What if the future of governance looks less like a single flag and more like Renaissance Italy — a patchwork of mini-states, each with its own courts, currency, and army, loosely stitched together under a confederacy? Daniel sent us this one, and it's a big question. He's asking how the Italian city-state model actually worked, how close Venice came to wielding the power of a modern sovereign nation, and whether the whole confederacy concept could apply today — not the United States, which is too big to be a fair comparison, but the small, aggregated leagues we saw in Italy. And he points to a live debate: proposals for formal Haredi autonomy in Israel, where some feel ultra-Orthodox communities need their own governance because coexistence keeps breaking down. So the question is, could that model actually work?
To answer it, we need to understand what the Italian city-state model actually was. Because the phrase gets thrown around, but the mechanics are specific and weird and worth getting right.
Start with the mechanics.
So we're talking about roughly the twelfth through sixteenth centuries — independent republics like Venice, Florence, Genoa, Milan, Siena. Each had its own military, its own currency, its own legal system, its own foreign policy. They were functionally sovereign. But they were also tiny. Florence at its peak had maybe a hundred thousand people. Venice proper, about a hundred and fifty thousand. These are not countries in the modern sense. And yet they punched far above their weight because they pooled resources when it mattered. The Lombard League is the classic example — formed in eleven sixty-seven, a confederacy of northern Italian cities that banded together to resist the Holy Roman Empire. And it worked. They defeated Frederick Barbarossa at Legnano in eleven seventy-six. A bunch of city-states beat the emperor.
A bunch of merchant republics telling the Holy Roman Emperor to take a hike. There's something deeply satisfying about that.
It's remarkable. But the governance mechanisms are what make it interesting. Each city had its own internal structure. A lot of them used something called the podestà system — they'd hire a foreign administrator, someone from outside the city, to serve as chief magistrate for a fixed term. The idea was to avoid factionalism. If you're from Siena, you don't want a Sienese noble running things, because he's got cousins and feuds and interests. You bring in a Venetian or a Bolognese who has no local ties, pay him well, and send him home when his term ends.
The original outside consultant.
And it worked surprisingly well — for a while. Then you had the signoria model, where a single family or strongman took de facto control, often starting as a podestà who just never left. The Medici in Florence are the most famous example. But Venice is the real outlier, and it's the one Daniel's question zeroes in on.
No city-state embodied the potential — and the limits — of this model better than Venice. So let's go there.
Venice was extraordinary. At its peak, roughly thirteen hundred to fifteen hundred, it controlled a maritime empire stretching from the Adriatic to the Eastern Mediterranean — Crete, Cyprus, large chunks of the Peloponnese, islands all through the Aegean. It governed over a million subjects. It had its own navy that rivaled the Ottoman Empire's. It minted the ducat, which was a global reserve currency for centuries — you could spend a Venetian ducat in Cairo, in Constantinople, in London. It had an intelligence network, a diplomatic corps, colonies. These are functions we associate with sovereign nations.
How close did it actually get? If I dropped a fifteenth-century Venetian diplomat into a modern embassy, would he recognize the job?
He'd recognize most of it. The Venetian diplomatic service was arguably the first professional foreign service in Europe. Ambassadors were required to submit detailed written reports — relazioni — when they returned from postings. These covered politics, trade, military capabilities, court gossip. They were so good that other European powers started copying the format. Venice also had the Council of Ten, which functioned as an intelligence agency and internal security force. It could authorize assassinations, run informant networks, intercept correspondence. It was a state security apparatus.
They had spies, diplomats, a navy, a reserve currency, colonies. That sounds like a nation-state. What's the gap?
The gap is territorial contiguity and national identity. Venice was not a nation-state. It was a city-state with an empire. There's a crucial difference. Sovereignty in Venice was personal — allegiance was to the Doge and the Republic, not to a defined territory with borders in the modern sense. The empire was a collection of ports, islands, and trading posts. It wasn't a continuous landmass. And there was no Venetian "nation" in the way we think of French or English national identity. The people Venice ruled — Greeks, Dalmatians, Cretans — did not become Venetian. They were subjects, not citizens.
It's less like France and more like a corporation that happened to own islands.
