early Italian sociology is often underestimated in standard narratives that focus solely on Italian intellectual traditions.74 When viewed from the vantage point of the Habsburg migration space reconstructed in this article, Italian elite sociology appears less as a purely national innovation and more as the product of a transnational dialogue: Gumplowicz’s conflict sociology, formulated in Graz by a Polish Jew, was appropriated, translated, and reworked by Italian students and scholars who stood at the intersection of several academic cultures.

The importance of Italian elite sociology lies in the way in which it unsettles optimistic narratives of democratic self-rule. Mosca’s theory of the classe politica argued that in every political order a cohesive minority monopolizes key positions and skills, justifying its rule through ideological formulas that claim to represent the common good. Elite circulation and renewal are possible, but rule by a small group is inescapable. Michels made a similar point in his famous “iron law of oligarchy”: even organizations founded on egalitarian ideals, such as socialist parties and trade unions, evolve oligarchic leaderships once they become large and bureaucratic. These theories became foundational not only for sociology, but also for political science, shaping twentieth-century debates on parties, parliamentarism, fascism, and liberal democracy well beyond Italy. Elite sociology intersected with wider intellectual and political crises: the fragility of liberal parliamentarism after unification, the social question, and later the rise of fascism. Mosca’s and Michels’s diagnoses of oligarchy were read both as critiques of existing regimes and as warnings about the vulnerabilities of mass democracy. Their work traveled quickly into broader European debates and continues to inform contemporary research on political elites, technocracy, and democratic backsliding.75

In this sense, Italian elite sociology is not simply an Italian response to mass democracy but also a specific reconfiguration of Habsburg conflict sociology under Italian conditions. The case of Mosca and Michels thus exemplifies the broader argument of this article: intellectual trajectories in the late Habsburg Empire were shaped by student mobility, multilingual networks, and intermediary centers such as Graz, which allowed concepts like Rassenkampf to travel, mutate, and eventually underpin new theoretical traditions, such as Italian elite sociology.

Conclusion

This article set out to show how Ludwig Gumplowicz’s trajectory from Krakow to Graz enabled his Polish-Galician experiences to inform and further the emergence of Italian elite sociology. It has argued, first, that Italian students in Graz were the decisive agents of this transfer: far from passive recipients at the periphery, they acted as cultural and scholarly mediators who translated, adapted, and circulated his conflict sociology in Italian intellectual contexts. Second, it has shown that Graz functioned not as an endpoint but as an intermediate node within a wider Habsburg and European academic field, or in other words as a relay station of sorts linking Galician experiences to Italian receptions. Third, it has suggested that the language of periphery and center is best understood relationally: once student mobility and professional networks are taken seriously, peripheries can themselves become centers of circulation within specific con­stel­lations.

Seen in this light, the case of Gumplowicz’s biography exemplifies how knowledge transfer between centers and peripheries depended on movement, mediation, and institutional settings: concepts forged in a provincial context (Krakow), consolidated in an imperial heartland (Graz), and reexported to another periphery (the Küstenland and Italian-speaking lands) were repeatedly reinterpreted and repurposed. Rather than a simple diffusion from a stable core to a passive periphery, the circulation of Gumplowicz’s sociology appears as a “viral,” adaptive process in which ideas were constantly reshaped by the itineraries of students, the agendas of journals, and the opportunities and constraints of the Habsburg migration space.

More broadly, the article uses Gumplowicz not primarily to “rediscover” a neglected sociologist but to demonstrate how intellectual mobility and mediation actually worked in the late nineteenth-century Habsburg Empire. It contributes to three interconnected debates.

(1) In transnational intellectual history, it offers a concrete case of how concepts travel through multilingual, asymmetrical networks, highlighting the role of intermediate nodes like Graz and of students as coproducers rather than mere conduits of ideas.

(2) In the history of sociology, it shows that early Italian elite sociology did not emerge solely from national intellectual traditions but was decisively shaped by a conflict-sociological perspective developed by a Galician Jew in a provincial capital of the Empire and carried southward by academic migrants.

(3) In the history of Habsburg universities and academic mobility, it de­monstrates that so-called “minor” universities could play a disproportionate role in the internationalization of knowledge precisely because they concentrated mobile, multilingual student populations and were embedded in dense pro­fes­sional networks.

Taken together, these findings suggest that the Habsburg migration space functioned as a catalyst for disciplinary innovation in European social thought. By tracing how Gumplowicz’s ideas were formed, institutionalized, and trans­formed along a periphery-center-periphery trajectory, the article underscores that intellectual history cannot be written solely from the perspectives of canonical centers but must also account for those intermediate sites and mobile actors whose movements turned individual experiences of migration into en­during reconfigurations of sociology well into the twentieth century.

Archival Sources

Narodowe Archiwum Cyfrowe [Archive of the National Library in Warsaw]

Listy Ludwika Gumplowicza do Jana Karola Kochanowskiego, 15.1.1905. [Letters of Ludwik Gumplowicz to Karol Kochanowski, January 15, 1905]

Narodowa Biblioteka Ossolineum [National Ossolineum Library]

Sign. 7669/II, number 469, letter from Gumplowicz to Oswald Balzer, October 19, 1913.

Universitätsarchiv Graz [University Archive Graz] (UAG)

Faculty of Law, number 692 ex box 1880/81, Sitzungsprotokoll, 4.7.1881.

Faculty of Law, number 1110–1227 ex 1899/1900, list.

Faculty of Law, number 240 ex box 1895/96, Sitzungsprotokoll, 12.12.1895.

Rectorate, Vereinswesen, fasc. 31, no. 64, “Ognisko,” 1893; Ritter Luschin von Ebengreuth, Bericht über das Studienjahr 1904/05, 11–13.

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1. 1 Ward, “Ludwig Gumplowicz”; Horowitz, “Ludwig Gumplowicz,” vii–viii.

2. 2 Kruse, Geschichte der Soziologie, 120. On the rediscovery of Ludwik Gumplowicz, see Trojan, “Prophet im eigenen Land?” 91, note 2.

3. 3 Ibid. 91–105.

4. 4 Pakulski, “The Development of Elite Theory,” 9–11.

5. 5 Surman, “The Circulation of Scientific Knowledge,” 166.

6. 6 Otruba, “Die Nationalitäten- und Sprachenfrage,” 100.

7. 7 Surman and Mozetič, “Ludwik Gumplowicz i jego socjologia,” 28–36.

8. 8 Kozinska-Witt, Die Krakauer Jüdische Reformgemeinde, 87–90.

9. 9 Surman and Mozetič, Dwa życia Ludwika Gumplowicza; Mozetič, Edition Ludwig Gumplowicz.

10. 10 Surman and Mozetič, Dwa życia Ludwika Gumplowicza, 14–23, 35–39.

11. 11 Żebrowski, Ludwig Gumplowicz: Eine Bio-Bibliographie, 10.

12. 12 Weiler, “Die akademische Karriere von Ludwig Gumplowicz in Graz,” 4–10.

13. 13 Ibid., 17–19.

14. 14 Universitätsarchiv Graz (UAG), Juridische Fakultät, Zahl 692 ex Karton 1880/81, Sitzungsprotokoll, 4.7.1881.

15. 15 Weiler, “Die akademische Karriere von Ludwig Gumplowicz in Graz,” 18.

16. 16 Weiler, “Analysen und Materialien … Teil I,” 21–42; Weiler, “Analysen und Materialien … Teil II,” 3–54; Weiler, “Die akademische Karriere von Ludwig Gumplowicz in Graz,” 3–19.

17. 17 Oppenheimer, “Zur Einführung” x.

18. 18 Feichtinger, Wissenschaft als reflexives Projekt, 357.

19. 19 Mozetič, “Ludwig Gumplowicz – ein Grazer Pionier der Soziologie,” 435, 441; Simons, “Social Assimilation. I,” 790–91.

20. 20 Gumplowicz, Die sociologische Staatsidee, 46–48.

21. 21 Gumplowicz, Grundriß der Soziologie, 99.

22. 22 Mozetič, “Ludwig Gumplowicz auf dem Weg von der Jurisprudenz zur Soziologie,” 159.

23. 23 Mozetič, “Ein unzeitgemäßer Soziologe. Ludwig Gumplowicz”; Müller, “Universitäre Parias und engagierte Dilettanten”; Feichtinger, Wissenschaft als reflexives Projekt, 356–57.

24. 24 Weiler, “Analysen und Materialien … Teil II,” 5–6.

25. 25 Oppenheimer, “Zur Einführung”, xxii.

26. 26 Stern, “The Letters of Ludwig Gumplowicz to Lester F. Ward,” 12, 18; Müller, Ludwig Gumplowicz (1838–1909), 17–19; UAG, Rektorat, Vereinswesen, fasc. 31, no. 64, “Ognisko,” 1893; Ritter Luschin von Ebengreuth, Bericht über das Studienjahr 1904/05, 11–13; Weiler, “Analysen und Materialien … Teil II,” 6–7.

27. 27 Feichtinger, Wissenschaft als reflexives Projekt, 357; Acham, “Ludwig Gumplowicz und der Beginn der soziologischen Konflikttheorie,” 199–201.

28. 28 Gumplowicz, Outlines of Sociology, 1899.

29. 29 Gumplowicz, La lucha de razas.

30. 30 Strassoldo, “La sociologia austriaca e la sua ricezione in Italia.”

31. 31 Surman, “The Circulation of Scientific Knowledge,” 168.

32. 32 Weiler, “Analysen und Materialien … Teil II,” 15–25, 29–45.

33. 33 National Ossolineum Library, sign. 7669/II, number 469, letter from Gumplowicz to Oswald Balzer, October 19, 1903. On his critique of the German-speaking scholarly world: “Somehow these Germans are not very profound (sit venia verbo). One reaches the bottom rather quickly, one does not go deeper—they are superficial. I am convinced that the Germans are in a state of intellectual decadence. Even the best sociologist among them, even Ratzenhofer, whom I have always praised and who had very good ideas, is not profound. In him, too, one can detect a certain shallowness, which makes even the sociology published after his death seem unpleasant.” National Ossolineum Library, letter from Gumplowicz to Oswald Balzer, October 19, 1903.

34. 34 UAG, Faculty of Law, number 1110–1227 ex 1899/1900, list.

35. 35 UAG, Faculty of Law, number 240 ex box 1895/96, Sitzungsprotokoll, December 12, 1895.

36. 36 National Ossolineum Library, sign. 7669/II, number 469, letter from Gumplowicz to Oswald Balzer, October 19, 1903.

37. 37 Ibid.

38. 38 Ibid.

39. 39 Ibid.

40. 40 Strassoldo, “La sociologia austriaca e la sua ricezione in Italia”; Weiler, “Ludwig Gumplowicz (1838–1909) und sein begabtester Schüler,” 28–29.

41. 41 Archive of the National Library in Warsaw, Letters of Ludwik Gumplowicz to Jan Karol Kochanowski, January 15, 1905.

42. 42 Rivista italiana di sociologia, Rom/Turin, 1897–1986.

43. 43 Weiler, “Ludwig Gumplowicz (1838–1909) und sein begabtester Schüler,” 49.

44. 44 Strassoldo, “La sociologia austriaca e la sua ricezione in Italia,” 403–421; Weiler, “Ludwig Gumplowicz (1838–1909) und sein begabtester Schüler,” 28–29.

45. 45 Weiler, “Ludwig Gumplowicz (1838–1909) und sein begabtester Schüler,” 29.

46. 46 Gumplowicz, letter to Jan K. Kochanowski, 14.1.1909, in Surman and Mozetič, Dwa życia Ludwika Gumplowicza, 416–18.

47. 47 Weiler, “Ludwig Gumplowicz (1838–1909) und sein begabtester Schüler,” 26–30; Strassoldo, “La sociologia austriaca e la sua ricezione in Italia,” 404–8.

48. 48 UAG, Faculty of Law, number 1110–1227 ex 1899/1900, 11–13.

49. 49 Weiler, “Ludwig Gumplowicz (1838–1909) und sein begabtester Schüler,” 28–29.

50. 50 Vogrin, “Why Technological Determinism Is Still Alive,” 186-90.

51. 51 Strassoldo, “The Austrian Influence on Italian Sociology,” 101–4.

52. 52 Mosca, Elementi di scienza politica.

53. 53 Mosca, The Ruling Class.

54. 54 Barnes, “Some Contributions of Sociology to Modern Political Theory,” 492–95.

55. 55 Martinelli, “Gaetano Mosca’s Political Theories,” 25–27.

56. 56 Strassoldo, “The Austrian Influence on Italian Sociology,” 104–8.

57. 57 Pakulski, “The Development of Elite Theory,” 10–11. Michels, Political Parties.

58. 58 Genett, “Demokratische Sozialpädagogik in der Krise der Aufklärung,” 75–76.

59. 59 Pakulski, “The Development of Elite Theory,” 11–12.

60. 60 Genett, “Demokratische Sozialpädagogik in der Krise der Aufklärung,” 76.

61. 61 Pakulski, “The Development of Elite Theory,” 10–11.

62. 62 Strassoldo, “The Austrian Influence on Italian Sociology,” 101–17. Weiler, “Ludwig Gumplowicz (1838–1909) und sein begabtester Schüler,” 26–32, 49–50.

63. 63 Simons, “Social Assimilation. I,” 790–95.

64. 64 Di Giulio, “Did Elitists Really Believe in Social Laws?” 57–59.

65. 65 Pakulski, “The Development of Elite Theory,” 10–13; Strassoldo, “The Austrian Influence on Italian Sociology,” 101–3.

66. 66 Gumplowicz, Grundriß der Soziologie, 99–100.

67. 67 Mosca, The Ruling Class, 50–57.

68. 68 Michels, Political Parties, 50–52

69. 69 Pakulski, “The Development of Elite Theory,” 10–13.

70. 70 Mosca, The Ruling Class, 50–54.

71. 71 Michels, Political Parties, 241–45.

72. 72 Di Giulio, “Did Elitists Really Believe in Social Laws?” 57–59.

73. 73 Genett, “Demokratische Sozialpädagogik in der Krise der Aufklärung,” 75; Pakulski, “The Develop­ment of Elite Theory,” 11.

74. 74 Strassoldo, “The Austrian Influence on Italian Sociology,” 116–17.

75. 75 Pakulski, “The Development of Elite Theory,” 9–13.

* This article was conducted at the Ludwig Boltzmann Institute for Research on the Consequences of War Graz – Vienna – Raabs in partnership with Karl Franzens University Graz and benefited from the research trips resulting from projects supported by the Future Fund of the Republic of Austria.

I am deeply grateful to the two anonymous reviewers and Szabolcs László, whose careful reading and generous feedback greatly contributed to clarifying the argument and strengthening the final version of this article.

“We Cannot See Ourselves Reflected in All Italian Institutions”: Reform Psychiatry, Habsburg Legacies, and Identity-Making in the Upper Adriatic Area*

Francesco Toncich

Department of Humanities, University of Trieste

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Hungarian Historical Review Volume 14 Issue 4 (2025): 615-654 DOI 10.38145/2025.4.615

This article analyses the development of criticisms of psychiatric institutions and restraint-based treatments for psychiatric and neurological patients as a foundation for identity-making processes in the Upper Adriatic from a long-term perspective. Between the 1960s and 1980s, the region, which was once part of the Habsburg Empire but was by then divided between Italy and Yugoslavia, became a hub for the deinstitutionalization of a psychiatric system still burdened by its Fascist legacy. This reform fostered renewed identity-making within local society, rooted in early Habsburg-era psychiatry. As early as the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Austrian psychiatry in this region had embraced non-restraint and outpatient therapies based on the liberal idea of modernity, which exerted a lasting influence on the psychiatric institutions in Trieste and Gorizia. World War I and the dissolution of the Habsburg Monarchy brought Italian rule, under which Fascism transformed psychiatry into a tool of repression, eradicating alternative treatments and creating a clash between psychiatric cultures. This clash became foundational to the development of an identitarian model, rooted in Habsburg nostalgia and a presumed local “tradition” of alternative psychiatry during periods of profound crisis and transformation, particularly the reforms in the institutional world of psychiatry in the 1960s–70s.

