The morning mist still clung to the canals as I crossed the Ponte delle Guglie, making my way toward Cannaregio. Venice awakens differently than Rome—my adopted city—with a quieter reverence, as if the stones themselves remember centuries of whispered prayers and muffled conversations. I had come to the Ghetto Nuovo, that small island of memory where humanity first institutionalized separation, where in 1516 the Venetian Republic decreed that all Jews must live within designated boundaries, locked in at night, their movements controlled by day.

As a sociologist of religion who has spent years studying the intersections of faith, culture, and social structure, I recognized in these narrow streets something profound about human nature: our capacity to create both physical and metaphysical boundaries. The Venetian ghetto—from which we derive our modern word—was revolutionary in its systematic approach to segregation. Here was born the first formalized model of urban exclusion that would spread across Europe like a viral architectural concept, appearing in Rome, Prague, Frankfurt, and countless other cities where Jewish communities would be confined until the mid-19th century.

Yet what struck me most forcefully was not the historical weight of these stones, but their contemporary lightness. The gates are gone. The walls have crumbled or been absorbed into the city's organic growth. Jewish residents are free to live anywhere in Venice—or anywhere in the world. The ghetto as a physical institution has been relegated to history books and tourist brochures.

But have we truly dismantled the ghetto? Or have we simply learned to build more sophisticated versions, invisible to the eye but no less real in their effects?

The architecture of mental separation

Walking through the narrow calli that connect the Ghetto Nuovo to the Ghetto Vecchio, I was confronted by a troubling realization: while we have torn down the physical walls that once confined Jewish communities, we have perhaps become more adept at constructing mental ghettos—invisible barriers that separate communities just as effectively as any medieval decree.

These new ghettos are not built of brick and mortar but of prejudice and assumption, of media narratives and social algorithms that create echo chambers more insidious than any walled enclave. In our contemporary cities—whether Rome, Paris, London, or New York—we witness the emergence of what I call "glass wall communities": groups that can see each other, that exist in proximity yet rarely engage in meaningful dialogue.

Consider how we live today. Immigrants cluster in certain neighborhoods not by legal mandate but by economic necessity and social comfort. Religious minorities often self-segregate, creating informal ghettos of familiarity. Even our digital lives reflect this pattern—we follow, befriend, and engage with those who confirm our existing beliefs, creating virtual ghettos of the mind that can be more restrictive than any physical boundary.

The challenge is more complex than the original Venetian model because these modern ghettos wear the mask of choice. We tell ourselves that segregation is voluntary, that birds of a feather naturally flock together. But this narrative obscures the structural forces—economic inequality, educational disparities, cultural xenophobia—that make such "choices" inevitable for many.

Lessons from European ghettos

The history of Jewish ghettos across Europe offers sobering insights into how physical separation becomes internalized. In Rome's ghetto, established in 1555, generations lived within papal-imposed boundaries that created not just physical isolation but psychological adaptation to marginalization. The Frankfurt Judengasse, the Prague Josefov—each represented a different experiment in controlled coexistence, where dominant societies sought to benefit from Jewish commercial skills while maintaining social and religious distance.

What fascinates me as a scholar is how these communities developed remarkable resilience and internal solidarity precisely because of their forced separation. Synagogues, schools, mutual aid societies, and cultural institutions flourished within confined spaces, creating rich micro-societies that preserved and innovated Jewish life even under oppressive conditions.

But this historical pattern raises uncomfortable questions about our contemporary moment. Are we creating conditions where different communities develop in parallel rather than in dialogue? When Muslims, Christians, Jews, and secular populations live in separate social spheres—attending different schools, consuming different media, socializing within homogeneous networks—do we risk reproducing the isolation that physical ghettos once imposed?

Venice as a model of possibility

Yet standing again in the campo of the former ghetto, observing the steady stream of visitors—Jewish and non-Jewish, local and international—I was reminded of Venice's unique capacity for transformation. The city that invented the ghetto has also, perhaps, pointed toward its transcendence.

Today, the Ghetto Nuovo and Ghetto Vecchio host five active synagogues representing different Jewish traditions—Ashkenazi, Sephardic, Italian, Levantine, and German. The Museo Ebraico tells the story not just of Jewish Venice but of the complex relationships between communities across centuries. Kosher restaurants and bakeries serve both observant Jews and curious visitors. The workshops of contemporary Jewish artists open their doors to dialogue about identity, memory, and creativity.

This transformation speaks to something essential about Venice itself—a city that has always been, by geographical and commercial necessity, a place of encounter. Built on trade routes between East and West, between Christian Europe and the Islamic world, Venice learned early that diversity could be economically profitable even when socially challenging.

Toward dialogue and understanding

As an activist for interfaith dialogue, I see in Venice's former ghetto a powerful metaphor for our contemporary challenge. The physical walls are gone, but the work of building bridges across the mental barriers that divide us has only just begun. The experience of integration—or experience of community building in a diverse society—requires more than the absence of legal segregation; it demands the presence of intentional encounter.

What would our cities look like if we designed them for dialogue rather than division? If our schools, our neighborhoods, our public spaces were conceived as laboratories for cross-cultural understanding rather than comfort zones for homogeneous groups?

The Venice ghetto suggests that such transformation is possible. A place born from exclusion can become a space of inclusion. Walls built to separate can be transformed into bridges that connect. But this requires conscious effort—the kind of patient, persistent work that turns strangers into neighbors, neighbors into friends, and friends into collaborators in building more just and inclusive communities.

Conclusion: The ongoing journey

As I prepared to leave the ghetto that morning, crossing back over the bridge toward the broader city, I carried with me a sense of both hope and urgency. Venice, this impossible city built on water and sustained by centuries of calculated risk-taking, reminds us that human communities are not fixed entities but ongoing projects, constantly under construction.

The ghetto walls may have fallen, but the work they represented—the work of learning to live together across differences—continues in every generation. Whether in Rome, where I make my home among the seven hills and countless communities, or in Venice, where water and stone create spaces for both separation and connection, we face the same fundamental choice: Will we build walls or bridges? Will we create ghettos of the mind or communities of the heart?

The answer lies not in grand gestures but in daily acts of encounter—in the decision to cross the bridge, to enter an unfamiliar neighborhood, to listen to a story different from our own. In these small acts of courage, we honor both the memory of those who were confined by walls and the possibility of those who will be freed by our choices.

Venice teaches us that even the most entrenched systems of separation can be transformed. The question is whether we have the wisdom and will to continue that transformation in our own time and place.