That's the analogy. The Venetian Republic was essentially a shareholder state. The Great Council — the main governing body — represented the patrician class, and membership became hereditary in twelve ninety-seven. That was the Serrata, the "closing" of the Great Council. From that point on, you were either born into the ruling class or you weren't. Roughly two hundred families controlled the state for five hundred years.
Which sounds like a recipe for stagnation and coups. And yet Venice lasted longer than most modern democracies have so far.
Over five hundred years of republican government. The United States is at two hundred fifty. And Venice's internal structure is why. They had a mixed constitution — the Doge was elected for life, but his power was checked by the Senate, the Great Council, and especially the Council of Ten. The election process for the Doge was almost comically complex. It involved multiple rounds of drawing lots and voting, designed to prevent any faction from gaming the system. They'd draw lots to select electors, who'd draw lots to select more electors, who'd then vote — it went through something like ten stages.
Their solution to factionalism was to make the process so convoluted that no one could rig it.
The Doge couldn't make major decisions without consultation. He couldn't open his own mail without a council member present. When he died, a committee reviewed his conduct and could fine his estate for misconduct. These were real constraints. The Venetian Arsenal is another example of state capacity — a government-owned shipbuilding complex that could produce one fully equipped galley per day. That's industrial-scale production centuries before the Industrial Revolution. It employed thousands of workers, used standardized parts, assembly-line techniques. When Henry the Third of France visited in fifteen seventy-four, they built a galley in front of him in the time it took him to eat lunch.
That's a flex.
It's the ultimate state flex. But here's the tension. Venice was powerful, wealthy, stable — and it was also an oligarchy that denied political rights to the vast majority of its population. The confederacy model it participated in — the loose network of Italian city-states — was held together by shared threat perception and shared economic interests, not by democratic legitimacy. When the threats shifted, the leagues collapsed.
Which brings us to the modern question. If Venice was a quasi-sovereign power within a loose confederacy, could that model work for today's conflicts? Daniel specifically points to the idea of tribe-based confederacies in the Middle East, and the Haredi autonomy debate in Israel.
Let's look at what modern confederacies actually look like. Switzerland is the obvious example — cantonal autonomy within a federal state. Each canton has its own constitution, its own tax system, its own education policy. The federal government handles defense and foreign affairs. It works, but it evolved over centuries, and the cantons share a Swiss national identity that overlays the local ones. The European Union is the other example — supranational governance with member-state sovereignty. But both are much larger and more institutionalized than the Italian city-state leagues ever were.
They're not dealing with the kind of deep sectarian divides Daniel's talking about.
The Middle East confederacy proposals — and these have been floated by analysts for Iraq, Syria, Yemen — are about groups that cannot coexist under a single centralized state. The theory is that a loose confederal umbrella might allow them to coexist separately. The Dayton Accords for Bosnia in nineteen ninety-five are the closest real-world test. That created a central government with two autonomous entities — the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina and Republika Srpska — plus the Brčko District as a self-governing unit. The results are mixed. It stopped the war. It has not created a functional, integrated state. The central government is weak, ethnic divisions are entrenched, and Republika Srpska's leadership periodically threatens secession.
It's a ceasefire with governance structures, not a solution.
That's the critique. And the Iraqi Kurdish referendum in twenty seventeen is the other cautionary tale. The Kurdistan Regional Government held an independence referendum, Baghdad rejected it, and federal forces retook disputed territories, including Kirkuk. The confederal arrangement didn't prevent conflict — it just postponed it and changed its shape.
Let's bring this to the Israeli Haredi case, which is what Daniel's really asking about. What's the actual proposal?
There isn't one single formal proposal — it's more of a recurring idea that surfaces from different directions. Haredi communities in Israel make up roughly thirteen percent of the population, projected to reach around sixteen percent by twenty thirty. They already have their own education systems, their own religious courts for civil matters, increasingly separate neighborhoods and social structures. The debate about formal autonomy — something like a recognized autonomous zone or a city-state model within Israel — has been floated by some Haredi leaders who want greater independence and by some secular politicians who are frustrated with the status quo and think, maybe we just let them govern themselves.
The "maybe we just let them" impulse — which always sounds simpler than it is.