Keywords: deinstitutionalization of psychiatry, non-restraint, Upper Adriatic region, Habsburg psychiatry, Fascist psychiatry

Introduction

Can psychiatry and criticism of psychiatry contribute to shaping forms of social, political, and cultural self-identification over the long term? This article explores this question by examining the history of psychiatry and reforms in the field of psychiatry within the context of the Upper Adriatic from the mid-nineteenth to the twentieth century, focusing on the region’s two principal psychiatric hospitals in Trieste and Gorizia.

A long-term perspective has proven valuable in international psychiatric historiography, particularly in revealing the interplay between continuity and disruption in institutional practices, especially concerning the balance between constraint and non-restraint psychiatry.1 Following this approach, this study aims to investigate a largely overlooked aspect of the region’s psychiatric history, situating it within the broader debate on the “Habsburg legacies” after World War I.2 Established in the early twentieth century by Habsburg authorities, both asylums were among the most progressive in the Austrian network, promoting outpatient care and non-restraint therapies.3 The collapse of the Habsburg Empire marked a traumatic transition, as psychiatric institutions were absorbed into the Italian (from 1922, Fascist) system, dismantling the experimental foundations of the practice and relegating these institutions to the margins of a centralized national model. After World War II, however, they reemerged as pioneering sites of radical deinstitutionalizing reforms of psychiatric care in the 1960s and 1970s.4 These radical transformations unfolded in a porous borderland, shaped by a multilingual, cross-border society during a period of détente and the gradual fall of the Iron Curtain.5

Historiography has largely focused on the repeated geopolitical upheavals within this macro-region. Since the end of World War I, the Upper Adriatic has been a complex geopolitical, cultural, and ideological borderland. Formerly part of the Habsburg Empire’s Littoral (Küstenland), it encompassed Trieste, Gorizia, and the Margraviate of Istria. The region was multilingual and multicultural, with Italian, Slovenian, Croatian, and German widely spoken, and it was marked by socioeconomic contrasts between rural areas and urban centers.6 The Great War and the collapse of the empire ushered in a prolonged period of instability, with shifting borders and statehoods from 1918 to 1991, a condition that prompted scholars to refer to the region as a “crisis hotspot.”7 These upheavals shaped psychiatry not only as a medical discipline but also as part of a broader cultural and social system.8 This article adopts a long-term perspective to examine how diverse “medical/psychiatric cultures” shaped self-identification within the medical profession and local communities from the Habsburg era onward. It highlights continuities and ruptures in the enduring conflict between contain­ment psychiatry and non-restraint approaches and in the ways in which medical and civil societies characterized and perceived themselves. Debates on repressive psychiatry and open-door, outpatient treatments began well before World War I and persisted despite the Fascist era of control and repression, resurfacing in later decades after World War II. Although psychiatry played a central role in the region’s history, historiography has largely treated it as marginal, underestimating its impact on cultural and social structures, even as it constituted a significant element of both continuity and change.

By considering these questions from the critical perspective of entangled and transnational history,9 this study moves beyond national historiographies to challenge the notion of distinct psychiatric “traditions” shaped by present-day nation states, which repeatedly conceive the evolution of psychiatry exclusively within national frameworks, thereby overshadowing both transnational and local dimensions of its developments.10 Instead, it highlights the dynamics and involvement of local innovations and their persistence over decades of geopolitical change. Recent scholarship has emphasized the profound social and cultural influence of psychiatric networks within the late Habsburg Empire, particularly the distinctive dialogue between asylum and society, and the deep embedment of these networks within the local social and cultural fabric.11 Historiography has also pointed to continuities in the field of psychiatry after the dissolution of the empire, exploring the formation and endurance of a shared Habsburg “psychiatric landscape,” despite the post-World War I fragmentation of the Central European macro-region.12 Nonetheless, research on psychiatry in the Upper Adriatic remains fragmented and predominantly shaped by postwar national and ethnocentric frameworks, which limit a fuller understanding of the multicultural and transnational character of Habsburg psychiatry and its legacies.13

A long-term horizontal approach is crucial if we seek to offer a nuanced analysis of enduring psychiatric structures, practices, and medical cultures, but it must also intersect with a vertical perspective that examines the interplay between psychiatric and administrative structures at both the central and peripheral levels.14 Recent research has challenged Vienna’s dominance in the development of Central European psychiatry, highlighting the importance of decentralized psychiatric networks in which peripheral regions developed autonomous systems for mental health care within the broader imperial framework.15 This perspective reveals parallel developments across the Habsburg psychiatric landscape and also highlights the persistence of practices and continuities in the post-Habsburg era, particularly in those same peripheries. These peripheral areas were shaped by the characteristic Habsburg federalist and local-autonomist structure, as well as by the formation of everyday habitus and mentalities that became deeply embedded within the social, political, and cultural frameworks of local societies, even over the long term.16 These dynamics helped shape evolving psychiatric approaches and foster enduring self-identifications in regions with autonomist traditions. This is evident in the Upper Adriatic, where, despite rapid border and regime changes from 1918 to 1975, forms of medical culture remained rooted in psychiatry and criticisms of the field of psychiatry and played a central role in a broader process of self-identification.

Post-World War II Psychiatric Reform and “Habsburg nostalgia”:
Rediscovering or Reinvigorating a Psychiatric “Tradition”?

Between the 1960s and 1970s, the northeastern Italian region of Friuli-Venezia Giulia became a key center of the international radical psychiatric reform and deinstitutionalization movements, with the asylums in Gorizia and Trieste at the forefront. Led by Franco Basaglia and his wife and collaborator Franca Ongaro, the psychiatric teams implemented radical open-door therapeutic approaches inspired by experiments such as Dingleton, Villa 21, and Kingsley Hall.17 This deinstitutionalizing experiment, first in Gorizia (1961–1970), then in Trieste (1971–1980), emerged from a peripheral region along the Iron Curtain,18 sparking intense social and cultural debate both in Italy and abroad. The reform enshrined patients’ human and civil rights, protected them from abuse, and promoted outpatient care. It culminated in the passage of Law no. 180 by the Italian parliament in 1978.19 This legal recognition led to the gradual dismantlement of a repressive psychiatric system still marked by eugenic-biologistic legacies, replacing it with a decentralized, community-based model aimed at the social reintegration of individuals with mental health issues.20

In June 1974, the first “Conference of Democratic Psychiatry” was held in Gorizia, bringing together key figures involved in psychiatric reform in Italy and abroad. At the time, Franco Basaglia had been director of the Trieste asylum for three years and was already in the process of dismantling it.21 The conference aimed to draft a manifesto calling for the closure of psychiatric hospitals and the transformation of care in Italy, although it also provoked broader international interest across Europe, as well as North and South America. 22 Gorizia was chosen as the venue due to its role as the first experimental site of reform a decade earlier. This small northeastern Italian town was split after World War II by the border between the Italian Republic and the Yugoslav Federation. In accordance with the terms of the 1947 Paris Peace Treaty, the border between Italy and Yugoslavia (and thus, the Iron Curtain) ran through its center, dividing it into Italian Gorizia and Yugoslav Nova Gorica. The Gorizia asylum, under Italian control, stood with its eastern wall symbolically aligned with both the state border and the Iron Curtain.23

Among the many national and international attendees (primarily psychiatrists, physicians, and psychologists) was Silvino Poletto, a prominent figure in both the regional and national Italian Communist Party.24 During the conference, Poletto delivered a speech emphasizing the broader significance of the psychiatric reform initiated by the “Basaglia team” at the Gorizia asylum. However, his address took an unexpectedly local-historical and “identitarian” turn, linking the present with the past of these border territories through the concept of “tradition.” In his speech, he characterized the province of Gorizia as a key historical site for critical assessments of and opposition to repressive containment practices in psychiatry:

One of the qualities of the “Basaglia School” (by which I mean the group of those involved in the association of social and psychiatric workers – practitioners, assistants, and so on) is that it taught us the importance of returning to our history and learning how to read into traditions. In the traditions of the province of Gorizia, there was a doctor (Luigi Pontoni, A.N.) who, in 1901, 73 years ago (at that time Austria-Hungary was in power, though that matters less), wrote something I am going to read to you. It will show how, in the Gorizia area, Basaglia’s team was able to succeed and also knew how to connect with a tradition that stemmed from the Vienna school. […] A concept was introduced: that mental alienation is an illness, and that the person affected, like any other patient, has the right to receive care without any restriction of personal freedom, except where absolutely necessary in cases of urgent need. This principle would later inspire the modern open-door asylum and find fuller expression in the agricultural colonies attached to the hospital. This happened in 1901! A tradition worth remembering. 70 years of psychiatric practice have contributed to a rich heritage at the local, regional, and national levels.25

This account, offered by a non-specialist “insider,” presents an alternative perspective on the classic historiographical narrative of the reforms in the field of psychiatry in Italy in the 1960s. The dominant narrative tends to frame these revolutionary initiatives through national lenses, focusing on post-World War II Italian psychiatry, Basaglia’s personal trajectory, and the team’s involvement in international networks. However, in this portrayal, the local context is often overlooked or obscured, with the histories of both hospitals either omitted or only briefly mentioned.26

Poletto’s speech introduced a valuable shift in perspective. The territory, he suggested, was not merely a testing ground for external, global theories. Rather, it was a historically fertile site with its own cultural heritage of critical thought on mental health and psychiatry and early practices of non-restraint and patient rights as part of a local “tradition.” Framing the reform within the region’s unique context, Poletto evoked its Habsburg and Central European psychiatric roots, in contrast to the narrow focus on the Italian national perspective. The imaginary of the “Vienna School,” rooted in a long-standing tradition of peregrinatio medica undertaken by generations of physicians from all the imperial crownlands (including those from Trieste, Gorizia, and the Austrian Littoral),27 emerged as a historical model linked to humanitarianism and, above all, modernity during the ambivalent fin-de-siècle period.28 It formed a dialogical historical bridge between the local territory, transnational space, psychiatry, and identity.

The key word used by Poletto in his programmatic speech is “tradition,” a term introduced at a moment of radical paradigm change in psychiatric theory and practice. Poletto employed it in a decidedly essentialist way, seeking to trace an objective and direct line of development from Habsburg times to his own day. Nevertheless, this strong emphasis on “tradition” in psychiatric practice as a marker of self-identification appears, in fact, to be part of a much more complex cultural and social process: it cannot simply be reduced to something transmitted across generations that conditions the experiences and perceptions of individuals or communities.29 Rather, it must be understood as a construct continually reevaluated, reexamined, and renegotiated by the very actors who carry it forward, particularly during moments of crisis, when new ideas and paradigms emerge that challenge and conflict with established beliefs and habits, prompting actors, through their agency, to call into question and rethink the inherited construct.30 “Tradition” is thus intrinsically bound both to the concept of “heritage,” a central notion in studies of the historical evolution of territories in the former Habsburg space, and, at the same time, to a continuous process of negotiation and adaptation.

This complex identitarian discourse did not emerge in a vacuum. Poletto’s cultural archaeology of psychiatry and reformism formed part of a broader local movement, which rethought self-identification by drawing on a past that resisted seamless integration into an absolute national (Italian) narrative. Instead, it resonated with a post-World War II revival of “Habsburg nostalgia.”31 The radical psychiatric reforms in Gorizia and Trieste had a profound impact beyond medicine, influencing the countercultural movements of 1968 and offering a foundation for broader cultural, social, and political self-definition.32 Local practitioners involved in the deinstitutionalization process in the Upper Adriatic began revisiting the region’s psychiatric history, reflecting on the origins of local institutions under the Habsburg Monarchy, and explicitly engaging with imperial legacies.33 This revival took place within the specific geopolitical and historical framework of the Alps-Adriatic détente.

Over the course of these decades, the Italian Julian March region, particularly the cities Trieste and Gorizia, underwent a period of crisis and transformation due to various factors.34 After its incorporation into Italy following World War I, the region, once a strategic outlet of the Habsburg Empire, entered a prolonged phase of decline. Trieste, in particular, was reduced from the principal commercial port of a multinational empire to a peripheral harbor of a nation state. After World War II, the new border between Italy and Yugoslavia cut Trieste and Gorizia off from their historical economic hinterlands, and the 1975 Treaty of Osimo, which formalized the post-World War II border, ultimately guaranteed the region’s geopolitical and economical marginalization. Gorizia was divided by the Iron Curtain, and Trieste suffered deep economic difficulties, exacerbated by industrial and shipbuilding reforms in the 1960s that dismantled its historic maritime infrastructure.35 A deep local crisis of repositioning affected politics, society, and professional spheres, including the medical-psychiatric field. In response to the sweeping transformations of the 1950s–1970s, older forms of localist, regionalist, and municipalist self-identification resurfaced, especially in the former free port city of Trieste.36 Rooted in the complex and diversified structure of the Habsburg Monarchy,37 these tendencies reemerged just as the Italian state was formally acknowledging the region’s historical distinctiveness by establishing Friuli-Venezia Giulia as an autonomous region in 1963.38

At the same time, the Upper Adriatic entered a new phase of reorganization, coinciding with the onset of détente between the Cold War blocs and the rise of transnational cooperation among countries that had once been part of the Habsburg Empire. In the Alps-Adriatic macro-region, détente involved reactivating former Habsburg-era channels and structures. The “Alpe-Adria Working Community” emerged, fostering political, economic, and cultural collaboration, including cross-border healthcare initiatives and efforts to revive networks disrupted by postwar geopolitical divisions.39 In this unique context, the psychiatric reforms in Gorizia and Trieste were interconnected with vibrant exchanges involving psychiatrists and institutions from former Habsburg successor states, including Austria, Yugoslavia and Czechoslovakia. Central and Southeastern European psychiatrists, such as Vladimir Hudolin and Miroslav Plzák, engaged in close transnational collaboration and dialogue with Basaglia’s team in Gorizia and Trieste.40

A complex and enduring process of identity redefinition began in the 1960s, centered on the “rediscovery” of a mythical imperial past. Trieste’s intellectual class began reviving a Central European heritage and constructing a broader identity discourse alongside notions of Italian national belonging.41 Historical and literary scholarship increasingly explored the distinct position of the Upper Adriatic and Trieste, moving beyond nationalist, ethnocentric narratives that had fragmented the region into a mosaic of allegedly conflicting ethnocentric identities. Claudio Magris’s 1963 study on the Habsburg myth in Austrian literature and Arduino Agnelli’s 1971 work on the genesis of Mitteleuropa were pivotal examples of a local cultural canon that reconnected Trieste and the region with the Habsburg legacy, Vienna, and the Monarchy’s former territories.42 This shift was also reflected in broader international scholarship (exemplified for instance by the writings of American historian Dennison Rusinow), which in the 1960s began examining the persistence of “Austrian heritage” in the Italian borderlands that had once been part of the Danube monarchy.43

The narrative evoking the innovative spirit of the “Golden Habsburg years” contrasted sharply with the contemporary decline and marginalization of the Upper Adriatic as a militarized periphery.44 A yearning for the multicultural, cosmopolitan, and modernist character of Habsburg Trieste became intertwined with renewed interest in psychiatry, psychoanalysis, and mental health. Central to this was the rediscovery of the region’s Habsburg-Viennese medical heritage, which positioned Trieste and the Upper Adriatic as a transnational “bridge” between Central Europe and Italy in transferring innovations in the medical and “psy” disciplines from the Viennese modernist center at the fin de siècle. In the early 1970s, medical historian Loris Premuda portrayed Trieste’s bilingual Italian- and German-speaking doctors as symbols of this bridging role.45 By connecting Trieste to Vienna rather than Rome, Premuda framed the region as part of the Central European path to modernity and promoted a narrative of crisis recovery and transnational identity. The reference to the prestigious “Viennese school” thus became a strategic means of reclaiming Trieste’s historical centrality, echoed in Silvino Poletto’s address, as Italy confronted the burdens of its past and the legacy of fascism.

