The 20th century in schools: a minefield

It can sometimes happen that a teacher, particularly as the new school year approaches, finds themselves bombarded with questions. They may wonder whether they have done a good job so far, whether they have made any mistakes, whether they will soon be able to do better, or whether they should try their hand at something different. If, moreover, they have just said goodbye to a final-year class at a sixth-form college, these questions take on an inescapable urgency. One subject that poses very particular problems—and indeed should pose them—is history, contemporary history in particular, the very subject taught in the final year as a sort of preparation for the school-leavers. What, in fact, is the point of teaching history?

I’m not talking about ancient history. When it comes to the Greeks and Romans, at least in theory, we all agree that they represent the cradle of our civilisation. The same applies to Greek and Latin, and to literature, philosophy and art, and to the entire traditional structure of our secondary schools. It’s a subject of study that’s useful precisely because it’s not useful. The Middle Ages might still be let off the hook, but what about the modern era and, above all, the contemporary world?

Of course, it would make no sense whatsoever to question the purpose of studying modern mathematics and science, modern languages, law or economics. Still less to question their systematic, largely non-historical presentation. The events of the past, on the other hand, retraced in chronological order – why should they be of interest to schools? There must surely be an extensive specialist bibliography on the subject, but as it forms no part of teachers’ syllabuses or school curricula, we shall disregard it. There will probably be much more talk of roots and identity, of temporal perspective and historical significance, and of the necessary groundwork required to project oneself into the future. Of the indispensable continuity whereby the pupil should memorise an unbroken chronological sequence of trivial facts—dates above all—capable of linking them retrospectively and with confidence at least as far back as the ancient Sumerians. Then, having synchronised with the current historical process, having just come of age and graduated from school, they will finally be able to plunge into the flow of time and float through it with awareness. It is a pity that it is precisely this final alignment that is lacking.

And yet a gradual narrowing of focus is envisaged. The first year of the three-year course spans no fewer than seven centuries, from the 11th to the 17th; the second is limited to the following two hundred years; the third and final year is devoted to the 20th century and the new millennium. One might expect contemporary history to have a special status, to be studied at least in greater detail than earlier periods. And yet we always end up back at square one. I recall that as a student, at the end of secondary school, I could not fathom that we had barely managed to cover the Second World War. The last forty years were missing – the very ones that seemed most urgent to learn about. Now that another forty years have passed, I have to conclude that we are still stuck there. A classicist would say that the contemporary era is like the torment of Tantalus or like Achilles chasing Zeno’s tortoise.

Even today, pupils seem, understandably, more interested in current affairs than in events of the distant past. Those who pay attention to them note that, whilst at school, certain topics are only accessed via the media, social media, Wikipedia and podcasts, or through conversations at home and with friends. In truth, school textbooks make it a point of honour to keep up to date in real time. They cover everything, and do so with ostensible neutrality. Following ministerial guidelines, they focus on European political events, and occasionally venture into other continents (even the United States is treated as a side issue) or into social and economic spheres. Sometimes they include reproductions of documents or a few pages of historical analysis. They all tend to fall into the same innocent blunders, with some consequences for the historical record – from Kievan Rus’ being passed off as the birth of Mother Russia (a fate already written for those peoples) to Israel being misrepresented as compensation for the Holocaust at the expense of the mythical Palestinian people (an indelible original sin). These days they avoid overt partisanship, unlike those textbooks which, at the turn of the millennium, warned students that with Berlusconi’s ‘entry into politics’, fascist dictatorship was returning to our country. Superfluous controversies ensued. These were, however, merely the final pages; there was no real danger that anyone would actually go so far as to present that content in the classroom, barring a few pathological cases.

In schools, there are real problems with time and organisation, but delays are also deliberate choices. On the one hand, it is thoughtfully argued that the historical distance essential for treating the facts with objective rigour is lacking. There is said to be a lack of time for events to settle, for them to be viewed with a cooler head, and for the necessary distance from the very humanity one would wish to study dispassionately (the dividing line, however, despite the passing of decades, always falls around 1945). On the other hand, the closer one gets to the present day, the more awkward things become; there is a risk of accusations of bias, of exploitation, and of playing politics in the classroom. It is true that many teachers proudly repeat, using somewhat hackneyed slogans, that politics is everywhere and that one cannot do one’s job properly without engaging in politics; yet they all end up losing themselves in the ‘condemnation’ of impending wars or in denouncing fanciful, distant genocides. In short, these are merely fashionable topics, where teachers move confidently in a herd-like manner.

The early 20th century largely conforms to a widely held narrative. It consists of the usual ready-made clichés, dear to the public spirit of our country. And where texts merely allude to these, lecturers may lay into them in no uncertain terms; even students may add their own two cents. A typical example? The Great Depression of 1929. According to the textbooks, it was caused by excessive market freedom and overproduction. The remedy, as F. D. Roosevelt and J. M. Keynes would demonstrate, was state intervention, through subsidies and major public works (thus satisfying both the left and the right). However, economic growth in the US only resumed with the country’s entry into the Second World War. This also confirms the principle that there is always a decisive economic factor behind wars (sixth-formers continue to insist that religious beliefs cannot really lead to conflicts, despite having spent their third year studying nothing but religious wars). Economic explanations also apply to the causes of the two world wars, fascism and Nazism, and everything else. The blame is always laid at the door of capitalist dynamics and class relations. In-depth study sheets are devoted to totalitarianism, whilst general discussions use the term with ease. Students recognise that Nazism was totalitarian, as is generally acknowledged of Stalinism (though not communism). Opinions on fascism vary depending on the textbooks used or who knows what else.

The second half of the twentieth century, as we were saying, still seems like a complex issue that is difficult to tackle. If there is a little time left at the end of the year, we proceed cautiously, touching on major themes or specific events with some social implications. We select a few paragraphs, perhaps catering to the students’ preferences and entrusting them with the task of exploring the topics through specific research – preferably in groups – using journalistic and television resources. The fixed points of reference are always the UN, NGOs and, to some extent, Europe. How can anything of educational value emerge from this? At home, however, the guiding light is always the Constitution; for the rest, there are those who are passionate about judicial journalism. It does not take much, then, to imagine what it might mean to tackle the Bologna massacre at school – just to mention a case whose forty-sixth anniversary was recently marked. After all, we must admit that, in the Italian school system, the entire twentieth century is a minefield. A past that will not fade away. Let us now suppose, just to give an example similar to the previous one, that we wish to discuss the Sant’Anna di Stazzema massacre at school. A few days ago, the usual commemorative ceremony took place, presided over this time by a baffling orator who, incidentally, is a politician. What can one say? Should we just pretend nothing happened? Could we discuss it with the pupils? Or would it be better to leave it alone?