And here's where the Italian model comparison gets strained. The Italian city-states were geographically contiguous. Venice was a city. Florence was a city. You knew where the borders were. Haredi populations in Israel are geographically dispersed — concentrated in Jerusalem, Bnei Brak, Beit Shemesh, Modi'in Illit, but also present in mixed cities. How do you draw borders around communities that are intermingled with secular and national-religious populations? What happens to the people who don't want to be part of the autonomous zone but live inside its boundaries?
What happens to water, electricity, roads, defense?
The Italian city-states shared a common cultural framework — Latin Christendom, even when they were fighting each other. The Haredi-secular divide in Israel involves fundamentally different worldviews about the nature of the state, about education, about military service, about the role of religious law. The confederacy model works best when the units share core values and have clear boundaries. Neither condition holds cleanly here.
There's the accountability problem. Venice's oligarchy worked — for the patricians. For everyone else, you had no say. If you create an autonomous Haredi zone, who protects the rights of women, of LGBTQ people, of dissenters within that zone? The Israeli Supreme Court currently serves as a check on some of those issues. Would an autonomous zone be subject to the same judicial oversight?
That's the "state within a state" problem. Confederacies require the units to pool sovereignty for mutual benefit. They don't work when one unit wants full independence or when the unit's internal governance violates the confederacy's baseline principles. The European Union has struggled with this exact issue — Hungary and Poland testing the limits of what member states can do internally while remaining in the union. And that's with decades of institutional integration and shared legal frameworks.
What conditions actually make a confederacy work? If we're going to take anything from the Italian experiment, what are the ingredients?
Three things, I think. First, shared interests that are concrete and ongoing — not just a one-time threat. The Lombard League held together as long as the Holy Roman Empire was a menace. When that faded, the league did too. Venice lasted because its interests were economic and perpetual — trade required stability, and stability required collective governance.
Clear mechanisms for dispute resolution. The podestà system was exactly this — an impartial arbitrator who wasn't embedded in local factions. Modern confederacies need something equivalent. The EU has the European Court of Justice. Switzerland has a long tradition of negotiation and referendum. Without a trusted referee, confederacies collapse into the strongest unit dominating the others.
A check on the strongest unit. Venice's internal constitution was designed to prevent any one institution from accumulating too much power — the Doge, the Council of Ten, the Senate, the Great Council all checked each other. In a confederacy of multiple units, you need the same principle. If one city-state or one canton or one autonomous zone becomes dominant, the whole thing tips into empire.
When Daniel asks whether this model could apply to the Haredi case, the answer is — it's not impossible, but the conditions that made the Italian confederacies work are mostly absent. Trusted dispute resolution?
There's a deeper historical point. The Italian city-states were moving in the opposite direction from what we're talking about. They were small, independent entities that eventually got absorbed into larger nation-states — first under foreign powers, then into unified Italy in the nineteenth century. The confederacy model wasn't a stable endpoint. It was a transitional phase. Venice was the exception because it was geographically protected by the lagoon and economically indispensable. Most of the others got conquered.
The lagoon as a moat. Geography doing the work that constitutions couldn't.
And that's a variable you can't replicate with policy. Venice's location made it nearly impossible to invade by land. The Haredi communities don't have a lagoon. They have demographics and political leverage, but those are different things.
All of this raises a practical question: what can we actually learn from these historical experiments? Because Daniel's not just asking for a history lesson — he's asking whether the model is viable.
I think the actionable insight is a framework for evaluating any confederacy proposal. One: what are the shared interests that bind the units together? If the answer is "not much, they just can't stand each other," that's not a confederacy — that's a divorce. Two: how are disputes resolved, and does everyone trust the mechanism? Three: what prevents the strongest unit from dominating the others?
Those three questions rule out most proposals immediately.
And they should. The Italian city-state model worked under specific, contingent conditions. It wasn't a universal template. Venice's power was real — its navy, its currency, its intelligence network, its colonial administration — but it was not sovereign in the modern territorial sense. It was a city with an empire, not a nation-state. The difference matters because confederacies work when units pool sovereignty for mutual benefit, not when they seek full independence from each other.