During the experiments in Gorizia and Trieste, the local intellectual class began constructing a cultural canon around mental health and the “unconscious,” mythologizing Trieste as a multicultural city tied to modern and alternative mental health care: a city in crisis reimagined itself through the lens of the “psy”

sciences. In 1968, Giorgio Voghera, a Jewish writer from Trieste, published his memoirs, blending his childhood experiences with the rise of psychoanalysis within Trieste’s social fabric and intelligentsia and portraying the Adriatic city as a distinctive “city of psychoanalysis.”46 Psychoanalysis, introspective psychology, alternative mental care methods, and Habsburg imperial modernity, alongside pre-Holocaust Central European Jewish identity, were also explored in the seminal 1981 book by historians Angelo Ara and Claudio Magris on Habsburg Trieste and its multicultural identity.47 These works helped shape a powerful cultural canon for local self-identification, grounded in the revival of Habsburg Trieste as the “first Italian city of psychoanalysis,” a title tied to the pioneering contributions of local psychiatrists Edoardo Weiss and Vittorio Benussi, who played key roles in spreading Austrian psychoanalytic theories and practices in Italy.48 Crowning this mythologization is the 1978 film La città di Zeno (The City of Zeno) by Trieste director Franco Giraldi, based on the 1923 novel La coscienza di Zeno (Zeno’s Conscience) by Italo Svevo, the penname of Trieste Jewish writer Hector/Ettore Schmitz.49 The novel presents the psychoanalytic diary of Zeno Cosini, a denizen of Trieste who suffers from “neurasthenia” and seeks treatment from local psychoanalysts during the final years of Habsburg rule and the early days of Italian governance.50 The film links present-day, declining Trieste to its vibrant Habsburg past through the bright influence of psychoanalysis in the Adriatic port city. In this construction of a historical, localist mythology around the “psy” concept, Giraldi included interviews with Franco Basaglia and other figures from the local intelligentsia, further legitimizing the process of self-identification.

The psychiatric reform movement in Trieste and Gorizia in the 1960s and 1970s was more than medical reform. It became, quite unintentionally, part of a broader process of local self-identification. Deinstitutionalization brought together scientists, policymakers, and cultural figures in a shared space shaped by the region’s complex past. In this context, Communist deputy Silvino Poletto’s 1974 speech at the “Democratic Psychiatry” convention in Gorizia stands out.

Referring to Habsburg Gorizia, Habsburg physician Luigi Pontoni, and the region’s tradition of humane care, Poletto contrasted the traditions of the city and region with fascist authoritarianism and postwar traumas of border changes and identity crisis. Beyond nostalgia, his reference to the Habsburg past was a deliberate assertion of regional distinctiveness and a demand for recognition of the prominent figures of the region as active contributors to a world in transformation.

The Origins of Reform Psychiatry and Non-Restraint
in the Habsburg Littoral

The lunatic is merely a sick person who can be cured. Dementia is sometimes a temporary condition. Delusion, whether arising from the dark oblivion of sorrow that causes it or under the influence of specific treatments, can subside and even dissipate. The alienist, upon receiving the afflicted individual into his asylum, does not lose hope of restoring his or her reason. However, to care for these patients effectively, we must feel compassion for them. We must be moved by their pain and suffering. […] Today, we are no longer moved by their pain. The mathematical positivism of our time seeks to demonstrate, with the utmost precision, that there is no muscle more useless or dangerous than the heart. […] In this way, we have entered the realm of egoism, where the rigid tones of calculation and speculation prevail.51

In his 1901 essay, Gorizian physician Luigi Pontoni set out his vision for the new psychiatric hospital in Gorizia. He emphasized the need to move beyond rigid positivism in psychiatry and advocated a new doctor–patient relationship as the foundation of a more humane and effective approach to psychiatric care. 70 years later, Silvino Poletto could easily have encountered such texts in the Provincial Library of Gorizia, where Pontoni had outlined forward-thinking approaches to the treatment of mental illness.

Luigi Pontoni, a prominent figure in the local Habsburg medical com­munity, trained at the University of Vienna and served as head physician at the Civic Female Hospital in Gorizia.52 He stood out as a strong advocate

for psychiatric reform, promoting new kinds of psychiatric hospitals based on modern scientific principles. Inspired by the open-door policies and work therapy used in German asylums like Alt-Scherbitz, his motto was “Freedom and work.”53 Although Pontoni later criticized the slow progress of Austrian psychiatry compared to its German counterpart,54 he included detailed maps of German and Austrian institutions like those in Danzig or Vienna in his efforts to persuade the Gorizian provincial government and the Triestine Lieutenancy to adopt the pavilion model.55 Pontoni’s advocacy for modern asylum design based on international and imperial models shows how psychiatry had become a major public issue by the turn of the century, reaching beyond political and social elites. His writings reflect the active debate on psychiatric reform in the Littoral, which involved both professionals and the bourgeoisie from the 1860s onward. Criticism of forced custodial psychiatry and support for more humane, non-restraint approaches aligned with the liberal bourgeois aspirations for broader social and cultural reform.

The library of the former Trieste Medical Association, now part of the university’s medical faculty library, contains scientific and popular texts from the turn of the twentieth century that sharply criticized inhumane psychiatric practices and called for radical reform or even the closure of psychiatric institutions.56 This collection reflects the active involvement of the medical-psychiatric community of Trieste in the broader debate on patients’ rights and psychiatric reform, which, from the 1890s to World War I, extended beyond Vienna into the empire’s provinces. Psychiatry in Gorizia and Trieste was part of a larger Habsburg network, influenced by reformist movements which challenged restrictive practices. Shaped by social and political discussions on patients’ rights, local psychiatric networks mirrored trends in Austrian psychiatry and politics, culminating in the tardive 1916 imperial ordinance on interdiction.57 The involvement of expert psychiatrists, political figures, and public debates, alongside the construction of two of the most modern hospitals in the empire outside the imperial capital,58 highlights the dynamic mobilization within the

Littoral’s medical, political, and bourgeois circles and the region’s prominent role within the broader imperial network.59

Psychiatry in the Littoral region during the second half of the nineteenth century was in dire need of radical reform. Since 1785, only one psychiatric asylum, the Saint Justus hospital, had operated in the entire Littoral crownland. Located in the medieval district of Trieste, it housed patients from the city, Istria, and Gorizia-Gradisca.60 By the mid-nineteenth century, the facility was grossly inadequate, occupying the former episcopal seat of Trieste. The few surviving patient records from the 1840s–1860s show widespread use of violent restraints, including straitjackets and chains.61 From the 1860s onward, political authorities in the Littoral began to recognize the rising prevalence of mental disorders. They attributed this rise to new political and socioeconomic factors or simply the increased recognition of such disorders due to the professionalization of psychiatry. In August 1862, Trieste’s mayor, Stefano de Conti, expressed his concerns to the Littoral’s Lieutenant, Friedrich Moritz von Burger, about the state of psychiatry in the province, stating that, “the need for an asylum that met the requirements of this province and aligned with the progress of psychiatry had long been recognized.”62 A new psychiatry “would meet the most pressing needs of the present as well as those of the not-too-distant future, considering that the number of in-patients in our asylum has doubled in the last decade and that, since 1849 – as in many other parts of the Empire, and unfortunately in this region as well – the number of cases of mental illness has increased disproportionately.”63

The outdated conditions and practices at the Saint Justus asylum were increasingly seen as a stain on Trieste’s aspirations to modernity.64 Over time, administrators and officials in the region began to engage more seriously with psychiatric reform through expert assessments and official reports. In 1877, the Lieutenant of Trieste, Felix Pino Freiherr von Friedenthal, condemned the state of the asylum, noting its failure to meet contemporary medical or ethical standards. He acknowledged that scientific treatment was often impossible and that confinement in such an institution could even worsen a patient’s condition. The asylum was no longer seen as a place of healing, but as a source of harm that contributed to the chronic nature of mental illness:

The only asylum for the Littoral region in Trieste is too small to accommodate all those in need of medical care, which, if administered at the onset of illness and in a timely manner, could restore reason to many of these unfortunate individuals. As a result, there are frequent refusals to admit these people, who, either left to fend for themselves or rendered harmless to themselves and others by methods that are sometimes inhumane, often slip into an incurable state of chronicity. Furthermore, the facility in Trieste […] no longer meets the advancements of modern science.65

Concerns about the inhumane treatment of patients, including harsh confinement and even acts of violence committed by the nursing staff, were already evident in the new guidelines for the Trieste psychiatric hospital, which were discussed and approved by the city council in 1873: “[Nurses, A. N.] must not use coercive means without prior authorization from the doctors. In urgent cases, if it becomes necessary to apply this measure, they shall do so collectively, as the patient, merely by the presence of multiple nurses, ceases all violence or reprisals.”66

Thanks to close collaboration with scientific experts, the political authorities in the Littoral developed a growing knowledge of psychiatric advances across the Habsburg Empire and beyond. This fostered a more refined understanding of mental illness, better diagnostic tools, and new treatment possibilities. A crucial shift came with the official recognition of the distinction between “curable” and “incurable” mental illnesses, which redefined illness and shaped the cultural and social acceptability (and unacceptability) of individuals with mental or neurological conditions.67 This distinction influenced how health systems were organized, prompting the separation of patient categories to enable more appropriate care. As one Lieutenancy’s report of 1862 stated, “the incurable maniacs must be separated from the curable, and to achieve this, either two separate establishments must be built or a single institution must be divided entirely into two distinct sections, one dedicated to the admission and care of the incurable and the other for the detention and psychiatric treatment of the curable.”68

From the 1880s onwards, doctors and other professionals from the Littoral’s bourgeois professions, including engineers and architects, produced numerous pamphlets addressing the region’s psychiatric crisis and aimed at informing policymakers and civil society.69 These echoed earlier critiques of the outdated and inhumane conditions at Trieste’s Saint Justus asylum.70 Most of these assessments reiterated the core ideas of Dr. Pontoni’s essays: respectful patient care, the separation of curable and chronic cases, modern diagnostics, and psychiatry as a means of treatment and reintegration rather than control. Central to their proposals was the Anglo-German “open-door system,” with (preferably asymmetrical) pavilion layouts and agricultural colonies for occupational therapy. Both the bourgeoisie and the psychiatric community of Trieste were also inspired by the Geel model of family-based care for incurable patients,71 which gained new prominence across Europe and North America in the late nineteenth century.72

Trieste’s psychiatric reforms followed Central and Northern European models, and expert commissions traveled across the continent to study asylum practices. The concept of “modernity” in psychiatric science became the dominant framework, overriding political and nationalist ideologies. In the late nineteenth century, Trieste, like other Littoral provinces, saw rising nationalist tensions with the increasing prominence of parliamentary politics, as Italian, Slovene, and Croatian parties gained influence locally and imperially.73 The National-Liberal Party, which represented much of Trieste’s Italian-speaking elites, aligned with an idealized vision of “Italian-ness” and a pro-Italy irredentist political stance, and it gained control of the Trieste municipality for decades starting from the 1860s onwards.74 However, in 1896, a traveling commission was organized by the irredentist city council to study the most modern models of psychiatric hospitals and therapies across Europe. In its final report, the commission openly criticized Italian psychiatry as conservative and outdated.75 Hopes for reform in Italy had largely faded in the face of the conservative, organicist, and criminalizing approach to mental illness adopted by the majority of the Italian psychiatric community. This culminated in Law no. 36 of 1904, which effectively undermined non-restraint care.76 Italian institutions failed to reflect the modern ideals sought by the elites of Trieste, who instead turned to British and German-Austrian non-restraint systems as models of progress. In liberal, bourgeois Trieste, many of the cherished ideals (if not the ideology) of modernism often proved more influential than the irredentist nationalism embodied by the municipal administration.77 In fields like medicine and psychiatry, these ideals enabled more flexible and negotiable expressions of national and ideological identity.78

“Above all, the asylum must be entirely removed from the appearance of a prison or convent. It must therefore create a pleasant impression for both the in-patient and the visitor, helping to lift the spirits of those who must rely on such an institution.”79 These maxims by the Triest engineer Natale Tommasi from 1893 stemmed from the sociopolitical principles of late nineteenth-century bourgeois liberal society. The creation of facilities that, in line with modernist and scientific theories, embodied a prototype of “caged liberty” was intended to address the issue of respecting patients’ individual rights and challenging entrenched sociocultural prejudices and the stigma surrounding mental illness.80 However, it was far removed from the deinstitutionalizing reforms and anti-psychiatric theories of the later twentieth century,81 as well as from efforts to question the hierarchical, paternalistic doctor–patient relationship. The mentally ill still had to be controlled and governed from above, but also cared for and, where possible, cured, with the ultimate goal of reintegrating as many patients as possible into society.82

After extensive discussions, planning, and study trips, the Littoral was ultimately endowed with two of the most modern asylums in the Habsburg Monarchy. The original plan for a single central asylum for the entire crownland was abandoned in favor of a division.83 The new municipal asylum in Trieste, located in the semi-rural district of Saint John, began operating in 1908.84 Named after the Triest businessman and benefactor Andrea di Sergio Galatti, its construction reflected the hybrid public-private model of welfare/philanthropy promoted by the cosmopolitan upper- and middle-class elites and their active role in shaping a more “liberal” asylum model.85 In 1911, the smaller provincial asylum in Gorizia was opened in the rural suburb San Pietro/Šempeter, named after Emperor Franz Joseph I.86 As with other asylum projects in the Monarchy (such as the projects in Mauer-Öhling, Salzburg, Steinhof close to Vienna, Prague, and Kroměříž), planners identified the psychiatric hospital in Alt-Scherbitz, Saxony as the most advanced model of “non-restraint” or “open-door” care.87 This choice reflected both the wider anti-psychiatric movement that emerged in the empire in the 1890s and the unique socio-political context of society in Trieste, which was increasingly divided between political liberalism and nationalism, particularly among Italian and Slovenian movements.88 Consequently, both institutions adopted asymmetrical pavilion layouts, and the Gorizia asylum also incorporated an agricultural colony. These psychiatric hospitals on the Adriatic coast emerged as models of modern psychiatric theory and practice, founded on principles of non-restraint, work therapy, outpatient care, and family-based treatment.89 This is evidenced by numerous custody transfers to relatives or legal guardians, as recorded in patient files preserved in the asylums’ archives.90 At their inauguration, they were staffed by a new generation of psychiatrists trained at imperial universities, particularly Vienna, Graz, Innsbruck, and Prague. These practitioners promoted reform psychiatry grounded in modern scientific methods. Efforts were also made to reflect the region’s linguistic diversity. A notable example was the appointment of Fran Göstl, an Austro-Slovenian psychiatrist trained at the Wagner-Jauregg school in Vienna and a strong advocate of non-restraint and family therapy (particularly for patients suffering from alcohol addiction), as chief physician of the new hospital.91

Liberalism, Economy, and Psychiatry: Non-Restraint Praxis in a Free Port City

Most historical research on psychiatry has focused primarily on documents from major asylums. However, within the Habsburg Monarchy, asylums constituted only one part of a broader and more complex psychiatric system. Psychiatrists, including those employed in public hospitals, often maintained private practices for affluent, paying patients.92 In addition, other public health institutions such as clinics and hospital wards were gradually established over the course of the nineteenth century. Medical records from asylum archives, such as those of the Sergio Galatti Hospital in Trieste and the Franz Joseph I Hospital in Gorizia, show that most of the patients were hospitalized only after multiple admissions and brief periods of observation in a specialized psychiatric observation ward within the local civic hospitals.

In the port city of Trieste, a special ward for psychiatric and neurological patients was added to the main civil hospital in 1872, expanded in 1884, and formally designated as the “eighth ward” in 1886.93 This development addressed the growing need to manage psychiatric cases amid rapid population growth driven by the city’s economic expansion and industrialization. The ward functioned as a kind of first-aid station, offering prompt reception, observation, and short-term treatment for psychiatric and neurological patients, following the model of the British “after-care” system.94 It also functioned as a triage point, where “chronic” and “non-curable” patients were identified and then transferred to the main asylum, while most patients, diagnosed as “curable” and expected to be treated shortly, were either discharged or entrusted to family care. As a result, most psychiatric patients in Trieste and the wider Littoral region were hospitalized for a maximum of six to eight weeks, with only one-third requiring longer stays and eventual transfer to the asylum.95 The ward was substantial, with an 81-bed observation room and an outpatient service for “nervous and mental diseases,” staffed by a head physician, a doctor, an assistant, and 38 nurses. In the early 1920s, it admitted an average of 650 patients annually, which was slightly above the European average, as Trieste’s hospital also served as a regional hub for areas including Friuli, Istria, Gorizia, Dalmatia, and, in many cases, southern Carniola.96

The Austrian imperial psychiatric system adopted a gradual and hybrid approach to the admission and treatment of psychiatric and neurological cases. This approach was based first on the ministerial ordinance of May 14, 1874, no. 7197 and later formalized by the imperial ordinance of June 28, 1916, no. 207,98 which aimed to regulate the legal procedures for the incapacitation of mental patients better.99 Between society and the closed asylum, there existed a hybrid area formed by observation wards in major civil hospitals across the Monarchy. Admission to these wards was simplified, requiring only a medical certificate. This accessible form of hospitalization was justified on both scientific and ethical grounds. Early intervention aimed to prevent the worsening of conditions, while avoiding full asylum confinement helped reduce the social stigma for both patients and their families. Unlike main asylums, which were obliged to report patients to the police within 24 to 48 hours as mentally ill and potentially dangerous, hospital observation wards and psychiatric clinics were given up to eight days before they were required to notify the authorities.100 This provision made it possible for patients to receive medical and psychiatric care without being formally labeled asylum inmates, offering treatment in a less stigmatizing environment.

