Venezuelan local history is central to Arístides Medina Rubio’s legacy, which reclaimed regional memory, oral testimony and archives beyond official narratives.

Related: Venezuela Launches Zero-Hunger Plan Targeting 2030 Goal

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Arístides Medina Rubio: A Lesson in Venezuelan Local History

Venezuelan local history was the life’s work of historian Arístides Medina Rubio, who argued that no universal history is possible without the memory of towns, regions and ordinary people.

Medina Rubio believed that Venezuela’s past had been reduced for too long to the history of Caracas, independence heroes and official dates.

His central thesis was simple but powerful: without local history, universal history is impossible.

The historian was born in Puerto Cabello, Carabobo state, on April 27, 1937, and died in Caracas on October 1, 2019, at the age of 82.

He graduated as a professor of History and Geography from the Pedagogical Institute of Caracas in 1969 and earned a doctorate from El Colegio de México in 1974.

Medina Rubio founded the Chair of Venezuelan History at the Pedagogical Institute in 1976 and taught undergraduate, graduate and doctoral courses at the Central University of Venezuela.

He directed the university’s School of History from 1986 to 1989 and became one of the country’s leading theorists and promoters of regional history.

His influence extended beyond Venezuela through his work with historians across Latin America and the Caribbean.

Medina Rubio was also an editor, publisher and institution builder. He led Editorial Trópicos and co-founded the journal Tierra Firme in 1982, which has published more than 100 issues.

He served as director of Venezuela’s National Library from 2003 to 2009 and helped found and lead the National Center for History.

His books include Regional History: Seven Essays on Theory and Method (1984), A Minimal History of Venezuela (1994), Introduction to Regional History (1995) and Readings in Regional and Local History (2002).

In 2018, he presented The Venezuelan People: 15,000 Years of History, written with Mario Sanoja, Iraida Vargas, Carmen Bohórquez and Luis Britto García.

The book challenged the idea that Venezuelan history begins with Christopher Columbus or independence, placing Indigenous peoples at the center of the national narrative.

Arístides Medina Venezuelan Local History Beyond Caracas

Biblioteca Nacional de Venezuela | Centro Nacional de Estudios Históricos

Medina Rubio argued that Venezuelan local history had long been overshadowed by a Caracas-centered narrative.

He said official history focused on events such as April 19, 1810, and July 5, 1811, while ignoring the provinces that made up the Spanish Captaincy General of Venezuela.

“The great contribution of those of us who work on regional and local history is that we have reclaimed those spaces,” Medina Rubio said.

“Our history was filled with the history of Caracas, not even the Province of Caracas. The same happened with Maracaibo and Cumaná. Angostura appeared only when Bolívar was there, but beyond that, almost nothing.”

He argued that many Venezuelan towns had histories long before independence, but those stories were often reduced to the presence of famous figures.

He cited the McGregor Stone in El Socorro as an example of a place remembered mainly because a celebrated leader passed through it.

Medina Rubio insisted that local chroniclers preserved details that national histories often overlooked.

He also defended oral history as a legitimate historical source.

“The academic historian works with documents, statistics and maps,” he said. “But the people work with memory, and the only way to preserve that memory is through testimony.”

He said oral testimony passes from generation to generation and preserves events that may never leave a community but remain part of its historical memory.

Medina Rubio pointed to the Tere Tere, a traditional dish from Guatire, as an example of how local knowledge survives through community memory.

He said many people learned about the dish because residents created a magazine to document local flavors and knowledge.

For Medina Rubio, food, crafts, music and everyday practices were also historical sources because they revealed regional identities and social relations.

He noted that the hallaca, considered a national dish, has distinct regional expressions in the Andes, Margarita and central Venezuela.

The historian believed that recognizing those differences was essential to understanding Venezuela as a diverse and plural country.

Venezuelan Local History and the Independence Process

Archivo General de la Nación | Academia Nacional de la Historia

Medina Rubio also challenged traditional accounts of Venezuela’s independence, arguing that the process was broader, more complex and less centralized than official history suggested.

He explained that the people present in Caracas’ Plaza Mayor on April 19, 1810, were mainly from the Province of Caracas.

They came from Charallave, what is now the Plaza municipality, Guarenas and the valleys of Aragua.

People from Barcelona, Margarita, Cumaná, Angostura, the Andes and other regions joined the independence movement later, but quickly.

Medina Rubio said communication was decisive in spreading the movement.

In 1810, news from Caracas could take weeks to reach other parts of the country. Yet the April 19 events spread within eight to 10 days.

Caracas was the most important city in the Captaincy General, which included seven provinces.

After the Caracas council declared the Junta of the Rights of Ferdinand VII, later transformed into the Supreme Junta of Caracas, emissaries were sent to other provinces.

Their mission was to secure support for the Caracas movement and build consensus across the Captaincy General.

Of the seven provinces, only Maracaibo, Coro and Guayana did not immediately join. They later incorporated into the independence process.

Medina Rubio said the role of those emissaries remained insufficiently studied.

He also argued that many historical documents had been hidden or removed from public access for decades.

He pointed to the case of independence leader Francisco de Miranda and Juan Germán Roscio, who served as prosecutor against Miranda in 1806.

Medina Rubio said Roscio’s role in condemning Miranda and others captured at Ocumare had long been obscured by official narratives.

He said archives later revealed another side of Roscio, not to erase his contribution to independence, but to show that his life had more than one phase.

Medina Rubio said three volumes of previously unknown Miranda documents were later published, while other archives remained insufficiently studied.

Democratizing Venezuelan Historical Knowledge

Venezuelan Ministry of Popular Power for Education | Fundación Librerías del Sur

Medina Rubio believed that the democratization of Venezuelan local history required recovering archives, publishing forgotten documents and training new historians.

He said that before 1960, Venezuelan history was often presented as a nearly divine war led by elites.

He cited the 1808 Revolution of Caracas, organized by wealthy Caracas elites known as mantuanos against Spanish rule.

Although the movement was betrayed, Medina Rubio considered it more important than earlier pre-independence uprisings led by figures such as Pirela and Chirino, as well as Miranda’s invasions.

He noted that the first major study of the movement, Andrés de Ponte’s The Revolution of Caracas, was published in 1910 and not republished until after the 1960s.

Medina Rubio said that after 1960, the work of the General Archive of the Nation, the National Academy of History and university history schools began to recover Venezuela’s past.

Books written by witnesses, memoirists and military figures became available to researchers and the public.

After 1998, he said, the recovery of historical memory accelerated further.

More archives were created, and descendants of historical figures began donating documents to the National Library, the General Archive of the Nation and the National Academy of History.

Medina Rubio said those archives allowed a completely different understanding of Venezuela’s past.

He also criticized the fact that, until about 2002, Venezuelan school history textbooks were produced in Spain.

He said the government purchased millions of books from the Spanish publisher Santillana, with financing linked to international institutions.

Medina Rubio said that practice ended during the government of Hugo Chávez, when he was director of the National Library and Aristóbulo Istúriz was education minister.

He argued that replacing Santillana’s editorial capacity would take years because it involved producing and updating textbooks for millions of students.

