Beyond Leopold II’s Empty Pedestal

Speech for a Melting Statue (2023) by Collectif Faire-part opens with the words of Marie Paule Mugeni: “I want to move to the rhythm of time, guided by the rustling of the leaves that herald the fruits of liberation.” The poet wrote this prophetic speech in anticipation of the day when the equestrian statue of Belgian King Leopold II will be removed from Place du Trône in Brussels.

A large part of the film consists of historical video footage of Kinshasa, combined with Mugeni’s poetic voice-over. We see colonial statues, including that of Leopold II, being pulled from their pedestals and loaded onto a truck to be transported to a museum. That museum was built in the 1970s on a hill near the great Congo River. The archival footage immediately creates a contrast between two cities: what became history in Kinshasa still stands in Brussels.

In Belgium, little attention is paid to how the Congo dealt with colonial monuments. In 1965, Joseph-Désiré Mobutu came to power. His regime launched a cultural revolution under the banner of “recours à l’authenticité.” The population was encouraged—and sometimes even forced—to return to an “authentic” African identity. In that context, colonial monuments disappeared from the streetscape.

In 2005, the then Congolese Minister of Culture attempted to reinstate the statue of Leopold II in a public space. Protests erupted immediately. Within twenty-four hours, the statue was removed and transferred to the museum. More than twenty years ago, the residents of Kinshasa—the Kinois—made it clear that they would no longer tolerate this symbol of colonialism in their city. Their efforts paid off.

The film’s title was inspired by PeoPL, a work of art by Laura Nsengiyumva, a Belgian architect and multidisciplinary artist of Rwandan descent. Her work consisted of a replica of the statue at Troonplein, but made of melting ice. In 2018, on the eve of its reopening, the AfricaMuseum deemed the project too radical. PeoPL was ultimately exhibited during the Nuit Blanche art festival. Before the eyes of the audience in attendance—“the people”—the ice king and horse slowly melted away. The film symbolises this popular resistance by depicting an empty pedestal.

Despite repeated criticism and protests, the statue of Leopold II still stands in Brussels in 2026. Brussels is dragging its feet and is unsure what to do with the monument, which ultimately means nothing is happening. When cities do take action, it is often limited to an explanatory plaque or an artistic intervention. The decision by the city of Ghent to actually remove a statue of Leopold II therefore remains quite exceptional. The statue in Brussels is apparently considered too prominent and too important to be removed—a move that some label as radical and that instills fear. As a result, it will continue to be a frequent target of protest in the future.

Unlike Brussels politics, the film refuses to drag its feet. On the soundtrack, Mugeni makes a compelling case for removing the image of Leopold II: preserving the statue also means preserving the violence that symbolically goes with it. At the same time, her poetry pays homage to the empty pedestal we see at the end of the film. After all, removing a monument does not have to erase history. On the contrary: the emptiness can make room for other figures and stories. Why don’t we use the pedestal to honour Paul Panda Farnana, Andrée Blouin, or Thomas Kanza?

Halfway through the film, footage from Kinshasa is interspersed with shots of Brussels, June 2020. Some 10,000 people took to the streets for a Black Lives Matter demonstration. One of the most powerful images from that mass gathering is a group of Black youths standing on the statue of Leopold II and holding up the Congolese flag. The film adds to the scene with an excerpt from a speech that conveys both the collective demand for justice and a sense of hope. That hope is embodied in the dream of a new generation: restoration, a fairer distribution of power, and greater equality of opportunity. “The road is long, but the wind is blowing in the right direction,” concludes poet Mugeni. Belgium, on the other hand, seems trapped in an endless dilemma between supporters and opponents.

Nevertheless, small steps are taken toward the decolonisation of public space. A working group has formulated several concrete recommendations, such as removing colonial monuments to museums—or even to a sort of “cemetery” for colonial heritage. Today, diaspora organisations such as Femiya, the Collectif Mémoire Coloniale, and Bakushinta also organise decolonial walking tours through Brussels. The Place du Trône is a regular stop on these tours to discuss Belgian colonisation. But if the statue and its pedestal are moved to a museum, how accessible will knowledge about that history remain?

In addition to school groups, museums primarily attract white, highly educated visitors from the middle class. That is why simply moving a monument from a public space to a museum is not enough. If a society chooses to do so, that decision should ideally be accompanied by improved access to museums and better education about colonial history and its ongoing impact today.

Speech for a Melting Statue examines a social issue that has long been a concern in Belgium—in part due to activist campaigns—but only truly made its way onto the political agenda around the time of the Black Lives Matter movement: how should we best deal with colonial monuments in public spaces? The film’s strength lies in the fact that it is not limited to Belgium, but also shows how the Congo has addressed this issue.

Congo was ahead of Belgium in removing Leopold II from public spaces, but the so-called “civilising mission” remains prominently present in the education system, and this continues to fuel colonial thinking. Removing monuments may be a step in the right direction, but true decolonisation only begins when a society dares to transform its knowledge, narratives, and power dynamics.