This form of daily rehabilitation and observation ward, which embodied the ideas promoted by German psychiatrist Adolf Dannemann regarding non-restraint therapies in psychiatric clinics, became a distinctive feature of the German and Habsburg psychiatric systems.101 It was commonly found in many city hospitals throughout the Monarchy. 102 The Ministerial Ordinance of 1874 no. 71 granted local authorities, whether regional, provincial, or municipal, significant autonomy when it came to the organization of psychiatric facilities. As a result, the ward, which came to be regarded as a center of excellence in Habsburg Trieste, was created and operated as a blend of both imperial and local initiatives in response to the specific needs of the city and the surrounding region. The ward was shaped by the same liberal political and social ideology that was driving the development of modern, non-restraint asylums.

A quantitative analysis of medical records from the eighth ward of Trieste’s civic hospital reveals a well-structured outpatient practice, marked by the daily administration of pharmacological treatments (mostly sedatives) and short-term therapies tailored to individual patients. In some cases, patients were admitted multiple times over the course of months or years, and treatment continued beyond discharge through outpatient or family-based care, following the signing of an official certificate by relatives or guardians who assumed legal responsibility for the patient. The records also show that both patients and their families exercised a degree of agency within the institution. Most admissions were voluntary, initiated by the patient or his or her relatives on the basis of a medical certificate, except in cases of compulsory admission ordered by civil or police authorities due to violent behavior which purportedly posed a threat to public safety. Some cases even illustrate how family members could legally contest decisions made by physicians or the district judge responsible for public safety and request the patient’s discharge if they were willing to accept full legal responsibility.103

Beyond humanitarian concerns and scientific progress, the self-proclaimed modern city of Trieste required a more responsive system of mental health care. The goal was to address the endemic problems stemming from the rapid growth of its free port and industry, as well as the largely unmanaged urban influx of poor and needy workers of diverse national backgrounds drawn by the expanding job market. This model of outpatient and short-stay psychiatric care was located in the city center, in contrast to the new asylum situated on the outskirts (see Fig. 1).104 Its central location allowed for swift admissions, short stays, and early forms of family-based care. The institution reflected Trieste’s urban, demographic, and economic transformation. It was located in a district of the “new city,” developed alongside the old town in the second half of the nineteenth century and inhabited largely by the working-class population employed in the port and urban industries. When the ward was established in the early 1870s, Trieste was experiencing renewed economic growth and a deep structural shift from a commercial center and free port to an industrial port city, following a temporary stagnation crisis after 1855.105 The city’s population surged from around 105,000 in 1857 to approximately 226,000 by 1910,106 driven by mass migration from surrounding provinces, such as Istria, Gorizia-Gradisca, and Carniola, as well as from Central and Eastern Europe, the Italian and Balkan peninsulas, and the wider Mediterranean basin.107 This rapid and largely unregulated expansion created acute social pressures, as urban infrastructure lagged behind. Large sections of the city became densely populated, and working-class residents lived under severely deteriorated conditions.108

From a liberal bourgeois and capitalist perspective, the presence of a psychiatric outpatient department for short stays in the main civic hospital functioned as a form of soft control for a working-class society. It provided a less invasive and more immediate form of care and shelter for workers who, rather than being rendered inactive and confined to an asylum on the fringes of the socioeconomic fabric, were needed for the functioning of Trieste’s port and industrial system. Thus, scientific, sociopolitical, humanitarian, and economic dimensions converged in psychiatric practice, with the simultaneous aims of control, assistance, treatment, the preservation of social respectability, and the rapid reintegration of patients into the labor market. In a liberal bourgeois city such as Trieste,109 entirely devoted to commercial and economic development and guided by the principle of the “primacy of economy,” such a system was fundamental to the operation of its social and production structures.110 In this sense, the eighth ward of the Trieste hospital served as a vital mechanism with which to maintain the city’s social and production systems.111 It functioned more as a rehabilitation institute, particularly for patients not diagnosed as chronic and seen as intellectually able enough to be an active part of working society.112

Figure 1. Map of the city of Trieste (extract), circa 1920: the larger circle marks the location of Andrea di Sergio Galatti,
the new provincial psychiatric hospital, situated in the peripheral district of Saint John; the smaller circle indicates the Civic Hospital of Trieste,
where the eighth psychiatric division was located in the heart of the new part of town
(BCTs: Port of Trieste, Scale 1:10,000, ca. 1920)

Postwar Transition and Fascism: A Clash between Psychiatric Cultures

After decades of internal difficulties and stagnation in the late nineteenth century, the modernization of the two asylums and the evolving psychiatric system on the Adriatic coast stood out, together with examples such as Vienna’s Steinhof. This progress was particularly striking when compared to the neighboring Italian peninsula, with the contrast most evident between the Austrian Littoral and the Italian province of Friuli. Udine’s new asylum, inaugurated in 1904 (the year in which the Italian asylum law was passed), was hailed as the most advanced example of Italian psychiatry.113 Under its future director, Giuseppe Antonini, it was conceived as an open-door, wall-free facility with a pavilion layout and an agricultural colony, although its rigidly symmetrical design conflicted with the Alt-Scherbitz non-restraint model, which favored asymmetry to minimize any suggestion that patients were under some form of control.114 While the Littoral’s lack of a modern asylum briefly fueled irredentist claims portraying Italian Friuli as more progressive,115 these faded as Udine’s asylum soon encountered resistance from provincial authorities and drifted from its founding ideals, adopting containment practices in line with national legislation. Disillusioned, Antonini acknowledged Italy’s psychiatric backwardness in a 1909 publication following his visit to Steinhof.116 More significantly, the opening of the Littoral asylums deepened the divide between the Austrian and Italian psychiatric systems. Reformist hopes among Italian psychiatrists, who were often inspired by German models, were ultimately thwarted by internal opposition, the restrictive framework of the Italian 1904 law, and the outbreak of World War I.117

The psychiatric system of the Austrian Littoral was deeply disrupted by World War I and its aftermath. The Upper Adriatic became a war zone along the Isonzo Front, and this had a severe impact on psychiatric care. In Gorizia, once a model of Habsburg psychiatry, the hospital was repeatedly caught in the crossfire after Italy declared war on Austria-Hungary in May 1915. By the end of that year, patients and staff had been evacuated to the main mental hospital in Kroměříž, and the facilities were almost completely destroyed.118 While Trieste’s mental hospital remained physically intact, it faced serious setbacks, including severe shortages of materials, funds, and personnel. Many physicians were conscripted into the Austro-Hungarian army. There was also a sharp rise in the demands placed on the facilities at the hospital due to its proximity to the front. After the war, psychiatry in Trieste came under even greater strain with the mass influx of returning refugees, prisoners, and soldiers passing through the port city.

Furthermore, the end of the war and the conquest of the former Littoral by the Italian army in November 1918 dealt an additional blow to local psychiatric institutions. The greatest shock came from the abrupt and violent shift from being part of a multicultural empire to inclusion in a nation state which, shortly after the war, became one of Europe’s earliest totalitarian regimes, as the fascist dictatorship rose to power in October 1922. In the former Littoral, now part of the so-called Italian “new provinces,” this transition was even more abrupt than in the rest of Italy. As early as 1920, this newly annexed multilingual border region bore witness to a particularly harsh rise of fascist squads, culminating in the violent persecution of non-Italian-speaking populations and increasing pressure for forced nationalization. These nationalistic sentiments sparked the brutal assault and burning down of the Narodni Dom building, which had been the cultural, political, and economic center of the Slovenian bourgeoisie in the heart of the city. The attack took place in July 1920. It was carried out by Fascist squads which acted with the approval of the Italian army and police.119

From the perspective of the science of psychiatry, this transition also represented a profound rupture within an already devastating context, triggering a clash between distinct medical and psychiatric cultures. The introduction of Italian psychiatric practice, characterized by a rigid adherence to an organicist conception of mental illness as codified by the 1904 law,120 led to a marked divergence in the “new provinces,” such as the former Austrian Littoral and South Tyrol.121 In the mid-1920s, fascist local authorities, in line with the broader agenda of the fascist regime, initiated a general reform of the public health system, focusing on restructuring civil hospitals and asylums, particularly in Trieste. Between 1923 and 1925, the public health system and especially psychiatric care in Trieste came under direct attack and reform by the new fascist administration. Under the guise of cost-cutting and system rationalization, plans were made to dismantle the city hospital’s eight wards for psychiatric and neurological patients and to replace them with a similar, though fundamentally different, service located within the main asylum.122 The primary target of this reform was the hospital’s flexible system of hospitalization and outpatient care, which did not require the formal denunciation of the patient to the public security forces. In the Italian system, such outpatient and observation wards were virtually non-existent. Furthermore, under Italian law, the procedure for admitting an “alienated person” involved greater oversight than under Austrian law, as it required the involvement of municipal, provincial, and medical authorities, along with supervision by the public security forces. Moreover, since the Italian law was rooted in a more strongly criminalizing approach to psychiatric illness than in Habsburg Trieste, it required the immediate denunciation of individuals upon admission to an asylum.123 As a result, asylums in Italy functioned more as juridical than medical institutions.124

A heated confrontation between the former Habsburg medical class in Trieste and the new Italian hospital administration and authorities erupted between 1923 and 1925. The medical elite in Trieste, rooted in the prestigious and internationally recognized “Viennese Medical School”125 and shaped by the Habsburg medical and psychiatric tradition, still belonged to a defeated and collapsed empire. After November 1918, it found itself at odds with a victorious nation state and a rising authoritarian regime, which sought to assert control through the reorganization of medicine and psychiatry. The conflict was not merely a professional reaction to a perceived violation of independence and identity, nor was it simply a dispute between differing medical and psychiatric traditions. It was also a deeper clash between two opposing political and social visions: on one side, a liberal (albeit paternalistic and class-based) conception of care and rights; on the other, an illiberal and totalitarian project intent on limiting civic and political freedoms. Though this topic has not yet been adequately studied, there is consensus in the secondary literature on the fascist regime’s political use of psychiatric institutions to control, discipline, and silence not only anti-fascist opponents but also anyone deemed incompatible with its vision of the new social order. Fascism took advantage of the repressive, police-oriented nature of the 1904 psychiatric law, which was incorporated into the authoritarian legal framework of the leggi fascistissime (the so-called “very fascist laws”) and codified by the “Unified Text of Public Security Laws” in 1925–1926, precisely the very same years in which the psychiatric ward in Trieste was closed. Psychiatry thus became part of the fascist state’s control apparatuses for enforcing “public security”126 and pursuing its broader eugenic ambition to reshape Italian society (and the Italian “race”).127

A new regulation for the Trieste public health system was finally issued in 1927, replacing the Austrian legislation. The new text, which was intended to align with the regulations and practices of Italian psychiatry, reflected the law’s core conception, centered on the absolute notion of the mentally ill person’s dangerousness as “a threat to himself and others” and a source of “public scandal.” The forced custody and hospitalization of the patient were prescribed, directly undermining the non-restraint practice. Consequently, in 1925, the eighth ward of the main civil hospital in Trieste was closed. Since the services it had provided were essential for urban society and well-integrated into the public health system, they could not be easily discontinued. As a result, a smaller version of the ward was established in a pavilion at the Sergio Galatti psychiatric hospital, but it still lost its original hybrid character. This change followed the general trend in fascist public health policies, which aimed to create a new kind of outpatient dispensary system for people who suffered from mental illnesses.128

This change also affected family custody and care practices. While outpatient and family therapy had also been in place in the Italian Kingdom since the late nineteenth century, these services were significantly reduced during World War I and further curtailed under the Fascist regime, which cut provisions for families caring for mentally or neurologically ill relatives.129 Although patients could still be entrusted to family care, the principle of non-restraint and patient release was altered after the closure of the eighth ward. A patient was now only released from the main asylum after he or she had been registered with the police as a potential public threat, and the release was done on an “experimental basis,” meaning the patient was still subject to ongoing checks by police and sanitation personnel every four months. Furthermore, the admission process became more complex, involving the physician, the mayor, the police, and the provincial court, which had to approve the final admission.130 As a result, patients no longer enjoyed the protections once offered by the Austrian imperial ordinance and the eighth division of the civil hospital in Trieste against public denunciation and social stigma.

Facing these shocking shifts, beneath their repeated proclamations of loyalty to the new nationality and state, local psychiatrists and authorities began to develop a “culture of defeat.”131 This culture became embedded in the collective “long memory” of the local medical and civil society over the course of the interwar period and the immediate postwar period, continuing into the 1960s and 1970s.132 Following the collapse of his faith in the promises of modernism and progress in the sciences, the former chief physician of the eighth ward, Eugenio Gusina, expressed his bitter disappointment with the changing situation and launched a vivid and emotional attack against the forced process of the “Italianisation” of the psychiatry system in the former Littoral. He went so far as to make the incisive pronouncement that I have borrowed in the title of this article: “we cannot see ourselves reflected in all Italian institutions.”133

Conclusion: Tracing a Genealogy of “Tradition” through Psychiatry Reform

Opposition to coercive psychiatric practices and the promotion of anti-restraint reforms became central to discourses of “tradition” and “heritage” in the identity-making processes of post-Habsburg societies. The aim of the analysis here has not been to evaluate the truthfulness of such discourses in an essentialist sense, but rather to reconstruct a genealogy of identity narratives that were continually reshaped, transmitted, and revived in moments of profound crisis over the course of the twentieth century.

The case study of the Upper Adriatic, positioned on the margins of the former Habsburg Empire, is not intended merely as a local history. Instead, it is a contribution to a broader interpretative framework relevant to the history of psychiatry and the study of post-imperial transitions in Central Europe. From a long-term perspective, it highlights psychiatry as a field where continuities and ruptures in political order, cultural practices, and professional identities were repeatedly negotiated.

Two moments proved particularly significant in this process. The first followed the empire’s dissolution, during the “Italianization” of the Upper Adriatic and the rise of fascism in the region and the Italian state in the 1920s. The second emerged in the 1960s–1970s, amid economic crisis, geopolitical détente, and the rise of deinstitutionalizing psychiatric reforms. In both phases, psychiatry served as a strong marker of self-identification for a local society in the former Habsburg Central European space. Yet this was not a matter of superficial “nostalgia” for a lost world. Rather, it was a complex response to a profound contemporary “dilemma” that confronted actors with paradigm shifts of cultural and political order, as well as with personal and professional crises.134 “Habsburg traditions” were not immutable legacies but constructs that required constant reinterpretation and adaptation to contemporary needs. The turn to an imagined imperial past and efforts to reintegrate into Austrian and Central European psychiatric networks thus represented more than a superficial “Habsburg fantasy.”135 They were part of an ongoing exercise in identity construction, grounded in the rediscovery of reformist traditions disrupted by both World Wars and interwar authoritarianism.