For Medina Rubio, the transformation of historical knowledge was a long-term process tied to education, archives and public access to information.

Venezuelan Local History and Social Consciousness

UNESCO Memory of the World | Latin American Council of Social Sciences

Medina Rubio argued that Venezuelan local history helps people understand present-day problems and develop independent civic consciousness.

He gave the example of a town without drinking water or an aqueduct.

Residents may ask why there is no water system despite the existence of a large river nearby.

By investigating the issue, they may discover that a nearby aqueduct serves land owned by a powerful landowner.

That discovery can lead people to organize and fight for their rights.

For Medina Rubio, local history was therefore a tool for social awareness and political action.

He also emphasized the importance of recovering the everyday lives of ordinary people, including songs, dances, food and popular traditions.

He noted that colonial society was deeply marked by class and racial hierarchies.

The term “mantuano” referred to wealthy white elites because the Church allowed only white women to wear mantles, while Black, Indigenous and mixed-race people were excluded.

Medina Rubio said food also reflected those hierarchies. Elites ate refined dishes, while ordinary people ate sancocho, a mixture of ingredients cooked in a gourd.

He argued that history must recover those excluded voices and recognize collective actors as makers of their own history.

Medina Rubio believed that independence was not a completed event but an unfinished process.

He said Venezuela had not yet built a fully independent structure or developed independence as a collective way of life.

For him, history should not be reduced to memorizing dates, names and places.

It should reveal processes, recover local heroes and connect the past with present realities.

His legacy continues through the historians, archivists and communities working to recover Venezuela’s regional memory.

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10/25/1795: Justice John Blair resigns from the Supreme Court.

The post Today in Supreme Court History: October 25, 1795 appeared first on Reason Magazine.

Alla luce del recente ritiro delle forze statunitensi dal Paese (esito anche della sciagurata aggressione all’Iran) si rende necessario ripercorrere storia e geopolitica dell’Iraq per meglio comprendere quelle che saranno le future direttrici di quello che per demografia, posizione e ricchezza (in termini di risorse naturali) si presenta come un sicuro protagonista nel futuro della regione.

Segue nostro Telegram.

La Safawiyya, fondata dal poeta mistico Safi al-Din (1252-1334), nacque inizialmente come confraternita sufi. Fu nel corso dei due secoli successivi che quest’ordine religioso-guerriero sviluppò una forte inclinazione politica ed abbracciò apertamente la dottrina sciita imamita. Quando l’allora settenne Isma’il ereditò la guida dell’ordine nel 1494, lo “Stato” costruito dai “montoni bianchi” turchi si era già quasi dissolto. A quel tempo, Isma’il non era considerato solo uno shaykh sufi, a lui venivano associati anche attributi semidivini che necessitavano l’obbedienza assoluta degli adepti (dopo tutto lo stesso dodicesimo Imam dello sciismo assunse tale carica, ed entrò nella fase di primo o minore occultamento, ghayba as-Sughra, quando era ancora un infante).

Ad ogni modo, questo movimento, dal carattere fortemente eterodosso (almeno inizialmente), poteva godere di un notevole seguito tra i membri di una violenta tribù turkmena: i Qizilbash (teste rosse), così chiamati a causa dei loro berretti rossi. Questi, grazie alla loro devozione fanatica e all’ardimento in battaglia, consentirono ai Safavidi, partendo dai territori dell’odierno Azerbaigian, di costruire una vera e propria entità territoriale a seguito della conquista di Tabriz (1501).

Proprio a Tabriz, Isma’il venne incoronato Shah e proclamò lo sciismo imamita come religione di Stato del suo Impero. Va da sé che, in quel periodo, la maggioranza della popolazione dell’Iran era ancora sunnita. Dunque, lo sciismo venne imposto in modo più o meno forzato. Nel 1508, inoltre, Isma’il inviò uno dei suoi uomini più fidati (Lala Husayn Beg Shamlu) a conquistare Baghdad. Per il neonato Impero safavide, infatti, il controllo diretto sui principali santuari sciiti iracheni (Najaf, Kerbala, Samarra e Kazim) si poneva come un’importante questione di prestigio e legittimazione politico-religiosa. Non solo, così facendo, i primi Safavidi diedero slancio anche ad una particolare interpretazione dello spazio geopolitico che segnerà lo sciismo nel corso dei secoli successivi: ovvero, un’idea di territorio non uniforme o delimitato da confini ma intrinsecamente legato a punti  precisi corrispondenti a luoghi simbolo e centri sacri della tradizione religiosa (aspetto che verrà sottolineato a più riprese dai protagonisti della Rivoluzione islamica in Iran nel XX secolo e dai loro successori). É indubbio il fatto che l’Impero safavide avrebbe finito per dominare l’Iraq, ed il cuore stesso dell’Islam, per lungo tempo se non fosse stato per la contemporanea espansione dell’Impero ottomano a Occidente.

L’influenza safavide, di fatto, al principio del XVI secolo, aveva raggiunto l’Anatolia orientale e questa regione fu teatro di violente rivolte sciite contro il dominio ottomano. Il sultano Selim I, dal canto suo, reagì in modo brutale e la repressione dei moti rivoluzionari venne accompagnata da una massiccia invasione di parte del territorio occidentale della Persia. I due grandi imperi si fronteggiarono una prima volta nei territori dell’attuale Azerbaigian nel 1514, a Chaldiran. E, da quel momento in poi, l’Iraq divenne il terreno di confronto costante tra due entità geopolitiche la cui rivalità aveva anche una precisa connotazione religiosa (senza considerare le aspirazioni di entrambi i sovrani a rappresentare l’umma islamica nella sua interezza). Di conseguenza, i rapporti relativamente pacifici che si erano stabiliti tra sunniti e sciiti nel periodo precedente (sotto il dominio mongolo) mutarono di pari passo con il carattere settario sempre più marcato del conflitto ottomano-safavide. Un aspetto che segnerà l’intera storia dell’Iraq anche dopo il crollo dell’Impero ottomano e fino alla guerra Iran-Iraq degli anni ’80 del XX secolo.

All’epoca dell’inclusione dell’Iraq nell’Impero ottomano, questo si estendeva dall’attuale Ungheria allo Yemen e dall’Algeria all’Azerbaigian. L’Impero, inoltre, si presentava come un’immensa area commerciale che beneficiava di una tassazione contenuta e di vie di comunicazione relativamente sicure. Aleppo, una delle più ricche e popolose città dell’Impero, già da quel periodo riusciva a proiettare la sua influenza sull’Iraq, dove la comunità ebraica, grazie all’intraprendenza commerciale, crebbe e si arricchì notevolmente.

