The campaign against loanwords was not merely an argument about style. It connected vocabulary with national identity, obedience and the regime’s ambition to regulate public life.
Why would a dictatorship concern itself with words such as film, sport or chauffeur? Because the Fascist project treated language as evidence of belonging. A vocabulary shaped by contact with other cultures appeared incompatible with the image of a self-sufficient and disciplined nation.
A debate older than the regime
Italian concern about foreign influence did not begin in 1922. For example, writers and lexicographers had long debated the merits of French expressions, regional forms and new international terminology. Fascism inherited those arguments and transformed them: preference became prescription, and linguistic taste became political policy.
The regime’s intervention extended far beyond loanwords. It promoted standard Italian at the expense of dialects and imposed Italianisation on linguistic minorities, particularly in areas such as South Tyrol and Venezia Giulia. The attack on foreign vocabulary belonged to this wider effort to present linguistic uniformity as national unity.
Why French and English attracted attention
French had supplied Italian with vocabulary associated with fashion, food, diplomacy and elite culture. English was increasingly visible in sport, entertainment, commerce and technology. This made both languages convenient political targets: their words were audible reminders that modern Italian culture was connected to influences beyond the nation’s borders.
Yet, as mentioned in the previous article, the Futurists had already had a go at it. Did you guess what the words meant without Googling? Quisibeve means “bar”, traidue means “sandwich”, and the terrific peralzarsi is simply “dessert”. The idea that dessert is something to eat just before getting up and leaving is just… futuristic!
Yet the regime’s campaign was never completely coherent. Some international words were already too familiar or too useful to remove easily. Even dictionaries produced during the period could acknowledge established forms.
And when replacing a word proved difficult, there was another option (brilliant idea!): adapt its spelling and pronunciation so that it no longer looked or sounded quite so foreign: àlcole for “alcohol”, silo/sili for “sylos”, etc. These illustrate the process of adaptation, rather than inventions of the regime.
Other words survived because they were already firmly established in everyday use. Examples include sport, camion, bar and ouverture (for which musicians did not accept the proposed overtura).
The contrast is instructive. A word may be grammatically possible and politically promoted yet still fail to become normal speech. If it feels awkward, obscures a familiar distinction or lacks support within a community, official approval offers little protection. Meanwhile, the foreign word may remain because speakers already understand it and find it efficient.
A lesson for language learners
For learners of Italian, this history offers a useful corrective to the idea of a language as a closed and timeless system. Vocabulary carries traces of the people, institutions and conflicts that shaped it. Learning where a word came from, and why it was accepted or resisted, makes its meaning easier to understand and remember.
I also like telling my students stories about the origins and uses of words, especially when they have acquired particular or peculiar meanings that are absent from the original language.
Back to the linguistic problem, which remained a major concern for the Fascist hierarchy. The commissions carried on working, trying to find other passable replacements. In the next article, we will look at some more words, together with Gabriele D’Annunzio’s brilliant inventions and his fantastic altercation with the founder of Futurism, Filippo Tommaso Marinetti.