The Statue of Peace in Assisi: How St. Francis Shaped Italy’s Vision of Nonviolence

At the edge of the Piazza Superiore in Assisi, a bronze horseman sits slumped on his mount. His armor hangs heavily. His back bent under its weight. His head lowered toward the grass.

Behind him rises the immense façade of the Upper Basilica of San Francesco. In front of him the ground falls away into the Umbrian Valley, a landscape of olive terraces and winding paths that eventually descend into the quiet woodland known as the Bosco di San Francesco.

This figure is Il ritorno di Francesco (“The Return of Francis”). It is commonly regarded as Assisi’s Statue of Peace, and it stands exactly where it should. It catches visitors in the moment between history and myth, inviting them to confront a reality that is often forgotten beneath layers of soft iconography, amidst the near-overwhelming abundance of splendid architecture and art.

Before St Francis of Assisi became Italy’s enduring symbol of peace, he was a young knight who returned from war broken in body and spirit.

An ancient story, a modern relevance

Assisi did not become a “city of peace” by accident. Long before pilgrims arrived, the hilltop had been a fortified Umbrian settlement. It later became a Roman municipality, complete with temple, forum and amphitheater. In the Middle Ages Assisi was one of many Italian communes caught in cycles of territorial rivalry, shifting alliances and wars with its neighbors. This landscape of conflict formed the world into which Giovanni di Pietro di Bernardone, later called St. Francis, was born around 1181.

That violent backdrop matters. It shaped the early life of the man whose statue now stands in solemn silence outside the basilica. It also shapes the way Assisi came to adopt peace as part of its civic identity, making the Statue of Peace not mere decoration, but a statement rooted in the town’s past.

Francis: the soldier who did not return a hero

To appreciate the statue fully, the viewer needs to understand Francis before his conversion into sainthood. He grew up the son of a wealthy cloth merchant who clothed him in fine garments and sent him into Assisi’s lively mercantile culture. Francis absorbed the ideals of chivalry, troubadour romance and the pursuit of knightly honor. When Assisi marched against Perugia in 1202, he joined the militia, eager to prove himself in battle.

The campaign ended in disaster. Assisi’s forces were routed. Many were killed. Others, including Francis, were taken prisoner and held in Perugia’s harsh conditions for roughly a year. Early Franciscan writings describe his return home with words that feel echoed in the posture of the statue. One source notes that “after his return from captivity, he became another man”, hinting at a deep internal shift that began in illness and humiliation rather than triumph.

A second turning point came a few years later. Francis set out again with hopes of achieving glory. According to the Legend of the Three Companions, a voice interrupted his dreams. He asked, “Lord, what do you want me to do” and was told to return home, where he would learn the meaning of a different kind of knighthood. This moment marks the beginning of his gradual movement away from violence toward a life devoted to reconciliation, solidarity with the poor and compassion for all creation.

Understanding this context prepares the reader to grasp why Italy’s Statue of Peace in Assisi is not a gentle figure with birds or flowers. It is a horseman returning from battle who embodies the moment after illusion, before truth.

The broken rider: a quiet lesson in bronze

The sculptor, Norberto Proietti, installed the statue in 2005. Although known for naïf painting and small-scale devotional figures carved from wood, he often explored themes of peace, simplicity and the natural beauty of Umbria. In Il ritorno di Francesco he created one of his most affecting, ambitious works.

The surface of the bronze is slightly rough, which softens reflections and gives the figure a muted presence. The horse and rider appear almost fused into a single downward movement. Armor conveys weight instead of glory. The horse’s neck curves inward. The reins fall slack. This slump is replicated in the posture of the rider, as if gravity itself is analogous with the remorseful sadness of a troubled spirit. Nothing in the composition suggests bellicose intent, victory or strength. It instead resonates with self-recognition, contemplation and humility.

For viewers familiar with traditional equestrian monuments, the contrast is striking. Classical and Renaissance equestrian statues, with which this statue dialogues, typically celebrate dominance and triumph. The general or condottiere sits upright, surveying the city he commands. In Proietti’s work, the rider has lost that posture. The statue draws the visitor into a moment when a young man sees, perhaps for the first time, the cost of the ideals he had been taught to pursue.