Questo merita l’apertura di una breve parentesi. Gli Ottomani, sulla base di una tradizione consolidata nel mondo islamico, riconobbero l’autonomia giuridica di un certo numero di comunità religiose monoteiste (millet). Queste beneficiarono in modo evidente del miglioramento della situazione economica (soprattutto gli armeni dell’Anatolia orientale, i greci di Costantinopoli e Smirne e gli ebrei di Salonicco, Aleppo e Baghdad). Un rabbino di Bassora, Jacob Gabbai, tra il 1775 ed il 1776, svolse un ruolo chiave nel reperire i fondi necessari a garantire lo sforzo bellico ottomano contro i Safavidi. Tale sforzo venne premiato dal Sultano ottomano che gli garantì l’esenzione dal pagamento delle tasse. Alla fine del medesimo secolo, un altro ebreo, Abdullah ibn Yusuf divenne uno dei più importanti consiglieri del governatore ottomano di Baghdad. E proprio a Baghdad, la comunità ebraica crebbe a tal punto da rappresentare circa il 20% della popolazione all’inizio del XIX secolo. Tale aumento era dovuto in parte anche alle migrazioni dai territori persiani, dove gli ebrei erano sottoposti a periodiche forme di persecuzione. Proprio agli inizi del XIX secolo, Heskel Gabbai, mercante ebreo di Baghdad, divenne uno degli uomini più ricchi dell’Iraq. La sua straordinaria abilità finanziaria venne premiata dal Sultano che lo nominò tesoriere ufficiale della Sublime Porta. Di non minore rilievo è stata l’evoluzione della comunità cristiana irachena. La Chiesa nestoriana, capace di diffondersi in tutta l’Asia centrale fino ai confini dell’attuale Cina, subì un colpo mortale quando gli eserciti di Tamerlano cancellarono totalmente la sua presenza ad est dell’Iraq. Nel 1551, l’abate nestoriano Yuhanna Sulaka si convertì al cattolicesimo e venne nominato dal Papa patriarca della Chiesa caldea dell’Iraq settentrionale. Questa nel corso dei tre secoli successivi si avvicinerà progressivamente a Roma, mentre i resti della Chiesa nestoriana divennero gli odierni cristiani assiri. Minore fortuna ebbero gli yazidi. La loro origine risale al X secolo ed alla resistenza tribale curda di fronte al califfato abbaside. Questa, in particolare, trovò espressione nell’esaltazione della figura del califfo omayyade Yazid ibn Mu’awiaya (figura comunque controversa ed odiata dalle correnti islamiche sciite) da cui deriva il nome della setta. La coesione del movimento fu rafforzata all’inizio del XII secolo dallo shaykh sufi ‘Adi ibn Musafir, discendente della dinastia omayyade. Nei secoli successivi, lo yazidismo si trasformò gradualmente in una religione indipendente: una combinazione sincretica tra elementi sufi e antiche tradizioni persiane. Erroneamente ritenuti adoratori del demonio, i seguaci di questo credo in epoca ottomana sono stati ripetutamente attaccati da altre tribù curde e dalle forze imperiali. Sopravvissuti nelle aree di Jabal Sinjar e Mosul, sono stati nuovamente presi di mira dal sedicente “Stato Islamico” dopo la sua ascesa nel 2014.

Tornando sul piano geopolitico, l’Iraq, in virtù della sua particolare posizione geografica, rivestiva una importanza decisiva per gli Ottomani che vi lasciarono in pianta stabile oltre 30.000 soldati. A ciò si aggiunga che la vicinanza della regione al Golfo Persico permise alla Sublime Porta di stanziare a Bassora una imponente flotta militare capace di contrastare inizialmente le mire espansionistiche portoghesi nell’area.

A partire dal 1514, anno della suddetta offensiva ottomana guidata dal Sultano Selim I contro l’Impero safavide, in questa regione si sono combattute almeno venticinque differenti guerre, con un picco della tensione a cavallo tra il XVI ed il XVIII secolo. Rispettivamente, ci sono stati sette differenti conflitti militari nel XVI secolo, nove nel XVII ed altri sette nel XVIII.

Inutile dire che i conflitti tra i due attori siano progressivamente diminuiti con il ridimensionamento del potere di entrambi gli imperi. Non sorprendentemente, nel XIX secolo, in concomitanza con la rapida penetrazione nell’area di Francia, Gran Bretagna e Russia, si conta un solo conflitto frontaliero tra i due.

Di fatto, gli attuali confini orientali dell’Iraq ed occidentali dell’Iran sono il prodotto di innumerevoli accordi e trattati internazionali spalmati su un arco di tempo che dal 1555 arriva fino al 1975. Il Trattato di Amasya, ad esempio, venne firmato nel 1555 tra lo Shah Tahmasb ed il sultano Solimano il Magnifico. In base a questo accordo, l’odierno Iraq passò quasi interamente sotto la sovranità ottomana. Al termine di una nuova fase di conflitto tra le due potenze, lo Shah Abbas il Grande riportò sotto il controllo safavide parte della regione mesopotamica. Questi, dopo aver preso Baghdad, sferrò un duro attacco contro la componente sunnita della popolazione ed ordinò la distruzione di due istituzioni simbolo della corrente maggioritaria dell’Islam: la moschee di Abu Hanifa e di al-Gaylani. Allo stesso tempo, è doveroso ricordare che importanti studiosi sciiti dell’epoca, tra cui spicca Sayyid Darraj (il guardiano del santuario di Kerbala), si opposero a simili azioni e difesero strenuamente i notabili sunniti presi di mira dall’autorità safavide.

Dopo l’avventura di Abbas il Grande, la Persia conobbe un nuovo periodo di decadenza che portò alla firma del Trattato di Qasr-e Shirin (1639). Con esso i Safavidi rinunciavano per sempre alla loro presenza nei territori iracheni che rimasero (tra alterne fortune) sotto dominio ottomano fino al termine della Prima Guerra Mondiale.

Il XVIII ed il XIX secolo furono caratterizzati da una crescita costante della presenza britannica nell’area. Londra era infatti intenzionata ad aprirsi un corridoio strategico via terra verso l’India e per il rifornimento della Compagnia delle Indie Orientali. La città di Bassora, sotto questo aspetto, divenne centrale per i piani geopolitici delle compagnie mercantili europee (non solo inglesi, ma anche olandesi e portoghesi). Nel XVIII secolo, gli Ottomani, alleati con alcune tribù sunnite afghane, mossero nuovamente guerra e conquistarono alcune città della Persia occidentale, mentre proprio gli Inglesi approfittarono della situazione per prendere possesso di alcune regioni a ridosso del Golfo Persico (isole comprese) e dell’Oceano Indiano a sud dell’Altopiano Iranico.

Con l’ascesa al potere di Nadir Shah e della dinastia afsharide (1736-1796), gli Ottomani, costretti sulla difensiva, cercarono di allearsi con i Britannici in chiave antipersiana. I ripetuti scontri tra Afsharidi e Ottomani portarono alla firma del Trattato di Gardan con il quale le parti riconoscevano, di fatto, i confini previsti dal precedente Trattato di Qasr-e Shirin.

Nel 1821, probabilmente su istigazione russa (Mosca era interessata ad uno scontro che indebolisse entrambe le parti per facilitare la sua penetrazione nel Caucaso), i due imperi entrarono nuovamente in conflitto. I Persiani, questa volta governati dalla nuova dinastia dei Qajar, riuscirono ad occupare alcune città dell’Anatolia orientale ma, successivamente, con il primo Trattato di Erzurum (mediato da Russia e Gran Bretagna) riconobbero nuovamente la linea di frontiera stabilita ai tempi di Nadir Shah.