The confederacy model is not a way to separate groups that can't coexist. It's a way for groups that already share something to cooperate more effectively.
That's the distinction. And it's why the Haredi autonomy proposal is a thought experiment that keeps running into practical walls. You're not pooling sovereignty — you're partitioning it. That's a different project.
Let me push on something. You said the Italian city-states got absorbed into larger nation-states. That's the standard story — the nation-state won, history moved on. But we're sitting here in a moment where nation-states are straining under polarization, where trust in centralized institutions is eroding, where digital governance is creating new forms of affiliation that don't depend on geography. Estonia's e-residency program lets anyone establish a digital identity and run a business under Estonian law without ever setting foot in the country. Decentralized autonomous organizations — DAOs — are experimenting with governance structures that are essentially confederacies of token-holders. Could the Italian model get a second life in digital form?
That's the most interesting question. Because the limitation of the Italian model was always geography. You had to be in Venice to be Venetian. Digital governance decouples affiliation from location. You could imagine a confederacy of communities organized around shared values rather than shared borders — each with its own rules, but pooling resources for mutual defense or economic cooperation. It's the city-state model without the city.
A confederacy of opt-in polities.
That solves the border problem that plagues the Haredi autonomy debate. You don't need contiguous territory if governance is partly digital. But it creates new problems — how do you handle physical infrastructure, defense, resource allocation? The digital layer can handle identity, voting, some legal functions. It can't handle water pipes.
We're back to the lagoon. Geography still matters.
Geography always matters. Venice understood that better than anyone. They built their entire civilization around the constraints and advantages of their physical location. The lesson isn't that confederacies are obsolete. The lesson is that successful confederacies are designed around specific, local conditions — not abstract principles. You don't ask "would a confederacy work here?" You ask "what would a confederacy designed for these specific people, in this specific place, with these specific conflicts, actually look like?
If the answer is "it wouldn't work because the conditions aren't right," that's still a useful answer.
That's the answer for most proposals. But the exercise of working through it — that's where the insight is.
For listeners trying to think about this, the framework is: shared interests, trusted dispute resolution, checks on dominance. And the honesty to admit when those conditions don't exist.
The historical humility to recognize that Venice was a five-hundred-year outlier, not a replicable model. Most confederacies fail. The ones that survive do so because they solve specific problems for specific people in specific places. There's no off-the-shelf solution.
Which brings us to the forward-looking question. As nation-states face legitimacy crises, as digital governance expands the possibility space, are we going to see a return to smaller, more localized governance units? Or does the confederacy model remain a historical curiosity?
I think we'll see hybrid forms. Not a return to Renaissance city-states, but new experiments in layered sovereignty — communities with partial autonomy nested within larger structures. The Haredi case in Israel is already a de facto version of this. The question is whether formalizing it solves more problems than it creates. And on current evidence, I'm skeptical — but the pressure to try something will only grow as the demographic trends continue.
The Italian model gives us a vocabulary for thinking about it. Podestà, signoria, mixed constitution, the lagoon as a moat. These aren't just historical artifacts. They're design patterns.
Design patterns for governance. That's exactly right. And the Venetian pattern — balanced institutions, economic foundation, geographic realism — is the one that lasted half a millennium.
Not bad for a city built on mud.
And now: Hilbert's daily fun fact.
Hilbert: In nineteen sixty-three, a Soviet mathematician named Alexei Chernikov, working in obscurity on Sakhalin Island, published a proof of what he believed was a new theorem in number theory — only for it to be discovered after his death that the exact same theorem had been proven by a Hungarian mathematician, Pál Turán, in nineteen forty-one. Chernikov's version was slightly more general, but Turán's work had been published in a Hungarian journal that never circulated in the Soviet Union. For twenty-two years, Chernikov thought he'd made an original contribution. He had — just not first.
A Cold War isolation story with a mathematician on Sakhalin. That's so specific it almost wraps back around to universal.
The tragedy of parallel discovery behind the Iron Curtain.
This has been My Weird Prompts. Thanks to our producer, Hilbert Flumingtop. If you enjoyed this episode, leave us a review wherever you listen — it genuinely helps more people find the show. We'll be back with a new prompt soon.
