In 1928, a German architect proposed draining the Mediterranean Sea to create a Eurafrican supercontinent Atlantropa. Here’s why

Once upon a time a serious engineer looking at the map of Europe and Africa thought: what if the sea between them was just not there anymore? That was no science fiction.” It was a genuine engineering proposal, Atlantropa, drafted by a Munich architect called Herman Sörgel, and for nearly three decades it had governments, scientists and the public across Europe genuinely debating whether it could, and should, be built.

The Man Behind the 1928 Atlantropa Supercontinent Plan

Herman Sörgel was born in Regensburg, Bavaria, in 1885 and trained as an architect in Munich. He lived through the devastation of the First World War, watched Europe stagger through economic collapse and mass unemployment in the 1920s, and saw fascism gaining ground in his own country. Like many of his generation, he became convinced that Europe’s problems — poverty, joblessness, and the constant threat of another war — could only be solved by something radical.

Around 1927, after reading a geographer’s description of the Mediterranean as an “evaporation sea,” Sörgel had his big idea. Because the Mediterranean loses far more water to evaporation than it receives from rivers, its level is effectively propped up by a constant inflow from the Atlantic through the Strait of Gibraltar. Block that inflow, Sörgel reasoned, and the sea would start draining itself.
By the spring of 1928, he had turned this insight into a full-blown continental blueprint, which he first called Panropa before renaming it Atlantropa.

What Atlantropa Actually Proposed

The centrepiece of the plan was a massive dam across the Strait of Gibraltar, in some versions more than 20 kilometres long, that would cut the Mediterranean off from the Atlantic Ocean. Sörgel calculated that once sealed off, evaporation alone would lower the sea’s level by roughly a metre a year, eventually dropping it by 100 to 200 metres.

He didn’t stop at one dam. His plan included a second barrier between Sicily and Tunisia, splitting the Mediterranean into two separately controlled basins, and a third across the Dardanelles to hold back the Black Sea. Locks would be needed at the Suez Canal to cope with the enormous drop in water level.
The payoff, in Sörgel’s telling, would be staggering. Newly exposed seabed running into the hundreds of thousands of square kilometres would become farmland and living space. Italy would grow larger, Sicily would fuse with the mainland, and the Greek islands would merge into it too. The Gibraltar dam alone was projected to generate tens of thousands of megawatts of hydroelectric power — enough, by some estimates, to supply roughly half of Europe’s electricity needs at the time. A unified authority overseeing this shared energy grid, Sörgel argued, would bind European nations together so tightly that war between them would become economically unthinkable.His ultimate vision was even bigger than the dams themselves: a new merged landmass of Europe and Africa — “Atlantropa” — bound by shared infrastructure, shared energy, and, in his utopian framing, shared peace.

A “Crazy Idea” Taken Seriously

What makes Atlantropa remarkable isn’t just its scale, it’s that nobody laughed it off. Sörgel spent the rest of his life, until his death in 1952, promoting the project relentlessly through books, models, exhibitions and lectures. He founded an Atlantropa Institute to keep the idea alive. The project drew genuine interest from architects, engineers, and political figures through the late 1920s and early 1930s, and again after the Second World War, when it was even discussed in international forums looking for ways to rebuild a shattered Europe.

It never got built, for reasons that are fairly obvious in hindsight. The engineering demands were far beyond what the technology of the era could deliver. The plan required unprecedented cooperation between rival Mediterranean and African nations who were never consulted about having their coastlines redrawn or their cities left stranded miles from a retreating sea. Nazi Germany showed little interest in a project built on international cooperation rather than territorial conquest. And by the 1950s, the world’s appetite for “limitless energy” had shifted decisively toward nuclear power, making Sörgel’s hydroelectric dream feel outdated even to his supporters.

Sörgel himself never saw the project abandoned. On 25 December 1952, he was cycling to a lecture in Munich when he was struck and killed by a car whose driver was never identified. He was 67. Atlantropa largely faded from public memory soon after.

Why It’s Being Talked About Again

There are a couple of reasons Atlantropa keeps coming up in modern conversation. Increasingly, historians see it as an early, though deeply flawed, blueprint for European unification, a continent scarred by war imagining itself bound by shared infrastructure decades before the concept became the European Union.

As for the environment , we now know that it would have been a disaster . Draining part of the Mediterranean would have caused a rise in sea levels elsewhere on the planet , disruption of ocean currents linked to the Gulf Stream , and destruction of coastal ecosystems . And the very audacity of the idea, one architect attempting to redraw two continents with a single dam, continues to attract people rediscovering it online, in documentaries, and even in the alternate-history novel and TV series The Man in the High Castle, which depicts a version of the plan.

A century on, the Mediterranean is exactly where it has always been. But Atlantropa survives as one of history’s most extraordinary “what ifs” — a reminder of how far one person’s obsession can travel when it promises to solve the biggest problems of its time.