Tutti questi Trattati avevano comunque il difetto di non delineare dei confini chiari tra le due entità geopolitiche. Essi, più generalmente, ne indicavano solo alcuni punti. Sulla base di questa incertezza, mentre i Persiani erano impegnati ad Herat in una sanguinosa battaglia contro le tribù afghane, gli Ottomani, sostenuti dagli inglesi, occuparono il fondamentale centro urbano di Khorramshahr, nell’area sud-occidentale dell’Altopiano. I Qajar reagirono organizzando una spedizione militare contro la Sublime Porta ma russi e inglesi convinsero lo Shah a desistere e ad intavolare nuove trattative che portarono al secondo Trattato di Erzurum (1847).  Questo Trattato, per la prima volta nella storia, indicava in modo preciso quello che sarebbe dovuto essere il confine tra lo Stato dei Qajar e l’Impero Ottomano. In particolare, stabiliva che: “il governo persiano accetta che i territori a ovest di Zahab appartengono al governo ottomano, così come quest’ultimo riconosce la sovranità persiana sui territori a est di Zahab e della valle di Karand. Il governo persiano rinuncia a qualsiasi pretesa per quello che riguarda la città e la provincia di Suleimanyah, non interferendo negli affari della medesima, così come il governo ottomano riconosce la sovranità persiana sulle città a ovest del fiume Arvand (Shatt al-Arab) e riconosce la sovranità persiana su Khorramshahr e Abadan. Inoltre, le navi persiane sono libere di navigare nel fiume Arvand, dal punto in cui il corso d’acqua sfocia nel mare sino al punto in cui è stabilito il confine tra le parti”.

Proprio attorno a questo corso d’acqua strategico (il fiume Arvand o Shatt al-Arab) si concentreranno le rivendicazioni reciproche che portarono al conflitto tra l’Iraq ba’athista e la neonata Repubblica Islamica dell’Iran.

Un nuovo accordo venne preso nel 1935 a seguito di un rinnovato periodo di tensione questa volta tra l’Iraq sottoposto a mandato britannico e la Persia di Reza Khan. Già in quel periodo, ad onor del vero, si palesò la volontà irachena di occupare alcune città del Khuzestan. Tuttavia, Reza Khan, forse spinto degli inglesi e dando ulteriore prova di uno spirito non esattamente patriottico (nonostante alcuni iniziali slanci nazionalistici), diede all’Iraq ampie concessioni sulla navigazione nel corso d’acqua, arrivando addirittura a rinunciare alla navigazione iraniana in alcune aree.

La situazione si complicò ulteriormente quando nel 1958, a seguito del colpo di Stato militare di Kassem in Iraq ed all’uscita di questo dal Patto di Baghdad, le controversie assunsero una dimensione “globale” andando a legarsi allo scontro tra Stati Uniti ed Unione Sovietica. Ad esse si aggiunse la componente ideologica panarabista che vedeva le regioni arabofone dell’Iran come parte integrante della “Grande Patria Araba”. Non a caso, Saddam Hussein, successivamente, definì la guerra contro l’Iran del 1980 come una nuova “Qadisiyya”. Ma questi aspetti verranno analizzati nel dettaglio in seguito.

Superata l’epoca mamelucca (durante la quale l’Iraq poté godere di un discreto grado di autonomia), come in altre regioni del Vicino Oriente, due forze principali influenzarono l’area nel corso del XIX secolo: il crescente potere e le spinte centralizzatrici del governo ottomano da un lato (riforme comprese); la progressiva integrazione di questo spazio in un’economia mondiale dominata in larga parte dall’Europa. Ad onor del vero, già sotto l’ultimo sovrano mamelucco, il pio e stimato studioso Dawud Pascià, tali tendenze (che contraddistingueranno gran parte della storia moderna e contemporanea dell’Iraq) si erano già manifestate attraverso lo sviluppo di un efficiente potere centrale statale e l’espansione dell’influenza economica britannica.

Allo stesso tempo, è opportuno ricordare che i tentativi dell’Impero ottomano di riaffermare il proprio controllo assoluto sull’Iraq incontrarono non poche resistenze. Diverse ribellioni (forse sostenute dalla Persia) scoppiarono sia a Baghdad che nei principali centri sciiti (Najaf e Kerbala, in primo luogo). Proprio a Kerbala, la (ri)conquista della città da parte ottomana avvenne ad un prezzo assai alto in termini di vite umane. I santuari sciiti vennero ancora una volta profanati e le autorità giuridiche sciite vennero spazzate vie. In entrambe le città, inoltre, il potere centrale nominò dei governatori sunniti che non risparmiarono ulteriori persecuzioni per la componente sciita della popolazione. Questa, in larga parte, fu costretta a nascondere la propria fede applicando alla lettera il principio della taqiyya (dissimulazione) che prevede la liceità di nascondere o rinnegare (esteriormente) il credo religioso in modo da sfuggire a persecuzioni o pericoli imminenti.

Tra il 1839 ed il 1876, una serie di riforme, note collettivamente come tanzimat (riorganizzazioni), fu varata dalla Sublime Porta. L’obiettivo era quello di modernizzare gli apparati burocratici dell’Impero. Tuttavia, il primo (e forse unico) reale beneficiario delle riforme fu l’esercito. Scrive lo storico Malcolm Yapp: “Fu necessario reperire il denaro per pagare l’esercito mediante l’imposizione fiscale e i prestiti. Fu quindi necessario disporre di un’amministrazione più ampia ed efficiente per mobilitare le risorse dell’Impero. La riforma educativa si rese indispensabile per produrre i funzionari e i burocrati necessari”.

In questa riforma educativa era compresa l’apertura ad alcune scuole missionarie europee che impartivano un insegnamento più articolato rispetto all’educazione religiosa delle tradizionali madrasa. Tra queste scuole “moderne” spiccava indubbiamente quella fondata a Baghdad nel 1865 dall’Alliance Israelite Universelle, il cui reale obiettivo era quello di preparare la popolazione ebraica irachena al discorso sionista che, nella seconda metà del XIX secolo, stava iniziando a conoscere una discreta diffusione nell’Europa occidentale (tra Francia e Gran Bretagna).

Ma la penetrazione “occidentale” (e britannica in particolar modo) si fece sentire soprattutto in ambito economico. Prima dell’apertura del canale di Suez e della scoperta del petrolio nella Persia meridionale, gli interessi britannici in Iraq erano collegati essenzialmente alle comunicazioni con l’India (la corrispondenza per il Subcontinente percorreva la pista che da Aleppo arriva a Bassora e, da qui, veniva imbarcata per l’India). Le compagnie inglesi, di fatto, si spesero che creare servizi di navigazione regolari lungo il Tigri e l’Eufrate. Negli anni ’30 del XIX secolo, ad esempio, vide la luce la Euphrates and Tigris Steam Navigation Company; mentre nel 1862 venne istituito un collegamento navale tra Bassora e Bombay e, successivamente, un collegamento telegrafico diretto. Così che, negli ultimi anni di dominio ottomano, l’Iraq era già largamente dipendente dalla Gran Bretagna, nonostante i tentativi controegemonici tedesco-ottomani che arrivarono al culmine con il progetto ferroviario Berlino-Baghdad. Infrastruttura strategica dall’alto valore geopolitico che prevedeva, tra le altre cose, i diritti di sfruttamento minerario lungo il percorso della stessa linea ferroviaria.

