Below is an excerpt of David E. Reed's newsletter to the Institute of Current World Affairs in New York, written in 1955. The full text can be found here: The Italians Leave Africa (icwa.org)

What's shown below is only the first four pages from a total of 12 pages. I'm not sure if the photos will show up in the post, but in case they do, note that all photos and captions are from the original and not my own.

I hope you all enjoy it. :)

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It was five o'clock on a Sunday afternoon in Mogadishu, capital of what used to be Italian Somaliland and now is the United Nations trust territory of Somalia. The sidewalk cafe of the Albergo Croce del Sud or Southern Cross Hotel was crowded with people out for a breath of fresh air. It had been hot all afternoon and all windows in town had been shuttered against the equatorial sun. But now the sun had started to dip down behind the continent of Africa and it was cool at last. The monsoon was blowing steady and strong from off the Indian Ocean. The palm trees along Corso Regina Elena, which runs in front of the hotel, swayed back and forth in the wind. The table cloths in the cafe were tucked in under the table tops to keep them from whipping off down the street.

The Croce, in the early afternoon, before the tables are put on the sidewalk.

"This place is finished for us," said Giuseppe. He was a short, husky young Italian, a blond Tuscan, end he had been in Somalia three years with Desert Locust Control. 'In five years we will leave and we will turn the place over to these,“ he said with a sneer. He was referring to a group of dark-skinned young Somali men in western dress at the next table. In fascist times they would not have been allowed into the Croce or any other Italian-patronized place. But it is a different Somalia these days. The Italians maintain some private clubs but all hotels, restaurants, and bars are optn to everyone. "Where will i go after they get independence?" said Giuseppe. "Who knows? There are no Jobs in Italy and it is difficult to get to America."

The Somalis, teetotaling Muslims to a man, were drinking tiny cups of bitter, black coffee. They talked in tense whispers. Somalis are famous for hatching intrigues and, with independence coming in 1960, there is much scheming and politicking to be done.

"Come on, let's go," Giuseppe said. The presence of the Somalis irritated him. We walked down the Corso, past a rambling white Palazzo with Moorish arches at the windows. In the days when Somalia was an Italian colony, the palazzo functioned as headquarters for the Governor. The late Marshal Rodolfo Grazlani made plans there for the invasion of neighboring Ethiopia in 1935. That was the heyday of Italian colonial power and Mussolini boasted of an African Empire that also included Libya and Eritrea. Somalia fell to the British in 1941. It was practically a bloodless effort. The black soldiers of the Nigerian Brigade entered Mogadishu, an open city, to find posters declaimlng: "Victory is meant for the Italian people.‘ The British remained as military governors until 1950, when Somalia became a United Nations trust territory under a ten year Italian administration. Libya has become independent, the Ethiopian Emperor has been restored and Eritrea has become part of his domain. The Italian flag flies only in Somalia these days and it will come down forever when the Italian Trust Administrator vacates the palazzo in five years.

The Corso

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The Cathedral of Mogadishu

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Arab ruins

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Fascist relic

Giuseppe and I walked through an old section of the city. It looked like the bomb ruins of a city in Europe, but no bombs had fallen there. The limestone buildings, put up one or more centuries ago by Arab invaders, were crumbling into duet. It has been many Ramadans since an Arab ruler held away in Mogadishu. Today the Arabs are a small and forgotten community. The ruined houses are still in use and young Somali women were sitting on the doorstepe. "Scharmutte," Giuseppe said. The word comes from Arabic slang and means prostitute.

We came to a monument in the center of a square. The monsoon was whipping up piles of sand around the base of it. Giuseppe straightened his shoulders and read the inscription:

"In the sixteenth year of victory

Thirteenth of the fascist era

Italian Somalia welcomed with profound joy and pride

His Majesty Vittorio Emanuele III

Living symbol of the history and of the glory of Italy

And before him the pioneers, the farmers, the soldiers..."

Here the inscription trailed off into broken and missing letters. No one had ever bothered to replace them. Soon the inscription may become illegible. "We're all fascists here," Giuseppe said. "Mussolini was the greatest men who ever lived. In his time Italy was a great country".

Giuseppe had emigrated to Somalia because he had not been able to find work in Italy. The Italians originally had high hopes that Somalia would provide an outlet for Italy's surplus millions. But Somalia ie a barren place, with practically no discovered resources, and only a small amount of agriculture is possible. It served as a springboard for the invasion of the fertile Ethiopian highlands, but that was about all. In 1931 there were less than two thousand Italians in the territory; there are less than five thousand today. American geologists are exploring for oil, but if it is found the self-governing state of Somalia will benefit, not l'Italia. Somalia was a colonial failure but Italians like Giuseppe like to look back with nostalgia to the days of imperial greatness and of Mussolini, another symbol of "the glory of Italy."

We walked along a road next to a bathing beach. The monsoon was so strong that it made my cigaret burn unevenly. The road ended at the Lido, a sea-side night club. Beyond that stretched the vast desert and bushland that makes up most of Somalia. It was six o‘clock and inside the Lido, Italian soldiers and civilians were dancing with Somali girls and drinking beer. Somali women are brown skinned and have pretty faces and flashing dark eves. They are shapely and they are a regular topic of male conversations all over eastern Africa. Their standing is enhanced by the fact that attention paid a Somali belle rarely goes ignored.

An elderly Italian was playing sentimental tunes on an accordion. Then the juke box took over with American numbers, among them "Shot Gun Boogie." We ordered beer and Giuseppe drummed his fingers on the dirty table cloth in time to the music. "What do you call it, boo-ghee boo-ghee?" he said. "I would like to go to America. Is it true that everyone in America has an automobile?".

The soldiers on the dance floor carried pistols in hip holsters. The soldiers were all diminutive. The Somalis are tall people, ranging to around six feet, and some of the girls towered over the ex-master race. A drunken Italian civilian tried to cut in on one couple and the Somali girl pushed him aside roughly. He lurched past our table, spotted Giuseppe and gave the fascist salute, "Heil Hitler", he shouted. "Viva il Duce,” Giuseppe replied with a wry smile.