By the 1960s and 1970s, familiar motifs of late nineteenth-century “modernism” (mobility, multilingualism, and liberal humanism) were reactivated as resources for professional, cultural, and even political self-definition. The psychiatric reform movement initiated in Gorizia and culminating in Trieste became both a local and a transnational reference point, enabling the reconfiguration of a historically fragmented space within the Alpe Adria region. Although historically uneven, the ideological contrast between Habsburg humanism and Fascist authoritarianism proved an enduring and influential rhetorical topos. It legitimized both local and transnational identities centered on non-coercive care, and it positioned the region as historically innovative and responsive to global transformations. At its core lay a post-Habsburg self-identification shaped by the empire’s distinctive interplay between local and imperial loyalties, which fostered enduring habitus and mentalities resilient to twentieth-century upheavals.136 The construction of a genealogy of reformist psychiatric tradition ultimately served the needs of the present, for to create a “tradition” is to shape and plan a future by recalling the past.137

In this sense, the Upper Adriatic experience provides a direct answer to the question posed at the outset: the field of psychiatry (and its critics) did indeed contribute to shaping forms of collective, professional, and cultural self-identification. Far from occupying a marginal position, psychiatric reform became a privileged lens through which broader cultural and geopolitical reconfigurations were articulated, and within the post-Habsburg world, it emerged as a key site for understanding identity-making in post-imperial and borderland contexts.

Archival Sources

Archivio Basaglia [Basaglia Archive, Venice] (AB)

Correspondences (1953–1974)

Archivio Provinciale di Gorizia [Provincial Archive of Gorizia] (APGo)

ARPGo: Archivio della Rappresentanza Provinciale di Gorizia 1861–1923 [Archive of the Provincial Government of Gorizia]

OPP: Ospedale psichiatrico provinciale [Provincial Psychiatric Hospital]

Archivio di Stato di Trieste [State Archive of Trieste] (ASTs)

IRLL: Imperial-Regia Luogotenenza per il Litorale [Imperial and Royal Lieutenancy for the Littoral]

RG VG: Regio Governatorato per la venezia Giulia [Royal Governorate for the Julian March]

RP VG: Regia Prefettura per la Venezia Giulia [Royal Prefecture for the Julian March]

OPP: Ospedale psichiatrico provinciale [Provincial Psychiatric Hospital]

OCTs: Ospedale Civico di Trieste [Civic Hospital of Trieste]

Biblioteca Civica di Trieste [City Library of Trieste] (BCTs)

Istruzione interna per il civico manicomio di Trieste, approvata dalla Delegazione municipale nella seduta 2 aprile 1873 (BCTs, R.P. 1199, N. 23223)

Lorenzutti, Ettore. Progetto del nuovo manicomio. Rapporto illustrativo (BCTS, R.P. misc. 4/3926)

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Wörsdörfer, Rolf. Krisenherd Adria 1915–1955: Konstruktion und Artikulation des Nationalen im italienisch-jugoslawischen Grenzraum. Paderborn: Schöningh, 2004.

Zonabend, Françoise. La Mémoire longue. Temps et histoires au village. Paris: PUF, 1980.

Zupanič-Slavec, Zvonka. “Dr. Fran Göstl, psihiater in kulturnik velike širine.” Zdravniški vestnik 65, no. 4–5 (1996): 283–85.

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1. 1 Brink, Grenzen der Anstalt.

2. 2 Timms and Robertson, The Habsburg Legacy; Miller and Morelon, Embers of Empire.

3. 3 Caltana, “Psychiatrische Krankenanstalten in der Provinz der Monarchie”; Topp, Freedom and Cage.

4. 4 Setaro, “The Gorizia Experiment.”

5. 5 Bucarelli, “The Adriatic Section of the Iron Curtain”; Klabjan, “Twinning across the Adriatic.”

6. 6 Verginella, “Il paradigma città/campagna.”

7. 7 Wörsdörfer, Krisenherd Adria; Cattaruzza, Italy and Its Eastern Border; Klabjan, “Borders in Arms.”

8. 8 Kersting, Psychiatriereform als Gesellschaftsreform; Gijswijt-Hofstra et al., Psychiatric Cultures Compared.

9. 9 Werner and Zimmermann, “Beyond Comparison”; Wilson and Donnan, A Companion to Border Studies.

10. 10 See Shorter, A History of Psychiatry, 34–46.

11. 11 Blackshaw and Wieber, Journeys into Madness.

12. 12 Dietrich-Daum et al., Psychiatrische Landschaften.

13. 13 In this region, psychiatry continues to be regarded as a “special” issue or an “epiphenomenon,” since a comprehensive perspective remains absent. Existing studies are largely fragmented into local narratives that analyze single hospitals, without considering the existence and functioning of a broader integrated system that operated transregionally and even transnationally. In broader histories of health, psychiatry is also too often reduced to the level of “specialized hospitals.” See L’ospedale psichiatrico di San Giovanni a Trieste; Plesnicar, L’ospedale psichiatrico di Gorizia; Psihiatrična bolnišnica Vojnik; Zupanič Slavec, Zgodovina zdravstva.

14. 14 Müller, Zentrum und Peripherie in der Geschichte der Psychiatrie.

15. 15 Hofer, Nervenschwäche und Krieg; Topp, Freedom and Cage; Ableidinger, “Whose experts?”

16. 16 Cohen, “Our Laws.”

17. 17 Crossley, Contesting Psychiatry; Wall, “The birth and death of Villa 21”; Fussinger, “‘Therapeutic Community’.”

18. 18 On the complex relationship and interplay between center and periphery in the history of psychiatry, see Müller, Zentrum und Peripherie in der Geschichte der Psychiatrie.

19. 19 Badano, “The Basaglia Law.”

20. 20 Foot, The Man Who Closed the Asylums, 107–30; Slavich, All’ombra dei cigliegi giapponesi.

21. 21 Crossley, Contesting Psychiatry, 164–70.

22. 22 Burns and Foot, Basaglia’s international legacy.

23. 23 Slavich, All’ombra dei cigliegi giapponesi.

24. 24 Basaglia himself was an anti-fascist, having participated in the partisan movement during the war, and, particularly during the 1970s, he grew closer to the Italian Communist Party, which eventually gave active support to the legal recognition of the reform, as well as to international left-wing political and psychiatric organizations. See Foot, The Man Who Closed the Asylums.

25. 25 La pratica della follia, 26–27. All translations from non-English sources and secondary literature are mine.

26. 26 Foot, The Man Who Closed the Asylums; Setaro, “The Gorizia Experiment.”

27. 27 Surman, “Peregrinatio Medica.”

28. 28 See Le Rider, Modernity and Crises of Identity.

29. 29 Adcock et al., “A History of Political Science,” 5–6.

30. 30 Hall and Bevir, “Traditions,” 828–29.

31. 31 Ballinger, “Imperial Nostalgia”; Hametz, “Presnitz in the Piazza”; Schlipphacke, “The Temporalities of Habsburg Nostalgia”; Klabjan, “Habsburg Fantasies.”

32. 32 Foot, The Man who Closed the Asylum, 187–200; Kersting, Psychiatriereform als Gesellschaftsreform.

33. 33 Spazzapan, “Appunti per una storia dell’assistenza psichiatrica a Gorizia”; Slavich, All’ombra dei cigliegi giapponesi.

34. 34 Cattaruzza, Italy and Its Eastern Border, 260–65.

35. 35 Sapelli, Trieste italiana, 209–40; Andreozzi and Panariti, “L’economia di una regione nata dalla politica”; Fragiacomo, Italia matrigna.

36. 36 Negrelli, “Trieste nel mito.”

37. 37 Negrelli, Al di qua del mito.

38. 38 Degrassi, “L’ultima delle regioni a statuto speciale”; Cattaruzza, Italy and Its Eastern Border, 252–54.

39. 39 Blasich et al., Organizational Models for Primary Care in Alps-Adria; Nečak, “Die Alpen-Adria-Region 1945 bis 1991”; Ružičić-Kessler, “The Path to Interregional Cooperation in Cold War Europe.”

40. 40 AB, Correspondences, b. 22 and 23. On the development of transnational projects in the field of deinstitutionalized care for alcohol-addicted patients between Yugoslavia and Italy, see Hudolin, Praktični priručnik.

41. 41 Lunzer, Triest.

42. 42 Magris, Il mito absburgico; Agnelli, La genesi del mito della Mitteleuropa.

43. 43 See Rusinow, Italy’s Austrian Heritage.

44. 44 Hametz, “Presnitz in the Piazza,” 131.

45. 45 Premuda, “Die vermittelnde Funktion von Triest.” Admittedly, it is worth noting that, in this portrayal, these figures overshadowed the role of members of the local Slovenian- or Croatian-speaking medical community. Thus, this narrative reflected the prevalent anti-Slavic sentiment of the local Italian-speaking bourgeoisie.

46. 46 Voghera, Gli anni della psicanalisi.

47. 47 Ara and Magris, Trieste.

48. 48 Premuda, “Die vermittelnde Funktion von Triest,” 103–5; Marhaba, “La psicologia”; Corsa, Edoardo Weiss.

49. 49 The entire documentary movie is available on the YouTube platform: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VsatItB6kH4 Accessed April 17, 2025

50. 50 Hofer, “Krankheit im Konjunktiv”; Pappalardo, “One Last Austrian Cigarette.”

51. 51 Pontoni, La questione del manicomio in crisi acuta, 3–4.

52. 52 ASTs, RG VG, b. 224.2, f. Categoria 2201a, Organizzazione servizi sanitari, Medici dei comuni e distretti.

53. 53 Pontoni, La questione del manicomio in crisi acuta, 8.

54. 54 Pontoni, Un progetto di grande riforma, 24.

55. 55 Pontoni, Considerazioni, 10; Idem, Un progetto di grande riforma.

56. 56 See Dahl, Der Bankrott der Psychiatrie; Lugaro, I problemi odierni della psichiatria.

57. 57 Ableidinger, “Psychiatrie als Diskurs- und Politikfeld”; Idem, “Whose experts?”.

58. 58 See Schlöss, Die Irrenpflege in Österreich; Hofmokl, Heilanstalten in Österreich.

59. 59 Topp, Freedom and Cage.

60. 60 De Rosa, “Dal Conservatorio dei poveri al manicomio di San Giovanni,” 28.

61. 61 ASTs, OPP, b. 1 (1843–1858).

62. 62 ASTs, IRLL, b. 130, f. 12750.

63. 63 ASTs, IRLL, b. 24, f. 5693.

64. 64 Canestrini, “Frenocomio civico ‘Andrea di Sergio Galatti’ in Triest,” 132.

65. 65 APGo, ARPGo: Asylum, b. 110, f. 5163/IV.

66. 66 Istruzione interna per il civico manicomio di Trieste, approvata dalla Delegazione municipale nella seduta 2 aprile 1873 (BCTs, R.P. 1199, N. 23223).

67. 67 Schwarz, Chronisch psychisch Kranke.

68. 68 APGo, ARPGo: Asylum, b. 110, f. 20049/2837.

69. 69 See Plesnicar, L’ospedale psichiatrico di Gorizia.

70. 70 See Mazorana, Il nuovo manicomio di Trieste; Progetto di un nuovo manicomio; Tommasi, Relazione; Veronese, La questione del manicomio.

71. 71 Veronese, La questione del manicomio, 16–19.

72. 72 Villa, Geel, 159–235.

73. 73 Cattaruzza, “Nationalitätenkonflikt in Triest”; Catalan, “Trieste”; Winkler, Wahlrechtsreformen und Wahlen in Triest; Millo, “Un porto fra centro e periferia”; Klabjan, “Scramble for Adria”; Verginella, “The Fight for the National Linguistic Primacy.”

74. 74 Cattaruzza, Italy and Its Eastern Border, 7–49.

75. 75 Topp, Freedom and Cage, 45–46.

76. 76 De Peri, “Il medico e il folle,” 1129–34; Colaianni, Il no-restraint nella psichiatria italiana.

77. 77 Pappalardo, Modernism in Trieste, 32.

78. 78 Rahden, Jews and the Germans, 89–93; Horel, Multicultural Cities of the Habsburg Empire, 15.

79. 79 Tommasi, Relazione, 1.

80. 80 See Finzen, Stigma psychische Krankheit.

81. 81 Topp, Freedom and Cage, 12–15.

82. 82 Karge et al., From the Midwife’s Bag to the Patient’s File, 13.

83. 83 Plesnicar, L’ospedale psichiatrico di Gorizia.

84. 84 Canestrini, “Frenocomio civico ‘Andrea di Sergio Galatti’ in Triest.”

85. 85 On the central role of philanthropy in the hybrid public-private construction of welfare facilities in Trieste, see Di Fant, Dalla beneficenza al welfare. For a comprehensive and nuanced analysis of the organization of bourgeois elites in Trieste, see Millo, L’élite del potere a Trieste and Millo, “Das Triestiner Bürgertum.”

86. 86 Fratnich, “Landes-Irrenanstalt Franz Josef I. in Görz.”

87. 87 Ibid., 108, 127.

88. 88 Topp, Freedom and Cage, 39–58.

89. 89 From 1903, the Mauer-Öhling asylum in Lower Austria became a model for institutionalized family therapy. See Starlinger, “Kaiser-Franz-Josef-Landes-Heil- und Pflegeanstalt Mauer-Oehling,” 225.

90. 90 ASTs, OPP; APGo, OPP.

91. 91 Göstl, “V Gorici za svetovne vojne”; Zupanič-Slavec, “Dr. Fran Göstl.”

92. 92 Hofer, Nervenschwäche und Krieg; Corsa, Edoardo Weiss.

93. 93 Camera dei medici di Trieste, Memoriale, 4–5; De Rosa, “Dal Conservatorio dei poveri al manicomio di San Giovanni,” 31.

94. 94 Gusina, “Parere,” 60.

95. 95 Ibid., 59.

96. 96 Ibid., 68.

97. 97 71. Verordnung des Ministeriums des Innern im Einvernehmen mit dem Justizministerium vom 14. Mai 1874.

98. 98 207. Kaiserliche Verordnung vom 28. Juni 1916 über die Entmündigung.

99. 99 Hermann, Entmündigungsordnung.

100. 100 Gusina, “Parere,” 61.

101. 101 Finzen, Eine kurze Geschichte der psychiatrischen Tagesklinik, 9; Schott and Tölle, Geschichte der Psychiatrie, 306–19.

102. 102 Gusina, “Parere,” 59.

103. 103 See ASTs, OCTs, 8th ward, b. 584, f. 7831 and 10070.

104. 104 Gusina, “Parere,” 59.

105. 105 Millo, “Un porto fra centro e periferia.”

106. 106 Luzzatto Fegiz, La popolazione di Trieste. For a more comprehensive analysis of urban demographic growth within the Habsburg Monarchy between 1848 and 1914, see Horel, Multicultural Cities of the Habsburg Empire, 40–61.

107. 107 Breschi et al., “Storia minima della popolazione di Trieste,” 116; Andreozzi, “L’organizzazione degli interessi a Trieste”; Cattaruzza, “Die Migration nach Triest.”

108. 108 Cattaruzza, La formazione del proletariato urbano.

109. 109 Millo, “Das Triestiner Bürgertum”; Catalan, “Trieste.”

110. 110 Cattaruzza, “Il primato dell’economia”; Ara, “The ‘Cultural Soul’ and the ‘Merchant Soul’.”

111. 111 About the “rehabilitation science,” see Mitchell and Snyder, “Minority Model,” 42.

112. 112 Roulstone, “Disabled People, Work and Employment”; Bösl et al., Disability History.

113. 113 L’ospedale psichiatrico provinciale di Udine.

114. 114 Topp, Freedom and Cage, 44–45.

115. 115 Juch, Il manicomio di Udine.

116. 116 Antonini, “Il grande nuovo manicomio di Vienna in Steinhof.” See Topp, Freedom and Cage, 58, 172–74.

117. 117 Novello, “Fondazione e fine del manicomio di Udine,” 238–240; Babini, Liberi tutti, 13–43.

118. 118 The psychiatric hospital in Gorizia was reopened by the fascist Italian authorities in 1933, but under entirely different principles and as an act of political propaganda. See L’ospedale psichiatrico provinciale di Gorizia.

119. 119 Kacin-Wohinz and Verginella, Primorski upor fašizmu; Hametz, Making Trieste Italian; Vinci, Sentinelle della patria; Pergher, Mussolini’s Nation-Empire; Klabjan and Bajc, Ogenj, ki je zajel Evropo.

120. 120 Babini, Liberi tutti, 13–20; Petracci, I matti del duce, 20–77.