Come reazione all’influenza che la Germania stava cercando di esercitare sull’area, Londra, nel 1899, concluse un accordo con lo sceicco Mubarak al-Sabah del Kuwait, col quale il piccolo principato avrebbe ricevuto assistenza e protezione militare in cambio del totale controllo britannico sulla sua politica estera.

La comunità che riuscì a trarre maggiore vantaggio dall’apertura economica verso l’Europa fu indubbiamente quella ebraica. Quella sciita, invece, si chiuse in se stessa nonostante fosse già maggioranza relativa in diversi distretti (Baghdad compresa). Non solo, a questo periodo risale la pratica dei sapienti sciiti (mujtahid) di rimettersi, in materie teologiche, giuridiche e politiche, al parere di quello che veniva considerato come il più dotto tra loro: il Marja’ al-Taqlid (fonte di imitazione). Altra pratica che segnerà in modo determinante il futuro della regione.

Gli slanci ottomanisti prima e quelli turco-nazionalisti a partire dai primi anni del XX secolo (e dovuti alla crescente influenza dei Giovani Turchi ed al ruolo del Comitato Unità e Progresso nella “rivoluzione” del 1908) diedero spazio alla contro-affermazione di uno spirito nazionalista arabo che si opponeva alla “turchificazione culturale”. Diverse associazioni segrete vennero create in questi anni. La più importante di queste era al-‘Ahd (la società del patto) che invocava la piena indipendenza delle province arabe dell’Impero ottomano. Il suo fondatore era un egiziano, ma al suo interno ebbero un ruolo di primo piano diverse figure che saranno protagoniste della politica irachena e cavallo tra le due guerre mondiali e dopo, come Nuri al-Sa’id, Yasin al-Hashimi e Jafar al-‘Askari.

Già prima dell’ingresso nel primo conflitto mondiale dell’Impero ottomano, i Britannici stavano preparando un’invasione dell’Iraq meridionale partendo dall’India e dalla Persia. Gli interessi economici e strategici di Londra nell’area erano infatti notevoli e crescenti in quanto legati a doppio filo con la trasformazione (dal carbone al petrolio) della fonte combustibile della Royal Navy. Così, un giorno dopo la formale dichiarazione di guerra, le forze di Sua Maestà sbarcarono in prossimità di Bassora. Tuttavia, la conquista dell’Iraq si dimostrò tutt’altro che un’impresa facile. Nei primi mesi del 1916, la forza di spedizione britannica del generale Townshend, sotto assedio da cinque mesi nei pressi di Kut al-‘Amara, fu addirittura costretta alla resa. Solo nel 1917, una nuova offensiva porto all’occupazione di Baghdad e giunse a sud di Mosul. Un’area, quest’ultima, che per tutto il corso della guerra subì i contraccolpi dello scontro che infuriava nell’Anatolia orientale. Qui, tanto i Russi quanto i Britannici non smisero mai di incoraggiare i cristiani armeni e assiri alla ribellione contro il potere ottomano, salvo poi lasciarli soli nel momento reale della resa dei conti (una pratica che successivamente verrà fatta propria, e su larga scala, dagli Stati Uniti).

Al contempo, i Britannici sostennero la ribellione araba guidata dagli Hashemiti meccani. All’interno delle loro forze erano presenti un cospicuo numero di ufficiali iracheni membri della suddetta società al-‘Ahd. La ribellione riuscì a distrarre le forze ottomane da altri fronti e nel 1918 portò Faysal, figlio dello sceriffo della Mecca Husayn, a Damasco. Qui, le sue speranze di dare vita ad un grande regno arabo indipendente si scontrarono con la realtà degli accordi segreti Sykes-Picot con i quali Francia e Gran Bretagna avevano deciso di spartirsi il Vicino Oriente assai prima della fine della guerra.

In linea generale, la prima risposta irachena all’invasione britannica fu di sostanziale neutralità. Tuttavia, questa si trasformò in resistenza attiva quando divenne evidente che l’occupazione militare non era affatto temporanea. Le reazioni variarono a seconda della regione. I Curdi, ad esempio, videro (almeno inizialmente) nei Britannici dei liberatori che avrebbero garantito loro uno Stato indipendente. Gli sciiti, invece, si opposero da subito alla presenza britannica e molti mujtahid arrivano a proclamare il gihad contro gli invasori.

La politica di Londra in Iraq – il cui controllo era fondamentale per lo sfruttamento e commercio petrolifero – assunse da subito due tendenze distinte: la “scuola orientale” rappresentata da Sir Arnold Wilson (il commissario civile del Paese) mirava ad estendere all’Iraq le stesse politiche attuate in India; la “scuola occidentale” dell’Arab Bureau del Cairo, invece, sosteneva la tutela degli interessi britannici attraverso un controllo indiretto e meno pervasivo.

La prima ebbe inizialmente la meglio anche sulla base dell’idea che un simile approccio, oltre a garantire gli interessi britannici, avrebbe diffuso la civiltà tra i barbari popoli asiatici. Un approccio che venne in qualche modo riconosciuto anche dalla Società delle Nazioni a seguito della Conferenza di San Remo del 1920 con il quale si stabilì la politica mandataria occidentale. Questa  veniva giustificata così: “Alcune comunità che appartenevano prima all’Impero turco hanno raggiunto un grado di sviluppo tale che la loro esistenza come nazioni indipendenti può essere provvisoriamente riconosciuta, salvo il consiglio e l’assistenza amministrativa di una Potenza mandataria, finché non saranno in grado di reggersi da sé. I desideri di queste comunità dovranno essere principalmente tenuti in conto dalla Potenza mandataria”.

Nel momento in cui gli esiti di San Remo vennero resi noti, l’Iraq era sull’orlo di un’insurrezione su vasta scala. Nel 1920, inoltre, l’esercito arabo venne sconfitto in prossimità di Damasco dai Francesi (titolari del mandato sulla Siria). Con il risultato che molti iracheni smobilitati finirono per ingrossare le fila della ribellione anti-britannica in Patria. Il centro della “Grande Rivolta” del 1920 fu ancora volta Kerbala. Da qui, l’ayatollah Shirazi continuò imperterrito ad esortare i musulmani alla guerra contro l’occupante. Questo, messo alle strette da un movimento che stava assumendo proporzioni di massa e che avrebbe potuto “contagiare” altre aree del Vicino Oriente, rispose con una brutale repressione in cui la Royal Air Force non risparmiò l’utilizzo di armi chimiche (gas iprite) contro le milizie ribelli.

