Bridges and Barriers: a Tale of Two Cities

Ancient olive tree in sunny field with a twisted trunk and lush green leaves, showcasing natural beauty and history.

The paradox lies in how the world sees them: one as a symbol of timeless beauty and the other as a symbol of endless conflict. In the end, both Venice and Gaza are more than just places. They are reflections of us, of our shared humanity and our shared responsibility.

While organizing stories written over time into a manuscript, I came across several related to Venice. During the past five decades, I have spent months in that most beautiful of cities, navigating its hundreds of canals and wandering its labyrinthine calle to the rhythm of Vivaldi’s four seasons. I climbed the Frari’s campanile to admire the city’s breathtaking fifth elevation and, last but not least, savoured the ever-aromatic caffè near the historic Jewish Ghetto. As I revisited these writings, a thought began to take shape in my mind, one that I now set forth below.

Venice, la cittÃ, has been an enigma for as long as it has existed, a place where reality and myth intertwine like the labyrinthine canals that weave throughout it. Even those who have never set foot in Venice have been there in their imagination. Its stories, its imagery, and its descriptions have swept through culture like an unstoppable tide, embedding themselves in the human consciousness. Henry James understood this deeply when he mused that Venice’s true impact is not limited to those who visit but extends to all who encounter it through art and literature. It is a city that, whether experienced directly or indirectly, belongs to everyone.Â

Yet, I began to wonder: does Venice truly belong to everyone? Or do we, in our collective adoration of this floating city, only hasten its demise?

It is a romantic notion that we protect the city by visiting and marvelling at its beauty. But I sometimes think that the most respectful approach to appreciating Venice might be to leave it untouched, to preserve it as the eternal enigma it has always been, floating on the other side of the globe, a place we experience only in the mind. The alternative, though, is to take it around the world, to make it float in our imaginations, and let its story live in a thousand places, never weighed down by the forces that threaten to drown it.Â

But even in its fragility, Venice commands respect. When la città was ravaged by the acqua alta, the world recoiled in collective sorrow. No exceptions were made; no divisions were drawn. The images of the submerged piazza San Marco and fractured stones stirred hearts throughout the world. Aid came swiftly, and voices were raised, not in condemnation but in compassion. The pain of la città became everyone’s pain, the destruction everyone’s plight. Tourists came, not as conquerors but as mourners, walking on water as though each was a reflection of Christ, restoring the city to itself in some quiet, unspoken way.

Serene canal with gondolas and historic buildings in Venice, Italy, reflecting on calm water.

Yet when Gaza trembles and burns, the response is starkly different. The skies above it explode in unnatural storms, its streets collapse into dust, and its people are silenced behind walls and blockades. There is no shared outpouring of sorrow. The world does not weep. Instead, those with the power to act applaud, as if watching a tragedy unfold upon a grand stage. It is Shakespearean in its cruelty; each bomb becomes a monologue, each demolished home an act in the play. And when the curtain falls, the silence is deafening, save for the hollow clapping of those who wield the bombs. There are no tourists walking the debris of death, no people to mourn, no floodwaters to rise and recede.

Golden Dome of the Rock, Jerusalem, at twilight, surrounded by trees and historic architecture in the background.

How is it that la citta’ di Venezia, floating and fragile, can inspire such universal empathy, while a Gaza, equally fragile, is met with indifference or disdain? Perhaps it is because Venice is seen as eternal, a symbol of human greatness, while Gaza is painted as transient, a place of conflict, and therefore a place deserving of its fate. But this is a lie. Just as Venice is more than its stones and waters, Gaza is more than its walls and wounds. Both are signs of humanity’s contradictions: the ability to create and destroy, to love and to hate.Â

Gaza cannot float on the waters of imagination like Venice. It is a place bound by walls, by borders of barbed wires, by a history that has left its people trapped, unable to escape to the water or to higher ground. There is no higher level in Gaza for its people to retreat to when the storm comes; they have no boats to escape on when the bombs rain down. While Venice’s water rises and falls, its citizens can move and can flee to higher ground or across the lagoon to the mainland. They can and do rebuild. Venice is a city that, despite the inevitable encroachment of time and water, can return to itself. Gaza, on the other hand, cannot.

It is as if Venice is allowed to exist as a myth, a place that can be admired from afar, while Gaza is condemned to remain a reality: a tragedy that unfolds not in the imagination but in real time. Gaza cannot be left alone in the same way that Venice can be preserved as an idea. The suffering of Gaza demands intervention, not as a spectacle for the world to view from the outside but as a living, breathing call for humanity’s involvement.

The paradox of Venice and Gaza lies in how the world sees them: one as a symbol of timeless beauty and the other as a symbol of endless conflict. But both are places that demand something from us, something beyond the superficial. Perhaps the most respectful way to preserve Venice is not to visit but to keep it as it has always been: floating in the realm of dreams, a myth untouched by the weight of reality. But for Gaza, the time for dreaming has long passed. It is time for the world to take action, to stop watching from the sidelines, and to start engaging with the tragedy as it unfolds. Gaza cannot wait for another generation to marvel at its suffering; it is a place that needs our collective action now, not applause for the pain it endures.

In the end, both Venice and Gaza are more than just places. They are reflections of us, of our shared humanity and our shared responsibility. One invites us to marvel and belong; the other demands our empathy, our action, and our commitment to change. The applause for destruction will fade, as it always does, but the silence that follows must be filled, not with indifference but with the courage to see both places for what they truly are: fragile, beautiful, and in need of our care.

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Rocco Maragna

Architect /urban designer, writer, speaker, and an explorer of possibilities, particularly interested in the topic of migration as a natural condition of being human. When he won the ‘Canadian Yearbook Award’ in 1979 with his design for a funeral home, the late jury member James A. Murray said, “Palladio is evidently alive and well with something urban and artistic to offer.” In his 20 years of practice, he was guided by the idea that architecture, with its buildings, is a symbol of the complexity of our society in its constant change. He has dedicated himself to turning architecture into an art form continually on public display, in which grace and beauty are elements for building a sense of community.

He has three children, surrounded by life-loving people, dreamers, and thinkers. With his beloved partner Nancy, he divides his residence between Canada and Italy.

This website, a stop on my journey, was inspired and brought to life by Nancy, who curated the storytelling, images, and copywriting. Thanks to her design skills, organizational acumen, and translation expertise, all wrapped in a veil of patience.

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