The Italian school is looking backwards

Education tends to reveal more than it intends. Behind every subject and syllabus, behind every reform or ministerial decree, there’s a confession: this is what we think the future looks like. Or—more poignantly—what we hope it resembles.

In Italy, that confession once had a distinctly glossy look. At the turn of the millennium, Silvio Berlusconi unveiled his shiny little mantra for education: Inglese, Internet, Impresa. English, Internet, Entrepreneurship. It sounded like a TED Talk delivered by a man in a navy blue suit who had just discovered the tech industry.

And fair enough. It had rhythm. The “Three Is” were a promise, a vision of the Italian classroom moving towards the digital age—computers, coding, American idioms, all while drafting business plans. That was the idea, anyway.

Fast forward twenty-five years, and the mood has changed. Dramatically. Somewhere between the gig economy and post-COVID world, Italy seems to have pivoted from the laptop to the lectern.

Read more: The Italians and the “Smart Working” trap

Bible studies are back—yes, officially. Latin, which never really exiled to the back shelves of libraries and the dustier corners of intellectual snobbery, is being reintroduced as optional during middle school. And then there’s the pièce de résistance: the Liceo del Made in Italy. A high school dedicated—I kid you not—to the craft and culture of Italian manufacturing excellence. Leatherwork meets nationalism. Pasta meets pedagogy.

Now, one could argue—with a straight face if they can—that these changes are simply about cultural pride. That after decades of being told to think globally, Italy is simply remembering how to think locally. But it’s hard not to notice the irony. The political right, those great champions of forward momentum and economic realism, have started to shape a curriculum that feels more like a heritage exhibit.

This is a government, after all, that claims to speak the language of modernity. Giorgia Meloni’s coalition is fond of buzzwords: sovereignty, security, innovation (depending on the crowd). And yet, in the classrooms of tomorrow, they are planting the past—not metaphorically, but lesson by lesson.

And I’m not saying Latin doesn’t have charm. Quite the opposite. There’s a strange dignity in conjugating verbs no one uses anymore. It’s the educational equivalent of pressing flowers or hand-copying a letter in ink. Utterly impractical, deeply romantic. In a world that communicates via emojis, Latin offers structure and permanence. Besides, nothing says intellectual superiority quite like quoting Cicero at a dinner party.

But what exactly does the Liceo del Made in Italy teach? Is it artisanal mechanics or artisanal myth-making? Will students learn the supply chain of Murano glass or just the patriotic narrative of it? Will there be modules on tax evasion and the black market, or are those part of the extracurriculars?

One suspects—forgive the cynicism—that it’s less about teaching and more about storytelling. A curriculum not so much designed to equip, as to enchant. Not education, but edutainment. A theatrical homage to Italy’s economic nostalgia, where the scent of leather replaces the scent of logic.

And the Bible studies? Perhaps a nation unsure of its future seeks comfort in its sacred past. Perhaps it’s a gesture toward “values”—that vague term politicians invoke when they don’t want to say “control.” Or maybe it’s just easier to teach Genesis than JavaScript.

But then again, perhaps the problem isn’t the content—it’s the context. We don’t mind a bit of Latin, a bit of Bible, a bit of branding. But the question lingers: why does a country that once dreamed of digital utopias now seek refuge in antique virtues? Is this a pedagogy of protection—wrapping children in the embroidered flag of heritage, lest they be corrupted by the vulgarities of global capitalism? Or is it simply theatre—policy dressed up in nostalgia, a syllabus made for headlines, not students?

Maybe there’s no grand design at all. Maybe it’s just inertia, bureaucracy, and a dash of cultural vanity. Maybe education, like fashion or politics, is just another way of cosplaying one’s idea of civilisation.

But still, the questions remain—unresolved and a bit sad. What does it mean to teach children for a world we no longer understand? Can you prepare them for tomorrow using only the tools of yesterday? And when the past is taught like prophecy, where exactly does the future go?

Hard to build tomorrow when you’re busy reenacting yesterday.