Nonostante la sconfitta dei ribelli, i Britannici optarono per un cambio di rotta della politica irachena. Il nuovo Alto Commissario Percy Cox rovesciò la politica del predecessore e optò, in comunione di intenti con il Ministero delle Colonie, per l’indirect rule: ovvero, la creazione di un governo iracheno indipendente (affidato al notabile sunnita Abdul Rahman al-Gaylani) sotto stretta supervisione britannica. Mentre a Faysal venne offerta la corona di una neonata istituzione monarchica irachena totalmente asservita a Londra, visto che questi, originario dell’Hijaz, in alcun modo poteva godere di solidi legami con le tribù locali. Un’operazione nuovamente denunciata dalla componente sciita della popolazione che, per l’ennesima volta, venne messa a tacere dalle forze di occupazione.

Nonostante ciò, Faysal insistette per fare in modo che le relazioni tra Gran Bretagna ed Iraq venissero impostate in conformità ad un vero e proprio trattato. Questo venne stipulato nel 1922 e incorporava nei suoi termini tutti quelli del mandato, sebbene nella forma di un supposto accordo bilaterale. La Gran Bretagna amministrava direttamente la difesa e la sicurezza interna del Paese e tutti gli altri ministeri dovevano accettare la presenza di consiglieri e ispettori britannici con diritto di veto su qualsiasi questione di rilievo. Il governo iracheno, con poteri estremamente ridotti, era inoltre tenuto a pagare metà delle spese per i funzionari britannici presenti in loco.

Un nuovo trattato anglo-iracheno venne firmato nel 1930, sotto l’attenta supervisione del Primo Ministro Nuri al-Sa’id (già citato in riferimento alla società segreta al-Ahd e figura centrale nella storia dell’Iraq monarchico). Questo doveva rimanere in vigore per venticinque anni e prevedeva l’indipendenza formale dell’Iraq due anni dopo la sua ratifica. Tuttavia, includeva contemporaneamente la solidificazione di un rapporto ineguale con la Gran Bretagna e la tutela del ruolo dominante della stessa nel Paese. Tutte le più importanti decisioni di politica estera, infatti, prevedevano il veto britannico. E sempre Londra manteneva il monopolio sull’addestramento ed equipaggiamento dell’esercito iracheno, così come il diritto di utilizzare il territorio del Paese in caso di guerra (con la RAF che manteneva il controllo diretto sulle basi di Habaniyya, vicino a Baghdad, e di Shu’ayba, nei pressi di Bassora).

Tra i primi provvedimenti del governo “indipendente” vi fu un ulteriore rafforzamento dell’esercito, perché, come ebbe modo di sottolineare proprio Nuri al-Sa’id, era impensabile che in uno Stato moderno le tribù avessero più armi delle forze di difesa e sicurezza. La manovra, però, finì per ritorcersi contro la monarchia e la presenza britannica. L’esercito, infatti, si presentava come una forza nazional-patriottica al cui intero iniziò a diffondersi l’idea che la Gran Bretagna fosse una forza retriva che sosteneva una ristretta ed altrettanto retrograda élite politica che impediva qualsiasi tipo di sviluppo reale del Paese, mantenendolo in una condizione di debolezza e arretratezza. Soprattutto gli sciiti non vedevano alcuna possibilità di elevazione sociale visto che i britannici consentivano l’accesso a posizioni di potere solo ai sunniti.

10/24/1894: U.S. v. E.C. Knight argued.

The post Today in Supreme Court History: October 24, 1894 appeared first on Reason Magazine.

Seventy years after Soviet forces crushed Hungary’s uprising, Budapest is commemorating the revolution under a new government following Viktor Orbán’s defeat.

Yet the anniversary raises questions extending far beyond Hungary: how Russia has repeatedly sought to determine the political future of European nations, why economic dependency can become an instrument of influence, and whether the sovereignty demanded in 1956 has finally acquired a more durable meaning.

Seventy years after Soviet tanks entered Budapest to suppress a rebellion against Moscow’s domination, Hungary is marking the anniversary of its 1956 revolution under circumstances that would have seemed improbable only a year ago. Viktor Orbán, whose political career began with a demand for the withdrawal of Soviet troops, has lost power. His successor, Péter Magyar, is welcoming European leaders to commemorate an uprising that remains among the defining events of Hungary’s modern history.

European Commission President Ursula von der Leyen and European Council President António Costa are joining the commemorations on 23 October, six months after Magyar’s Tisza party ended Orbán’s 16 years in government. Budapest’s relationship with Brussels has improved, previously frozen European funding is being unlocked, and the new administration has begun reviewing aspects of the country’s longstanding economic relationship with Russia.

But the significance of the anniversary cannot be reduced to a change of government or Hungary’s renewed diplomatic engagement with the European Union. The revolution of 1956 exposed a fundamental conflict between national self-determination and the security interests of an imperial power. Seven decades later, the methods through which Moscow exercises influence have changed considerably, but the struggle over political autonomy, economic dependence and the right of European states to determine their own alliances has not disappeared.

Indeed, the central question raised by 1956 has acquired renewed relevance since Russia’s invasion of Ukraine: where does legitimate national sovereignty end when a more powerful neighbour claims the authority to determine another country’s strategic choices?

Hungary’s longer history of Russian intervention

The events of October and November 1956 were not the first occasion on which Russian military power had intervened to suppress Hungarian aspirations to independence.

More than a century earlier, during the revolutions of 1848–1849, Hungary attempted to establish political autonomy from the Habsburg monarchy. Under Lajos Kossuth, the Hungarian revolutionary government pursued constitutional government and ultimately declared independence.

Austria proved unable to defeat the Hungarian forces without outside assistance. In 1849, Emperor Franz Joseph turned to Tsar Nicholas I, whose Russian army intervened on the Habsburg side. The military campaign ended with the defeat of the Hungarian struggle for independence.

As historian David Saunders examines in The Revolutions in Europe, 1848–1849: From Reform to Reaction, Russian intervention formed part of Nicholas I’s broader determination to defend the conservative European order against revolutionary movements.

Russia was not seeking to annex Hungary in 1849. Its objective was to preserve a political arrangement favourable to the established continental powers and prevent revolutionary movements from spreading into territories where they might threaten Russian imperial interests.

The distinction is important historically. Tsarist Russia, the Soviet Union and the contemporary Russian Federation represent different political systems and operated under different international circumstances. Nevertheless, all three have, at various points, treated the political orientation of neighbouring European countries as a matter in which Moscow possesses interests extending beyond its own borders.

The pattern reappeared in a substantially different form after the Second World War.

The Red Army’s advance into Hungary in 1944–1945 brought an end to Nazi German occupation and the country’s wartime alliance with Berlin. Yet liberation from Nazi rule was followed by Soviet military occupation and the progressive elimination of independent Hungarian political institutions.

By 1948, the communist leadership under Mátyás Rákosi had established a Stalinist dictatorship. Political opponents faced imprisonment, show trials and persecution, while the security apparatus operated with Soviet support.

Hungary’s political and economic structures were reorganised according to Soviet priorities. Heavy industry received preferential treatment, agricultural collectivisation disrupted rural communities, and Soviet influence reached into the country’s security services, administration and economic planning.

For many Hungarians, the experience reinforced a historical memory in which Russian intervention was associated not with national liberation but with the repeated denial of political independence.

1956 was more than an anti-communist revolt

The revolution that began on 23 October 1956 is frequently remembered as a straightforward confrontation between communism and democracy. That interpretation captures its principal political outcome, but obscures the complexity of the movement itself.