121. 121 For the transition in the South Tyrol and Trentino region, see Dietrich-Daum et al., Psychiatrische Landschaften and Grillini, La guerra in testa.

122. 122 Relazioni, pareri e proposte sulle riforme, 11–16.

123. 123 Tamburini, Ferrari and Antonini, L’assistenza degli alienati in Italia, 687.

124. 124 Corbellini and Jervis, La razionalità negata, 49–50.

125. 125 Lohff, “Gedanken zum Begriff ‘Wiener Medizinische Schule’.”

126. 126 Peloso, La guerra dentro, 44–45. The reform of these key branches of healthcare was enacted through Royal Decree-Law No. 1832 of August 15, 1925, converted into Law no. 562 of March 18, 1926, and its related regulations, approved by Royal Decree no. 2330 of November 21, 1929. The reform simultaneously aimed at the professionalization, moralization, and fascist alignment of the health sector, with the declared objective of advancing the fascist revolution within Italian society. See ASTs, RP VG, b. 827, f. 27603.

127. 127 Quine, Population Politics, 17–51; Peloso, La guerra dentro; Petracci, I matti del duce; Piazzi et al., “The History of Italian Psychiatry during Fascism”; Baratieri, “Wrapped in Passionless Impartiality?”; Cassata, Building the New Man.

128. 128 Scarfone, “Outpatient Clinics.”

129. 129 Guarnieri, “Madness in the Home.”

130. 130 De Rosa, “Dal Conservatorio dei poveri al manicomio di San Giovanni,” 40.

131. 131 Schivelbusch, Die Kultur der Niederlage.

132. 132 Zonabend, La Mémoire longue.

133. 133 Gusina, “Parere,” 56.

134. 134 Hall and Bevir, “Traditions,” 828.

135. 135 Klabjan, “Habsburg Fantasies.”

136. 136 Cohen, “Our Laws,” 106.

137. 137 Glassie, “Tradition,” 176.

* This analysis forms part of the broader research project Public Health in Transition (1918–1924), which I pursued at the Department of History, University of Ljubljana and which was funded by the Marie Skłodowska-Curie Actions (HORIZON-MSCA-2021-PF-01, No. 101068435). I wish to express my sincere gratitude to the editors of this issue, Janka Kovács and Daniela Tinková, for their support in bringing this publication to fruition. I am also grateful to the reviewers for their insightful critiques and constructive suggestions, which have greatly contributed to clarifying and strengthening this text.

Discipline and Superiority: Neurasthenia and Masculinity in the Hungarian Medical Discourse*

Gergely Magos

Eötvös Loránd University, Faculty of Social Sciences

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Hungarian Historical Review Volume 14 Issue 4 (2025): 588-614 DOI 10.38145/2025.4.588

“The nerve is still a mystery, which is why neurasthenia is in vogue,” wrote Viktor Cholnoky, the renowned Hungarian writer in 1904.1 Indeed, neurasthenia, a mental disorder considered a typically male ailment, was at the forefront of medical discourses in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, yet so far, it has largely escaped the attention of Hungarian medical historians. Neurasthenia can be interpreted through multiple analytical frameworks, and connections can be drawn between neurasthenia and experiences of modernization, nationalism, and social inequalities; the emergence of the middle class and consumer society; and the professionalization of psychology, among other factors. This paper aims to explore how neurasthenia, as a male mental disorder, was discussed in the Hungarian medical discourse in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. I argue that this medical concept contributed to the medicalization of male sexuality and also reinforced the existing social gender hierarchy. Male sexuality and male social roles are the focus of the paper, but I also briefly explore how anxieties over modernity and the perceived decline of the nation were linked to other male mental disorders, such as paralysis progressiva.

Keywords: neurasthenia, masculinity, male sexuality, medicalization

Masculinity and Neurasthenia

In a criminology article, police captain József Vogel described the case of a 26-year-old financial manager who became homosexual as a prisoner of war after World War I. Vogel claimed that prisoners with “weak nerves” often masturbated due to the lack of “normal sexual intercourse.” This behavior, he claimed, can induce neurasthenia. These men then would completely abandon “normal” sexual habits and turn to homosexuality.2

This case reminds us that sexuality has always been a subject of curiosity and, with the emergence of the modern sciences, also of scientific interest. As Michel Foucault suggested, society did not directly repress sexuality but rather made it a subject of knowledge. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the scientific discourse about sexuality served to control and regulate the body in the alleged cause of public health, productivity, and national progress.3 The pathologization of “abnormal” sexual behaviors, such as onanism or frigidity, established sexual norms for both women and men. Medical discourse incorporated female and male sexuality into biopolitical efforts, thereby establishing sexual norms necessary for fertility and “normal” marital sexuality.4

Medical concepts became an integral part of the discourses about humanity and its environment, which sought to capture social, political, and economic changes at the level of the body. Social pathologies were given a medical interpretation. The medical focus on the male body was closely connected to the emergence of modern notions of masculinity, which found expression in stereotypes reflecting social values and norms surrounding male body and psyche.5 Sexuality no longer exclusively served social reproduction, but, according to male bourgeois etiquette, it also had to satisfy the sexual needs of women. Male honor demanded that a husband be potent but also gentle within the confines of marriage.6 At the end of the nineteenth century, an alleged crisis of masculinity emerged as part of pervasive everyday experience. Women’s emancipation and the purported effeminization of men were considered the greatest threats to masculinity, along with the alleged crimes and forms of sexual deviance attributed to various minority groups, such as Jews. The perceived decline of masculinity was expressed in medical terms. Physical frailty or degenerated appearance were interpreted as symptoms of moral decay, sin, sexual aberrations, and, frequently, mental illness.7

Physicians identified sharp boundaries between purportedly normal sexuality and sexual deviance, which was seen as pathological. Yet the normalization of male and female sexuality took different forms, and their interpretation was based on gender essentialism. Male sexual over- or underperformance was referred to as onanism or impotence, and women were labeled as frigid or nymphomaniacal. These gendered interpretations of sexuality were explained with references to anatomical and biological differences, providing a “scientific” explanation of gender inequalities.8

The medicalization of male sexuality and especially masturbation is a well explored historical topic. In the eighteenth century, religious moral judgement of masturbation was replaced by scientific investigation.9 Nevertheless, masturbation continued to be regarded as the archetypal form of selfish, unproductive, deviant sexuality. The onanist was often accused of retreating into individualism and neglecting his role in national reproduction.10 A prevailing belief among physicians held that masturbation is harmful to health and potentially led to insanity.11

In the late nineteenth century, various medical diagnostic terms, including neurasthenia, were also closely associated with masculinity and male sexuality. The term neurasthenia was popularized by the American physician George M. Beard in the second half of the nineteenth century, and Beard’s influential work popularized the concept worldwide.12 The term, which is derived from Ancient Greek, literally means “weakness of the nerves.” The condition was viewed by medical experts as nervous exhaustion as a consequence of burdensome intellectual labor and overstimulation of the nervous system.13 It was closely associated with the emergence of modernization, as processes such as urbanization, industrialization, technological development, and the expansion of education, freedom and thus personal responsibility put additional stresses on the nervous system.14 According to Beard, in addition to the modern lifestyle and burdensome intellectual work, excessive sexuality or, in contrast, sexual continence or forced abstinence could cause neurasthenia.15

Beard felt that neurasthenia was a typically American ailment, and this, he believed, indicated the leading role of the American nation in the spread of modern civilization. The use of the term “Americanitis,” as neurasthenia was later labeled, was hardly a critique of modernity. Rather, it expressed a certain faith in the superiority of the American nation, which was allegedly marked by nervous sensitivity. These refined sensibilities, according to this theory, contributed to the rise of modern civilization, i.e., economic, technological, social, and political progress, and this in turn created further stimulation for the nervous system. This “vicious circle” made the American nation not only the custodian of modern civilization but, at the same time, paradoxically neurasthenic. Beard provided a medical legitimization for American exceptionalism, reinforcing the perceived hierarchy among nations.16 Moreover, neurasthenia served as an indicator of social inequalities within a society, since it was not equally widespread among different social strata. Its prevalence was closely linked to one’s proximity to modernity. Beard considered elite social groups, especially urban intellectual men, more susceptible to neurasthenia due to their deeper connection with modern civilization. In contrast, groups at the lower end of the social spectrum, such as “savage peoples” (African or Native Americans), the rural population, manual laborers, and women were perceived as less affected by the disease. Beard’s analysis could medically explain and validate the success of the social elite, suggesting that while Yankee businessmen and cultivated upper-class women benefited from modern progress, they bore a “high price” because of their susceptibility to neurasthenia.

Medical terms such as neurasthenia captured an understanding of the new modern male, a figure who was mentally stressed by the accelerated lifestyle and his obligations. This description of masculine identity was not limited to the United States. It soon gained international recognition, albeit in various forms. The adaptation of the term reflected local circumstances and was deeply intertwined with discourses about the nation.

In European discourses, neurasthenia expressed a fear of social decadence and the perceived decline and degeneration of nations and empires. In the British medical discourse, neurasthenia and other mental diseases thought to be more common among men were considered an important factor in the accelerating pace of national decadency.17 The disease came to be more frequently diagnosed in late nineteenth-century France in the context of growing concern about the decline of “true” manhood. Neurasthenia was regarded as an ailment caused by the cultural and moral weakness of men, exacerbated by urbanization and industrialization. This discourse intersected with national anxieties about France’s political and military power, suggesting that the “recovery” of masculinity, male emotional self-discipline, and physical strength could lead to the renewal of national vigor.18 In Spain, neurasthenia provided a medical description of “proper” masculinity, the decline of which was closely linked to the decline of the Spanish Empire. The medicalization of the decadent bourgeoisie male elite served to maintain their social status, while their vulnerability was presented as a main cause of the Spanish nation’s crisis.19 Concerns about masculine values and male sexual performance, intertwined with broader discourses about national strength and progress, appeared even in Russia, Japan, or Argentina.20

By the late nineteenth century, neurasthenia had also become a significant medical category in Central Europe. The German medical and broader discourse followed the international trends, and discussions of neurasthenia were intertwined with the perceived consequences of modernization. Between the 1880s and the 1910s, interpretations of the disease underwent a transformation. Physicians shifted from viewing nervousness as a mental stress to interpreting it as a sign of degeneration requiring biopolitical intervention.21 At the same time, neurasthenia became an integral part of the new bourgeois masculine identity, and diagnoses of neurasthenia were used to express everyday anxieties about sexual performance.22 In Austria-Hungary, the allegedly degenerative potentials of the ailment gained significance, and because of the Empire’s multiethnic composition, the disease was often employed to provide a medical explanation of ethnic differences and reinforce, under the guise of science, a “civilizational hierarchy” among nations. Neurasthenia was frequently presented as a disease of the Austrian-German bourgeois elite, while “Slavic” or “Eastern” nations were seen “too primitive” for neurosis.23 In order to arrive at a nuanced grasp of the Hungarian discourse, it is crucial to know the German and Austrian scientific contexts, as the concept of neurasthenia reached Hungary through the scientific literature in German.24

These analyses suggest that neurasthenia transcended mere medical description and became a crucial term through which social anxieties about masculinity and national identity were expressed. My objective in the discussion below is to present the medicalization of male sexuality in Hungary. To explore this, I analyze the discourse among the Hungarian physicians in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. I argue that while neurasthenia was part of the biopolitical discourse, it also served to provide discursive reinforcement of male social roles and, thus, social inequalities. The Hungarian medical discourse followed the international scientific arguments, reflecting a growing fear of degeneration and national decline. Perceived male sexual dysfunctions, namely excessive masturbation or impotence, were integral parts of the diagnosis. However, in Hungary, anxiety about national decline was expressed with a different diagnosis, namely a diagnosis of paralysis progressiva. As Michael S. Kimmel has suggested, the perceived crisis of masculinity often emerged when gender relations were under intensive transformation, and this notion of crisis was a tool that served to maintain the existing social hierarchy.25 The emerging bourgeois male identity, expressed in medical categories such as neurasthenia, was closely associated with modernity, intellectual capacity, and civilization. This stereotype of masculinity stood in sharp contrast with femininity, which was characterized as emotional, instinctive, and suggestible.

Medical and Organic Explanations in Hungarian Medical Discourse

Beard’s influential concept of neurasthenia reached the Hungarian medical com­munity quickly through German translations. In 1881, Hungarian medical journals reviewed the German translation of Beard’s work on neurasthenia, which was originally published in 1880.26 The term was rapidly adopted, as shown by the fact that the 1883 Magyar Lexikon (Hungarian Lexicon) dedicated a separate article to neurasthenia, which was translated as “nervous weakness.”27

Hungarian physicians identified heredity as a significant factor in the development of the disease, establishing a relative consensus that neurasthenia is a pathological condition stimulated by external conditions. Jakab Salgó, a physician in the Royal National Asylum at Lipótmező in Budapest, the central asylum of Hungary, criticized those who described “nervousness” as a pandemic, suggesting that such views led to harsh criticism of “our familiar social institutions.” He contended that “nervousness is a disease, a pathological life process,” the prevalence of which is partly due to doctors’ better recognition of the disease.28

University professor Jenő Kollarits offered an organic explanation rooted in a different conceptual framework. He contended that nervousness is not a “disease” in the conventional sense, since this term covers externally acquired disorders. He claimed that nervousness is an inherited trait: “The character is made up of the chemical and physical features of the nervous system, which react according to the structure inherited from our ancestors. And the reaction is triggered by external circumstances and can be developed to a certain level, e.g. by education, but only within the individual’s capacity.”29 He called the deviation of the nervous system “heredoanomaly,” which could manifest as degeneration (heredodegeneration) or, in some cases, even amelioration or genius (heredoamelioratio). Therefore, both madness and genius were considered hereditary neurological conditions, while nervousness, including hysteria and neurasthenia, was interpreted as an inherited neurological predisposition.30

Fear of social degeneration also led to the emergence of eugenic discourses among physicians. University professor and forensic psychiatrist Ernő Mo­rav­csik stated that between 60 and 70 percent of neurasthenic patients suffered from their condition because of hereditary reasons. According to him, the “pathological disposition” is also reflected in the degenerated physical appearance of the face and the deformity of the body, yet he claimed that this “degenerative condition […] could be ameliorated and eliminated over time through consistent interbreeding with healthier ones.”31 Ernő Jendrassik, a prominent neurologist and also a professor at University of Budapest and the director of Internal Medicine at the Budapest Hospital of the Brothers of Mercy, linked degeneration to various social pathologies or cults,

such as vegetarians, who without any rational reason live exclusively on plant food, and furthermore, they consume eggs and milk as plant food. Similar to them are the anti-alcoholics who were not alcoholics and who want to reform their fellowmen, but who are looking for victims not at the kiosks where spirits are sold, but among those who drink moderately.

Similar also are those who seek to reform humanity, and among them there are many who play a great role in the world, precisely because of these neurasthenic peculiarities or exceptional abilities.32

The ideas of the psychoanalytic school also bore strong affinities with this medical approach or organic explanation. Freud took an early interest in Beard’s theory and the concept of neurasthenia, as both of them attached great importance to sexuality in the genesis of the disease.33 According to Freud, “psychoneuroses,” including hysteria, phobia, or obsessional neurosis, were rooted in early psychosexual development. He distinguished the former category from “actual neuroses,” such as anxiety neurosis and neurasthenia. This latter term referred to the somatically induced distortion of sexual behavior, namely “onanism” and “coitus interruptus.”34 Freud argued that these “abnormal” sexual practices lead to self-intoxication, which weakens male sexual vigor. Meanwhile, he rejected the idea that the primary connection between masturbation and mental illness is psychological, a notion rooted in feelings of guilt or fear of social stigma.35 Sándor Ferenczi, Freud’s Hungarian friend and associate, agreed that neurasthenia is a “disease whose material carrier is undoubtedly some pathological alteration in the tissues of the nervous system.”36 Ferenczi explained neurasthenia as a consequence of autotoxicity (or self-intoxication) caused by excessive strain.37 According to him, the potential causes could be defecation issues, “self-poisoning with abnormal metabolites,”38 or the misdirected fulfilment or wasting of libido on an “inappropriate object.”39 He emphasized “excessive onanism,” which often occurs discreetly, such as when a patient fumbles with something in his pockets.40 In the conclusion to his essay, Ferenczi claimed that masturbation (and neurasthenia) manifests in symptoms such as diminished sexual potency and premature ejaculation. Ferenczi argued that, unlike in the case of hysteria, effective treatment for neurasthenia is the restoration of a “normal sexual life.”41

Thus, the Hungarian medical discourse on neurasthenia showed a broad consensus on two key points. First, it was generally accepted that the condition is rooted in somatic or pathological factors, with an inherited neurological predisposition often interpreted as degeneration. Some physicians directly linked bodily degeneration to social pathologies or decadence. Second, there was a shared conviction that external factors, such as sexual stimuli, trigger this disease, indicating that the nervous system is stressed beyond its inherent capacity.