Proietti himself spoke of Francis returning “broken and disappointed”, with his dream of being a knight shattered. That sense of disillusionment is carved into the silhouette. It marks the point where peace becomes possible. Peace begins when the glamour of conflict collapses, revealing violence for what it is.

Desiderius Erasmus, a renowned scholar and philosopher of the Renaissance, once profoundly stated, “War is sweet to those who have not experienced it.” Our Francis atop his horse came back from his tribulations with this same notion.

The landscape answers the statue

Assisi reinforces this message through its spatial design. Directly beneath the piazza lies the Bosco di San Francesco, a restored woodland and valley path overseen by the Fondo Ambiente Italiano. The wood contains subtle sculptures linked to the themes of respect, human dignity and care for creation. As the visitor descends from the basilica into the valley, the setting encourages stillness and reflection. The valley is frequently described as a “landscape of peace”, and its design echoes Francis’s own movement from violent ambition to contemplative service.

The presence of the Statue of Peace at the threshold between the monumental basilica and the quiet valley is deliberate. It marks the transition from the public world of religious memory to the inner world of personal transformation.

Assisi’s global role as a city of peace

The statue also draws strength from the role Assisi plays in modern Italy and the world. In 1986 Pope John Paul II invited leaders of different religions to the town for the first World Day of Prayer for Peace. The gathering established Assisi as a place where people of many traditions could stand side by side without blurring their differences. The event was repeated in 2002, 2011 and 2021, making the town synonymous with interreligious peace culture.

These gatherings helped transform the Franciscan message into a global language. The bowed rider at the piazza stands in front of a basilica that has hosted heads of state, religious figures, peace activists and thousands of ordinary pilgrims.

The statue embodies the idea that peace is possible precisely because people can change, recognizing that violence must be avoided if at all possible, and coming into dialogue with the other, using words over weapons.

Scripture and the meaning of peace

Scripture lends further depth to the statue’s placement and message. The Gospel of Matthew says: “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God” (Matthew 5:9). The Book of Psalms teaches: “Seek peace, and pursue it” (Psalm 34:14). These phrases do not describe peace as a mood. They describe peace as a path, something to be chosen with intention, to aspire to.

Although many readers associate Francis with a popular prayer that begins “Make me an instrument of your peace”, the text is modern. It does not appear in medieval sources, yet it is widely linked to the Franciscan spirit. Its presence in 20th-century culture echoes the very shift the statue captures: a recognition that peace requires a transformed imagination.

Italy’s contemporary embrace of Francis’s message

In 2025 Italy reinstated the Feast of St Francis on 4 October as a national holiday dedicated to peace, environmental stewardship and social unity, starting 2026. The decision shows how deeply Francis remains woven into the country’s understanding of its moral identity, recognising his role as the country’s patron saint and his values of peace, fraternity, and care for creation. His legacy speaks across political divisions, presenting peace as a responsibility rather than an aspiration.

In this context, the Statue of Peace in Assisi becomes more than a historical reflection. It rises to a national metaphor.

Why the Statue of Peace matters

The bronze rider suggests viewers a truth that societies often ignore few generations after wars, every generation carries the temptation to romanticize conflict. The mounted figure shows the moment when that romance breaks, as one meets reality in full. It recalls the shock of failure, the weight of regret, the recognition of harm. These experiences might seem negative, yet they form the foundation of wisdom.

Assisi, with its basilica, its woodland valley and its peace gatherings, gives this moment a setting that feels both ancient and immediate. The statue looks small against the basilica and the open landscape. That scale is important. It conveys humility. It encourages visitors to see themselves in the tired rider who has begun to understand the real meaning of honor.

The Statue of Peace stands as an admonishment to recognize the true face of violence, and that peace is the noble path. It begins when someone decides that another way is possible. In the town where Francis discovered that truth, the bowed figure on horseback continues to speak quietly, but clearly, to anyone willing to stop and pay attention.