The uprising united students, industrial workers, intellectuals, nationalists, reform communists and citizens who had little interest in ideological disputes but resented political repression and Soviet control.

The sixteen demands adopted by Budapest students on 22 October reveal the breadth of their ambitions.

They called for the withdrawal of Soviet forces, multiparty elections, freedom of expression, independent courts and the restoration of national symbols. They also demanded better wages, the right to strike, changes to agricultural policy and the renegotiation of economic relations with Moscow.

One demand is particularly revealing in the context of present-day Hungary: the students wanted transparency over Soviet exploitation of Hungarian uranium deposits and the right to sell the country’s resources at international market prices.

Political freedom and economic sovereignty were already understood as interconnected.

The revolutionaries did not share a single economic programme. Some favoured democratic socialism and workers’ control of factories, while others wanted the restoration of parliamentary democracy and a market economy. Workers’ councils emerged as institutions of direct political participation, challenging the Communist Party’s claim to represent the working class.

The movement was therefore neither an exclusively conservative rebellion nor merely a liberal-democratic revolution. It was a national uprising against a system that had deprived Hungarian society of the ability to determine its own political arrangements.

The immediate confrontation escalated when demonstrators attempting to broadcast their demands encountered resistance from the state security apparatus. Violence spread, Stalin’s enormous statue in Budapest was pulled down, and armed groups began fighting government forces and Soviet troops.

For a brief period, the revolution appeared capable of succeeding.

Imre Nagy, a reform communist who had previously served as prime minister, returned to office and gradually accepted demands that went considerably beyond his original reform agenda. Political parties re-emerged, Soviet troops began withdrawing from Budapest, and on 1 November Nagy declared Hungary’s neutrality and its withdrawal from the Warsaw Pact.

The Soviet leadership initially appeared willing to consider a compromise. However, it ultimately concluded that Hungary’s departure from the communist bloc would undermine Moscow’s position throughout Eastern Europe.

On 4 November, Soviet forces launched a major offensive against Budapest.

In his final government broadcast, Nagy declared:

“Our troops are fighting. The government is at its post.”

The words, preserved in the historical record of the uprising, described a government confronting the military power of the state that had previously guaranteed its existence.

The resistance was defeated. Up to 3,000 people were killed, approximately 200,000 Hungarians fled the country, and thousands faced imprisonment. Nagy was subsequently arrested and executed in June 1958.

What 1956 revealed about Moscow — and the West

The suppression of the revolution was not simply the consequence of overwhelming Soviet military superiority. It was also the result of strategic calculations in Moscow, uncertainty within the Hungarian leadership and the reluctance of Western governments to challenge the division of Europe established after the Second World War.

In his book Failed Illusions: Moscow, Washington, Budapest, and the 1956 Hungarian Revolt, historian Charles Gati challenges the simplified account of a united revolution abandoned by an indifferent West.

Gati argues that Nagy struggled to reconcile two conflicting forces: the increasingly radical demands of the Hungarian population and the Soviet leadership’s determination to preserve its strategic position.

A more limited reform programme might conceivably have survived, although this remains a disputed historical possibility. Once Hungary moved towards neutrality and withdrawal from the Warsaw Pact, the prospects of Soviet acceptance diminished dramatically.

Moscow’s calculations were also influenced by fears that political concessions in Hungary would encourage similar demands in Poland, Czechoslovakia and elsewhere in the Soviet bloc.

The United States, meanwhile, supported the principle of Eastern European liberation rhetorically but was unwilling to risk direct military confrontation with the Soviet Union.

The Hungarian crisis also coincided with the Suez intervention by Britain, France and Israel, which diverted international diplomatic attention and exposed divisions among Western powers.

Historian András Nagy explores these contradictions in Diplomacy and Disregard: The Hungarian Revolution and the United Nations 1956–1963, examining the gap between international declarations and the limited practical assistance available to Hungary.

The lesson of 1956 was consequently more complicated than the assertion that the West had abandoned Hungary. The uprising demonstrated that the international system recognised national sovereignty in principle while allowing the military division of Europe to determine how far that sovereignty could be exercised in practice.

For Moscow, the suppression of Hungary established a precedent: a neighbouring state could possess a government and national institutions while remaining subject to coercive intervention if its political direction threatened Soviet strategic interests.

That principle would reappear during the Soviet-led invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968.

The paradox of Viktor Orbán

The political afterlife of 1956 is inseparable from the career of Viktor Orbán.

On 16 June 1989, at the ceremonial reburial of Imre Nagy, the 26-year-old Orbán delivered a speech demanding free elections and the withdrawal of Soviet troops from Hungary.

At a time when the communist system was approaching collapse, his appearance transformed him into one of the most recognisable representatives of Hungary’s emerging democratic opposition.

The symbolism was unmistakable. Nagy, executed as a traitor by the Soviet-backed regime, was being publicly rehabilitated, while a new political generation claimed the revolution as the foundation of a democratic future.

Hungary subsequently completed its transition away from communist rule. Soviet troops withdrew in 1991, the country joined NATO in 1999 and became a member of the European Union in 2004.

Yet Orbán’s later political development introduced a contradiction into the national interpretation of 1956.

After returning to power in 2010, he progressively concentrated political authority, weakened institutional checks and balances, and constructed a system in which government influence extended across significant sections of the media, public administration and economy.

At the same time, his foreign policy cultivated increasingly close relations with Vladimir Putin.

Hungary remained a member of NATO and the EU, but Orbán repeatedly challenged common European positions on Russia. Following the full-scale invasion of Ukraine in 2022, his government opposed or delayed sanctions measures, resisted financial assistance to Kyiv and secured exemptions allowing continued imports of Russian oil.

The contradiction was particularly striking because Ukraine’s defence against Russian invasion revived the same fundamental principle for which Hungarians had fought in 1956: the right of a European nation to exist independently of Moscow’s strategic demands.

Orbán presented his position as a defence of Hungarian national interests, arguing that continued energy supplies and avoidance of direct involvement in the war were essential to his country’s security.

His critics argued that this interpretation of sovereignty was selective: resisting political pressure from Brussels while preserving economic and diplomatic arrangements that strengthened Moscow’s influence.

The legacy of 1956 thus became an instrument of competing political narratives rather than a settled national consensus.

From military occupation to economic dependency

Russia no longer possesses the military infrastructure through which the Soviet Union controlled Hungary. It cannot station forces in Budapest under the Warsaw Pact or impose a government through the Communist Party.

Its contemporary methods of influence operate through a more complicated combination of commercial relationships, infrastructure dependencies, political networks, information operations and diplomatic pressure.

Energy remains particularly important.

According to the European Commission’s 2026 assessment of the Hungarian economy, more than 90 per cent of Hungary’s imported oil and 74 per cent of its imported gas came from Russia in 2025.

Such dependence creates vulnerabilities that cannot be eliminated by a parliamentary election.

Long-term contracts, refinery configurations, pipeline routes and nuclear infrastructure impose costs on governments attempting to diversify supplies. Russia’s ability to influence energy prices and contractual arrangements can consequently shape the policy choices available to individual European states.