Neurasthenia as a Male Disease

Hungarian physicians did not interpret neurasthenia as a male disease. Further­more, the distinction between various forms of nervous disorders, such as hysteria, neurasthenia, or hypochondria, was viewed with skepticism.42 At the same time, however, it was also clear for some of them that in medical practice, there was a meaningful difference between hysteria and neurasthenia. Károly Laufenauer, the leader of the Department of Neurology and Psychiatry at the Budapest University, provided a thoughtful self-analysis of diagnostic practices and the social stereotypes reflected in the diagnoses of hysteria and neurasthenia. He defended women against the frequent and unjust accusation that they were the people primarily afflicted with nervousness:

I must rise to the defense of women who are so often and so unfairly attacked, as if the circle of women would establish the house and ground of nervousness. This is not the case, nervousness among women is no more common compared to men, and it is true that when we speak about very few hysterical men and many more hysterical women, we ignore the fact that we know of very few neurasthenic women and many more neurasthenic men. However, I have been convinced for many years, and no one will ever dissuade me, and I hope that this view will gain acceptance, that there is no difference between hysteria and neurasthenia; they are siblings, or even more than that, because these two names mean exactly the same thing and refer to the same disease.

For this reason, and perhaps because of opportunism, since to say someone is hysterical today is almost an insult, the term neurasthenia is more appropriate for women’s nervousness, thus, in a few years, we will see the dishonoring term hysteria disappear from the nomenclature of diseases to make way for the rightly and correctly applied name of neurasthenia for both sexes.43

Statistical evidence confirms Laufenauer’s contention that, contrary to wide­spread social belief, insanity was not a typically female condition. In Hungarian national asylums, men outnumbered women dramatically. Between 1899 and 1902, the ratio stood at 651 women for every 1,000 men in the asylums. Although this ratio shifted somewhat after World War I, a significant disparity remained. In 1918–1919, there were 724 women for every 1,000 male patients in state-owned national asylums.44 The population census reinforces this pattern from a different perspective, underscoring that, relative to Western and Northern European nations (such as Germany, the United Kingdom, and the Scandinavian and Baltic states), the preponderance of men in institutions for the mentally ill in Hungary was remarkable.45

Laufenauer’s reflections on the prejudices behind the disease categories are noteworthy, especially his views concerning the offensive nature of the term hysteria. The statistics reveal that, in clinical practice, women were predominantly diagnosed with hysteria, while men were more frequently labeled neurasthenic. Before World War I, the gender imbalance was striking. Among women, there were 17 times more patients diagnosed with hysteria, whereas men were represented 17 times more among neurasthenics. However, these diagnoses were relatively rare in asylums, with only 1.6–1.7 percent of patients diagnosed with hysteria and fewer than 1 percent with neurasthenia in the national asylums.46 The comparative rarity of these diagnoses may derive from the perception that such conditions were not particularly severe or threatening to individuals or society. Under the law, only those deemed dangerous were committed to asylums. Interestingly, in the 1920s, gender discrimination in these categories declined sharply, though it did not disappear.47

It is also worth noting that Jews were heavily overrepresented among the mentally ill in asylums. Before World War I, Jews comprised about 5 percent of Hungary’s population, yet the constituted 15 percent of those diagnosed as mentally ill and 30 percent of those diagnosed as neurasthenics. In other words, almost one in three individuals diagnosed with neurasthenia was Jewish.48 For a more complex analysis, it would be interesting to see how the diagnosis of neurasthenia varied across different socio-professional groups, although data on this subject is scarce. However, the striking overrepresentation of Jews is revealing, as they were a highly educated group with a strong urban background, perceived as successful in economic and intellectual endeavors. Thus, based on these data, the cautious conclusion can be drawn that neurasthenia was applied as a descriptive framework of the social elite both in discourse and in medical practice.

Male Sexuality

Most physicians associated both neurasthenia and hysteria with sexuality. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, physicians increasingly linked both conditions to sexual behavior, focusing on masturbation as a central theme in their explanations of mental illnesses. The morally loaded term “onanism” was transformed from a religious concern into a medical issue that was allegedly connected to various forms of abnormality and insanity.49 The somatization of masturbation was used to explain the practice, which was thought of as a form of male “madness,” a clear reflection of the attitudes of the era toward sexuality.50

For men, there were two primary forms of allegedly “abnormal” sexuality: the decline of sexual vigor and the improper indulgence of the libido. The former referred to conditions such as impotence and premature ejaculation, while the latter included behaviors such as masturbation, promiscuity, and sex with prostitutes. This description of madness served to emphasize a socially approved framework of male sexuality characterized as heterosexual, vigorous, and monogamous.

Jakab Salgó identified adolescence and sexual maturation as a critical turning point when nervous symptoms often emerged.51 During this transition period, intensified sexual stimuli and desires could lead to excessive sexual needs, causing symptoms of neurasthenia, such as masturbation and exhibitionism. Flirtatious girls kissed boys and used clothing and jewelry to adorn themselves, while boys were allegedly prone to committing perverted sexual acts. Salgó contended that asexual behavior and a lack of libido were also abnormal and should also be understood as signs of neurotic disease. The interplay between strong sexual desires and neurotic sensitivity could lead to complex emotional states, including bitterness, world-weariness, and suicidal ideation. Salgó’s notions combined medical analysis with moral condemnation, implying that deviations from expected sexual behavior were often tied to broader violations of moral standards, including behaviors such as lying, adopting a vagabond lifestyle, and stubborn and selfish conduct, which, Salgó contended, contributed to the transgression of legal and moral rules.

Kornél Preisich, a famous private pediatrician, offered advice for parents who sought to prevent onanism among children.52 He encouraged them to make it impossible for the children to move, which essentially meant tying them up. He also proposed that children should not be left alone before bedtime, and they should not be given blankets or, if they were given a blanket, then they should be required to keep their hands above it. This strict moral judgment surrounding “self-pollution” permeated society, revealing the widespread conviction that it was necessary to regulate sexuality. Other specialists and professionals, in addition to physicians, were involved in this practice of social control.53 Innovations emerged within educational circles to create garments specifically designed to prevent masturbation, such as the anti-onanism shirt patented by Hungarian teacher Bernát Gáspár in 1914.

In the contemporary medical discourse, masturbation, which came to be regarded as the most obvious sign of neurasthenia, was mostly associated with young men, if, however, not regarded as an exclusively “male” sin. The use of the term onanism, a pejorative synonym for masturbation, implied that women were excluded from this issue, since they were incapable of committing the “sin of Onan.”54 Onanism almost exclusively referred to male masturbation in the contemporary medical discourse.

Figure 1. A specifically designed shirt for preventing onanism. Magyar Királyi Szabadalmi Hivatal,
63774. lajstromszámú szabadalom (1900) [Royal Hungarian Patent Office, patent no. 63774].
https://library.hungaricana.hu/hu/view/SZTNH_SzabadalmiLeirasok_063774 Accessed September 2, 2025

Sexual neurasthenia,55 another term introduced by Beard, referred to a con­dition specific to men and occurring in midlife. It was characterized by a lack of sexual vigor, impotence, and an in­ability to have fulfilling and satisfying sexual intercourse. Miksa Weinberger, a Hungarian balneologist, claimed that approximately 30 percent of the cases of neurasthenia were linked to sexual issues, and he categorized male sexual difficulties as a subset of neurasthenia when somatic causes were absent.56 He identified two subtypes. The first was the “pathological waste of semen,” which meant promiscuous and licentious behavior and masturbation. The distinctive syndromes were called “pollutio” and “spermatorrhoea.” Wein­berger emphasized the physiological aspect of this behavior, i.e., the remorse and guilt felt by the onanist after he has committed his “sin.” But at the same time, Weinberger also emphasized that his intention was not “to deny the harmful consequences of onanism,” which causes “fatigue and hypersensitivity of the nervous system in the brain, as well as the spinal cord.”57 The second subtype, called “impotentia coeundi,” referred to sexual underperformance, including the lack of libido, erectile dysfunction, and premature ejaculation. Weinberger argued that the psychological cause of this disease is performance expectations and the fear of failure. As one of his patients complained, “when he began his honeymoon, he was frightened that he might not be able to perform coitus, and this thought dominated him so much that he did not even get an erection in response to the sensual excitement he was seeking.”58

Károly Hudovernig, the head of the Psychiatric Department at Szent János Hospital, highlighted the vulnerability of middle-aged, unmarried men, who decided to settle down and get married. Such men have doubts concerning their sexual performance, and they fear that they might not be able to satisfy their wives’ sexual needs. Symptoms such as masturbation, sexual abstinence, excessive sexuality, and involuntary “pollution” (ejaculation, nocturnal emission) were common. Hudovernig noted that many of his patients blamed their condition on their earlier sex lives, which had included careless affairs, which had ultimately led to “the decline of male vigor.”59 These men

were not the enemies of an active sex life, but saw it simply as a series of accidental and vagabond episodes; their whole life had passed without any serious affection or more or less permanent liaison, and their sexual lives had consisted only of sporadic coitus each time with a different medium, for certain individuals more frequently than for others, therefore they sought and found the objects of their sexual satisfaction among the public or private loose women60 at all times, and because of their age and the trends in sexual pleasures, they often sought the exciting and perverse manipulations of these professional sex objects. […] they regarded the accidental female partner only as a natural and public canal for sexual arousal and needs.61

Hudovernig considered male promiscuity and a restrained sex life (asexuality or the loss of libido) medical issues. However, he rejected Freudian theory, which explains everything in terms of sexuality. However, he completely agreed with the notion that there was no reason to seek any somatic cause of neurasthenia. Neurasthenia, he believed, was a psychological issue caused by anxiety and fear surrounding sexual performance. The doctor’s job was thus to “relieve the psyche from the incubus.”62

Although Weinberger and Hudovernig were also heavily involved in the medicalization of male sexuality, their more sophisticated approach took into consideration the psychological and social aspects of sexuality. A notable aspect of this medical discourse is that many Hungarian physicians, familiar with the Freudian theory, sought to combine somatic therapies with psychoanalysis. However, the application of psychoanalysis met an ambivalent response. Many practitioners dismissed it, regarding it as a reductionist explanation that linked mental illness solely to psycho-sexual development. Weinberger argued that treatments such as balneotherapy (a therapeutic practice that uses bathing in mineral-rich waters, thermal springs, mud, or gases as a form of health treatment) would be ineffective if psychoanalytical methods were not also incorporated. He encouraged physicians to study patients’ “background, lifestyle, family circumstances, and potential occupational problems.”63 One of his contemporaries, urologist Mór Porosz, who worked at the Department of Dermatology and Venereology at the University of Budapest, employed faradization (electric stimulation) of the prostate as a somatic treatment, but he also believed that neurasthenia was caused by guilt often felt by men after certain sexual activities, such as masturbation or failures in sexual performance.64 Porosz cited one of his patients, who expressed deep shame after masturbation: “I felt disgusted with myself for my miserable, uncontrollable passion. […] When I was alone, I reproached myself loudly. […] I became a big misanthrope, and misogynist.”65 Porosz argued that while masturbation did not generate pathological changes, it created a disturbance in mood driven by guilt. Despite this psychological explanation, Porosz was convinced that the faradization of the prostate could be the best treatment to solve the core problem, namely excessive libido.66 In this case, the guilt felt by the patient may have been in response to his fear of judgement and social stigma. Masturbation was considered a “disgusting activity” by society, and these kinds of widespread social norms may well have caused the patient’s sense of frustration and shame.

Some physicians argued that neurasthenia could turn a heterosexual into a homosexual or could find expression in other “abnormal” sexual practices. “Life produces many indescribable variations,” one of them wrote.67 Sexual “aberrations” such as homosexuality, fetishism, and masochism were connected to neurasthenia.68

The medical discourse on neurasthenia reveals that male sexuality was subjected to a scrutiny similar to the scrutiny to which female sexuality was subjected in the discourse on hysteria. Any deviation from medically defined “normal” male sexual performance was deemed pathological, regardless of whether the underlying cause was classified as physical or psychological. The latter interpretation often labelled socially nonconformist behaviors and emotional tensions as pathological. Tensions surrounding sexual underperformance were frequently dismissed as unfounded anxiety or phobia, revealing the pervasive medicalization of male sexuality. The aforementioned Ernő Jendrassik noted the interesting case of a 17-year-old boy, who was sent to different doctors to cure his “pollution” (nocturnal emission):

Three years ago (he was only 14 years old!), the patient was sent “pro coitu” [to have sexual intercourse]69 by his family members. The serious young man did not like this encouragement, nor did he masturbate. With all this in mind, I asked the boy what unpleasant consequences he feels because of pollution. To which he replied in total denial, and at the same time he added, that “both the doctor and the specialist were surprised that I didn’t have any problem. They said, I should have.” Isn’t this the most obvious neurasthenic upbringing?70

Jendrassik’s question, which is phrased in the form of a rebuke, reveals that he blamed the other doctors because of the approach they took to the treatment of harmless “pollution.”

These contemporary studies illustrate how medical discourse maintains social differences and inequalities between genders. The discourse about neuras­thenic men underscores a double standard, often referred to as Freud’s “double sexual morality,” which imposed severe social restrictions on female sexuality.71 The imperative of preserving female virginity shows this moral disparity. Promiscuous women and especially prostitutes were objectified and stigmatized as the “disgusting and infectious canal” of male sexual needs.72 Social expectations or obligations diverged for men who, if resorting to prostitution or masturbation, faced social condemnation and the consequent burden of guilt. As the sources clearly show, this dual morality gave men the latitude to lead a promiscuous sex life while also imposing on them a social obligation to identify themselves with “normal” masculinity and embody a masculine identity. Men who failed to meet these expectations were often labeled insane or neurasthenic.

Neurasthenia and Male Roles in Society

The term neurasthenia was closely linked not solely to male sexuality but also to the social roles assigned to men, and this understanding of the ailment reflected the values, norms, expectations, and stereotypes that were associated with masculinity. The differences between the ways in which neurasthenia was understood and diagnosed and the ways in which hysteria was diagnosed offer insights into the ways in which the medical discourse of the time reinforced social differences between men and women. In 1926, Ferenc Völgyesi, a renowned physician and hypnotizer,73 explained his view of the distinction between the “neurasthenic male psyche” and the “hysterical female psyche” in a widely read advisory book:

The hysterical type is definitely closer to primordial nature. She is quick-witted, instinctive in all her actions. Her spiritual life is overwhelmingly emotional. For her, logic, common sense, reason, truth, rationality are unknown and non-existent concepts, and to confront her with them is clearly unreasonable. […] she is receptive and reproductive, which means that she is passive, less autonomous and not made for productivity, for creating new things and not for organizing. […] In contrast, the fact is that the neurasthenic, more masculine spiritual type does not think with his “heart” as she does, but “always with his head.” […] The hysterical one can swim in happiness, carouse, have fun and enjoy the pleasures in life, while the neurasthenic one, being a light sleeper who lies awake all night compared to the former, goes to bed at night not sleeping the sleep of the just, but full of worries about what tomorrow will bring (the hysterical one simply doesn’t care). […] The hysterical one can be and therefore must be governed, not by logical arguments, but by hetero-suggestion, by the imperative and uncontroversial “declarations” of others, sometimes by reasonable force. It goes without saying that this is also dominant in the case of hysterical children, and this distinction is even more important in

parenting than in adult governance. In contrast, the neurasthenic one doesn’t respect any dogma or authority. […] The neurasthenic one only really believes what he feels and is convinced of as a logical truth, but he believes it fanatically and to the end.74

Völgyesi’s summary clearly reveals both the contemporary cultural stereo­types attached to men and women and also the power imbalance between men, women, and children. He describes women as emotional, instinctive, reproductive, careless, a bit naive and simple, like children, who can be easily manipulated or hypnotized and who thus need to be governed by men, who are rational, intellectual, independent, productive, and determined and therefore hold responsibility for the whole family. This paternalistic view suggests that male nervousness, captured in the concept of neurasthenia, is linked to the social expectation placed on men as breadwinners.

The aforementioned Károly Laufenauer offered another revealing insight into gender roles, arguing that neurasthenia is linked to men’s family life and work. His description affirms the patriarchal structure of family:

The most common cause of this nervousness [evolving in married life] is excessive intellectual work, effort without rest, as we say, a very rampant eagerness. It cannot be denied that the married status drives men to work more than the unmarried status. There is a psychological reason behind this; the person who starts a family lives not only for the present but also for the future, thinking of his children, of the possible reduction of his own workforce, and this constantly pushes him to acquire wealth to ensure the existence of his family. Therefore, the first and main concern of every careful wife should be that the head of the family not overwork himself and follow a suitable work schedule.75

Salgó was convinced that every illness has a somatic cause. He also agreed, however, that “intense, exhausting and devouring, physical and intellectual work” put a strain on the nervous system, which could lead to nervousness, especially in individuals whose nervous systems are “less developed.”76 Since this midlife nervousness, which often culminated in a mental crisis, was often connected with everyday struggles, its root was different. For men, burdensome work and the struggle to play the role of the breadwinner contributed to the disease, while for women, the exhausting experiences of childbirth and parenting played an important role. Interestingly, Salgó emphasized that it was not physical labor that exhausted men. Rather, it was the demands of intellectual work that could be debilitating.77 In his book A szellemi élet hygiénája (The Hygiene of Mental Life), he argued that paralysis progressiva78 (another disorder considered to affect primarily men at the time) was closely connected with intellectual activities such as education or office work, which could overstimulate the brain.79 Salgó noted that the people who were most frequently diagnosed with paralysis were members of social groups who had to face overwork (surmenage) alongside family issues, or in other words, married male intellectuals and office workers between 35 and 40 years of age. Men’s social and family duties as breadwinners protected women from the strains of everyday struggles, according to Salgó: “Marriage takes a burden off the woman’s shoulders, and this finds expression in the small number of [cases of] paralyses [among women].”80 Salgó cynically added that the social transformation of the time, namely female emancipation, had caused an increase in the number of women diagnosed with paralysis. This fact, he claimed, “may add a few drops of bitterness to the goblet of feminism’s successes.”81 He remarked that the feminist movement and revolution had had casualties: “No wonder that this sharp and ruthless war, into which women have entered with more zeal and enthusiasm than preparation and practice, affects women with its worse consequences. No great social transformation can be achieved without victims.”82

As Salgó’s argument exemplifies, like the medicalization of femininity, the creation of exclusive medical categories such as neurasthenia and paralysis, with which women were rarely diagnosed, also served to maintain gender inequalities. These gender differences were also reflected in social values. The medical concepts were adopted (and possibly created) presumably in part because they offered medical explanations for differing social roles and obligations. Jakab Fischer, a physician in Bratislava, cited an illuminating case. One of his female patients complained about her husband, who had been diagnosed by Fischer with neurasthenia. The wife reported that her husband “avoids companionship, cares little for his family, his clothes are sloppy, and he is more wasteful than before […] He cannot do his work, not only because he tires very quickly, but because he already shows the symptoms of memory lapses. His memory is worsening.”83 As her description makes clear, a normal, healthy man was sociable, hardworking, thrifty, and elegant, or at least took care to dress appropriately.

Physicians of the time claimed that men played a leading role in developing civilization, albeit at a considerable cost to their mental wellbeing. Ernő Moravcsik went back to the Beardian concept, claiming that

it puts an increased strain on the brain, when the rapid development and progress of all fields of science, art, literature, industry, and commerce requires the acquisition of a wider and more intensive knowledge, it shows various ways of acquiring wealth, material wellbeing and pleasure, it aggravates the struggle for existence together with the growing demands, it stimulates increased physical and mental activity, and it brings a series of material and mental crises and convulsions during changing circumstances.84

At that point, the global progress of civilization acquired a localized shape in the medical discourse, tying it to the struggles of the Hungarian nation. Unlike empires such as the United Kingdom, the United States, or Spain, the decline of Hungary was framed not within the context of imperialism but rather as a matter of relative backwardness. According to medical analyses, the general progress of civilization and development in Western countries led to “growing demand and aspirations” in Hungary, thereby placing additional pressures on people to “chase wealth.”85 However the gap between desires and economic conditions was too large, and thus only individuals who invested additional intellectual and physical efforts were able to satisfy their needs. Physicians stated that this relentless pursuit often culminated in mental health issues, namely paralysis. This disease, which was seen as affecting only male patients, was conceptualized as the “Hungarian insanity.”86 István Hollós, a physician in the Royal National Asylum at Lipótmező who became later a famous psychoanalyst, found that, while in Western Europe a mere 10 percent of those who had been diagnosed as mentally ill suffered from paralysis, in Hungary, this figure reached nearly 30 percent. Hollós blamed the snobbery of the Hungarian middle classes, coupled with their ambition to appear better than they actually were.87 Salgó provided a similar social explanation for this phenomenon, claiming that the Hungarian nation had embraced the same needs and desires as its more advanced Western counterparts. Yet, due to historical reasons, Hungarian society struggled to accumulate the sufficient capital to fulfill these aspirations:

We possess all the advancements and comforts that the development of science and taste has brought to humanity, and all the mental and physical pleasures that only the most sophisticated culture could have developed. Our soul and body are not only capable of the finest pleasures, but also desire them. However, we are not strong enough to obtain them, to satisfy our sophisticated desires. […] The wide gap between our aspirations and our strength is the reason why we stimulate our strength too hard, thus presenting ourselves as gentlemen.88

Physicians highlighted their responsibility to recover the “most important” figure of the workforce, the educated man. Their task was not merely to help the suffering patients, but also to reinvigorate them and facilitate their reintegration into society. Salgó argued that

nervous exhaustion is more than a mere medical issue; it has evolved into a social issue. […] It is clear that the well-understood interests of society require that adequate provisions be made for low-income or penniless nervous patients. This is not dictated by the much clichéd slogan of humanity, but by public interest. […] The poorer we are in material goods, the stronger should be the conviction that the true and inalienable wealth of any nation is the human being and his capacity for work. The money we spend on them is money saved.89

In support of this biopolitical approach, Fischer emphasized the substantial value of human capital. He argued that “the state’s most valuable wealth lies in its human resources. This is not only a humanistic but also an economic thesis. Furthermore, as health is the most valuable for the people, it follows that the most important interest of the state is to improve, develop, and preserve the health of its citizens. Consequently, the state’s most important objective must be healthcare.”90

Conclusion

The medical discourse on neurasthenia seems controversial. Historically, it was linked to male vigor and performance, both sexually and occupationally. Male sexuality was strictly disciplined, and any deviation from “normal” sexuality or behavior, such as masturbation, premature ejaculation, promiscuity, asexuality, impotence, or homosexuality, was categorized as an aberration or anomaly. These deviations were often described as pathological conditions requiring somatic treatment. In several cases, the hereditary predisposition of the nervous system was cited as the underlying cause of an abnormal sexual libido, which could lead to behaviors deemed undesirable, such as masturbation. However, a closer examination of the descriptions offered in specific medical cases reveals that the anxiety experienced by many young patients derived from fear of social stigma. Numerous cases illustrate that these individuals did not perceive themselves as ill. Rather, their sexuality was labeled as abnormal by their families or by the medical authorities. While psychological explanations spread among physicians, the pathological explanation remained predominant.

A similar argument can be seen in the case of men’s work. Any deviation from the expected performance was viewed as a medical issue. Men who were industrious or exceptionally accomplished were labelled potential victims of neurasthenia. It is worth noting that this aspect of the discourse served to reinforce existing social hierarchies, inequalities, and power dynamics at the discursive level. Neurasthenia came to be seen as a sign of superiority, industriousness, modernity, geniality, and intellectual potential, qualities which stood in sharp contrast with the nature of female hysteria. Women were often described as emotional, instinctive, suggestive, and needing to be governed by men. In this context, the significance of men’s work was highlighted in the medical texts. According to the contemporary medical discourse, the work performed by men not only maintained the family financially but also put additional strains on men’s nervous systems.

This description is loaded with moral implications. It clearly suggests that jobs requiring intellectual engagement, such as teaching, art, law, and public office, are the most dangerous for men’s health. The responsibilities associated with these professions extended beyond mere economic subsistence. They were understood as contributions to humanity as a whole. Thus, the medical discourse on neurasthenia reveals not only how this condition was understood as a consequence of individual struggles but also how it was used to buttress broader social values and power structures, ultimately shaping the understanding of masculinity in the given historical context.

* Supported by the EKÖP-24 University Excellence Scholarship Program of the Ministry for Culture and Innovation from the National Research, Development and Innovation Fund.

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1. 1 Cholnoky, “Betegségdivatok,” 609.

2. 2 Vogel, “Homosexualitás,” 121–22.

3. 3 Foucault, The History of Sexuality.

4. 4 Foucault, Abnormal.

5. 5 Moose, The Image of Man.

6. 6 Nye, “Honor, Impotence.”

7. 7 Moose, The Image of Man, 56–76.

8. 8 Laqueur, Making Sex.

9. 9 Szasz, “The Medicalization of Sex.”

10. 10 Laqueur, Solitary Sex.

11. 11 See Hare, “Masturbatory Insanity”; Zachar and Kendler, “Masturbatory Insanity.”

12. 12 Beard, Neurasthenia. Though term neurasthenia was not coined by Beard, he made it a popular medical concept. See Campbell, “The making of ‘American’,” 160.

13. 13 Nowadays, neurasthenia is considered in medical literature a predecessor of chronic fatigue syndrome. See Straus, “History”; Abbey and Garfinkel, Neurasthenia.

14. 14 Beard, American Nervousness, 171–73. This association between modernization and mental diseases was hardly new. Beard’s concept is closely linked to George Cheyne’s work written in the early eighteenth century. See Cheyne, The English Malady.

15. 15 Beard and Rockwell, Sexual neurasthenia.

16. 16 Schuster, Neurasthenic Nation; Campbell, “The making of ‘American’”; Dickson et al., “Introduction.”

17. 17 Milne-Smith, Out of His Mind, 221–23.

18. 18 Forth, “Neurasthenia and Manhood.”

19. 19 Ruiz, “Neurasthenia,” 98.

20. 20 Ruggiero, Modernity in the Flesh; Goering, “Russian nervousness”; Frühstück, “Male anxieties.”

21. 21 Kaufmann, “Neurasthenia”; Roelcke, “Electrified Nerves”; Schmiedebach, “The Public’s View.”

22. 22 Radkau, “The Neurasthenic Experience.”

23. 23 Hofer, Nervenschwäche.

24. 24 Moavcsik, “Könyvismertetés.”

25. 25 Kimmel, “The Contemporary ‘Crisis’ of Masculinity.”

26. 26 Moravcsik, “Könyvismertetés.”

27. 27 Magyar Lexikon, 591–92.

28. 28 Salgó, Az idegességről, 5.

29. 29 Kollarits, Jellem és idegesség, 93–96.

30. 30 This idea fits well into the contemporary cult of the genius. Kollarits founded his approach on Cesare Lombroso’s Genio e follia (Genius and insanity), which was translated into Hungarian in 1906. Kollarits, Jellem és idegesség, 12.

31. 31 Moravcsik, A neurasthenia, 15.

32. 32 Jendrassik, “A neurastheniáról, part 2,” 523.

33. 33 Beard and Rockwell, Sexual neurasthenia.

34. 34 Groenendijk, “Masturbation,” 73–74.

35. 35 Ibid., 86–87.

36. 36 Ferenczi, “A neurastheniáról,” 17.

37. 37 The concept of autotoxicity was quite popular at the time. See Budai, Kenotoxin; Biró, A neurasthenia sexualis.

38. 38 Ferenczi, “A neurastheniáról,” 18; Ferenczi, A hisztéria, 39–46.

39. 39 Ferenczi, A pszichoanalízis, 32.

40. 40 Ferenczi. “A neurastheniáról,” 18; Ferenczi, A hisztéria, 39–46.

41. 41 Ferenczi, A pszichoanalízis, 26–31.

42. 42 Kollarits, Jellem és idegesség, 143.

43. 43 Laufenauer, Előadások, 176–77.

44. 44 Szél, “Az elmebetegség II,” 600. Other sources confirm these data, see for example: Magyarország elmebetegügye az 1899 évben.

45. 45 Szél, “Az elmebetegség I,” 462.

46. 46 Szél, “Az elmebetegség II,” 607.

47. 47 Ibid., 608.

48. 48 Ibid., 604; 611.

49. 49 Hare. “Masturbatory insanity.”

50. 50 Foucault, Abnormal, 59–60, 227–57.

51. 51 Salgó, Az idegességről, 20–23.

52. 52 Preisich, “Az egészséges,” 57.

53. 53 Magyar Királyi Szabadalmi Hivatal, 16997. lajstromszámú szabadalom (1914) [Royal Hungarian Patent Office, patent no. 16997] https://library.hungaricana.hu/hu/view/SZTNH_SzabadalmiLeirasok_016997 Accessed September 2, 2025.

54. 54 The term onanism derives from the Bible, although it is based on a misinterpretation of Onan’s interrupted sexual intercourse. Bullough and Voght, “Homosexuality,” 145–46.

55. 55 Beard and Rockwell, Sexual neurasthenia.

56. 56 Weinberger, A neurasthenia sexualis.

57. 57 Ibid., 6–7.

58. 58 Ibid., 13.

59. 59 Hudovernig, A sexualis neurasthenia.

60. 60 “Vulgivaga” is a medieval neo-Latin term used to denote allegedly promiscuous women (as it refers, according to its Latin roots, to “wandering among the common people”). It was also used as a euphemistic name for prostitutes.

61. 61 Hudovernig, A sexualis neurasthenia, 4–5.

62. 62 Ibid., 7–8.

63. 63 Weinberger, “A neurasthenia gyógyítása,” 326.

64. 64 Porosz, “Az onania.”

65. 65 Porosz, “Az onania,” 150–51.

66. 66 “A psychosexualis impotentia.”

67. 67 Moravcsik, A neurasthenia, 33.

68. 68 Jendrassik, “Általános idegbajok,” 456.

69. 69 Or in other words, he was sent to gain sexual experience, presumably among prostitutes.

70. 70 Jendrassik, “A neurastheniáról, part 6,” 590.

71. 71 Freud, “Civilized Sexual Morality.”

72. 72 Vargha, “A bűn medikalizálása.”

73. 73 On the extraordinary career of Völgyesi, see Gyimesi, “Hypnotherapies.”

74. 74 Völgyesi, “A hipnózis,” 355–57.

75. 75 Laufenauer, Előadások, 174.

76. 76 Salgó, Az idegességről, 6–7.

77. 77 Lafferton, “The Hygiene,” 242–46.

78. 78 Today, it is called syphilitic paresis or GPI (general paralysis of the insane), which is a mental disease caused by syphilis.

79. 79 Many doctors argued that the symptoms of neurasthenia and paralysis are very similar, and it is difficult to distinguish between the two diseases. See, for example, Fischer, “A neurasthenia”; Jendrassik, “Általános idegbajok,” 458.

80. 80 Salgó, A szellemi élet, 144.

81. 81 Ibid., 142.

82. 82 Ibid., 143.

83. 83 Fischer, “A neurasthenia,” 3–4.

84. 84 Moravcsik, “A neurasthenia,” 17.

85. 85 Weinberger, A neurasthenia gyógyításáról, 324.

86. 86 Thewrewk, “A magyar elmebaj.”

87. 87 Hollós, Adatok a paralysis progressivához.

88. 88 Salgó, A szellemi élet, 149.

89. 89 Salgó, Az idegességről, 62–64.

90. 90 Fischer, “Elmebetegügy Magyarországon,” 3.