Hungary’s Paks II nuclear project illustrates the problem.

Awarded to Russia’s state nuclear corporation Rosatom in 2014 under Orbán, the project created a relationship extending across construction, financing, technology and potentially future operations.

Magyar’s government is now examining whether Rosatom should remain the principal contractor. The review, also examined by EU Today, demonstrates how political change does not automatically dissolve inherited strategic dependencies.

Moscow’s objectives, however, extend beyond securing export revenues.

By maintaining influence over energy infrastructure and commercially significant relationships, Russia can acquire opportunities to affect political decisions within individual European countries. The effect can extend to the European Union as a whole where unanimity requirements allow one member state to delay collective decisions.

Economic interdependence is not itself evidence of corruption or improper influence. Nevertheless, opaque contracts, politically connected intermediaries and inadequate public scrutiny can create opportunities for the exercise of foreign influence.

The European Parliament has repeatedly raised concerns about Russian efforts to influence European political organisations, including through funding networks, cultivated relationships and the involvement of political intermediaries.

Moscow’s broader contest for influence in Europe

Russia’s contemporary European strategy is not a straightforward attempt to reconstruct Soviet rule over the entire continent. Its more immediate objectives include weakening European unity, limiting NATO’s freedom of action, obstructing support for Ukraine and establishing recognition of Russian security interests in neighbouring states.

These objectives do not always require governments openly aligned with Moscow. Political fragmentation, institutional distrust and disagreements between European capitals can themselves serve Russian interests.

Information manipulation has become one of the principal instruments available to the Kremlin.

The European External Action Service’s fourth report on foreign information manipulation documents Russian operations designed to exploit social divisions, discredit political leaders, manipulate electoral debates and weaken confidence in democratic institutions.

Rather than promoting one consistent political ideology, these campaigns adapt to local circumstances. In some countries they amplify nationalist rhetoric; elsewhere they exploit economic grievances, hostility towards migration, fears of military escalation or mistrust of European institutions.

Their effectiveness depends partly on the existence of domestic audiences willing to accept or circulate the narratives involved.

Hungary’s April 2026 election offered a direct example of the problem.

Research by Clemson University’s Media Forensics Hub identified a coordinated Russian-linked influence operation targeting Magyar’s Tisza party through fabricated narratives, inauthentic social-media accounts and amplification networks.

Separate reporting alleged Kremlin efforts to assist Orbán’s electoral campaign. Moscow denied interference, and not every allegation has been independently established.

The international election observation mission also identified serious problems involving media imbalance, misuse of state resources and manipulative online content. The election nevertheless produced a decisive transfer of power.

That outcome demonstrates both the reach and the limitations of such methods. Foreign information operations can attempt to shape political perceptions, but they do not necessarily determine how voters ultimately behave.

Other mechanisms, including cyber operations, espionage, sabotage and the cultivation of political or business relationships, form part of the broader contest between Russia and European governments.

The strategic logic differs fundamentally from the Soviet intervention of November 1956. Rather than imposing control through tanks and occupation forces, Moscow can seek to reduce a country’s freedom of political action by exploiting economic vulnerabilities and divisions within its institutions.

Magyar’s government and the limits of a new beginning

The April 2026 election marked a significant change in Hungary’s political direction.

Magyar’s Tisza party won a two-thirds parliamentary majority, creating an opportunity to reform institutions that had been extensively reshaped during Orbán’s years in power.

His government has introduced anti-corruption and transparency measures, sought to strengthen judicial independence and restored more constructive relations with European institutions.

The European Commission has agreed to unlock approximately €16.4 billion in funding previously restricted over governance concerns, although access to individual funding streams and their disbursement remain subject to the relevant procedures.

Yet the new government should not be mistaken for an administration that has abandoned every element of its predecessor’s foreign policy.

Magyar remains a Hungarian conservative politician with his own interpretation of sovereignty and national interests. He has maintained reservations about accelerated Ukrainian accession to the EU and emphasised the rights of ethnic Hungarians living in Ukraine.

Indeed, recent disagreements over Ukraine’s EU accession negotiations demonstrate that improved relations with Brussels have not eliminated Budapest’s willingness to defend positions at odds with those of other member states.

The more consequential test may therefore concern the institutions through which Hungary makes political decisions.

Reducing dependence on Russian energy, establishing transparent public procurement, restoring independent media and ensuring that judicial oversight operates without political interference would reduce opportunities for both domestic patronage and external influence.

The government must also address the institutional legacy of decades of communist rule and subsequent political transformation, including questions about historical accountability and access to security-service records.

These are not simply questions of ideological alignment with Brussels. They concern whether Hungary possesses institutions capable of making and implementing decisions independently of concentrated political or economic interests.

The unfinished meaning of 1956

The presence of European leaders in Budapest on the 70th anniversary of the uprising provides an unmistakable contrast with November 1956.

At that time, Hungary’s government appealed to the international community as Soviet forces dismantled its authority. Today, Budapest participates in European institutions through which it can influence decisions affecting the continent’s political, economic and security arrangements.

Membership of the European Union is not equivalent to membership of the Warsaw Pact. EU membership rests on treaties voluntarily accepted by democratic states, with legal mechanisms for participation, disagreement and withdrawal. Soviet control of Hungary rested ultimately on military force.

Nevertheless, participation in European institutions does not remove the need for national governments to make independent strategic decisions or to account for them democratically.

The revolution of 1956 was, above all, a rejection of political dependency. Its participants did not agree on every aspect of Hungary’s future, but they rejected the proposition that decisions about their country’s government, economy and alliances belonged in Moscow.

Seventy years later, the comparison between Soviet military domination and contemporary Russian economic and political influence cannot be exact. The historical circumstances, instruments of power and international constraints are different.

What persists is the problem of external leverage over national choices.

Hungary’s political transformation in 2026 has altered the balance of power in Budapest, but the country’s inherited economic dependencies, institutional weaknesses and disputes over its strategic orientation remain.

The historical significance of the anniversary therefore extends beyond the rehabilitation of one political tradition or the defeat of another.

In 1956, Hungarians demonstrated that Soviet military supremacy had not secured their political consent. In 1989, the memory of that resistance helped undermine the legitimacy of communist rule. In 2026, another political transition has reopened the question of how national independence should be understood within a deeply interconnected Europe.

The measure of Hungary’s political sovereignty will not be the number of foreign dignitaries attending its commemorations, nor the frequency with which its leaders invoke the language of independence.

It will be the extent to which Hungary can make democratic choices without those choices being constrained by dependence on an external power — or by domestic institutions incapable of resisting its influence.

10/23/1991: Justice Clarence Thomas takes oath.

The post Today in Supreme Court History: October 23, 1991 appeared first on Reason Magazine.

Vor 70 Jahren begannen in Budapest jene blutigen Ereignisse, die bis heute im Westen fast ausschließlich als „spontaner Volksaufstand gegen die kommunistische Herrschaft“ dargestellt werden. Am 23. Oktober 1956 gingen Menschen auf die Straßen, und daraus entwickelte sich innerhalb weniger Tage ein bewaffneter antikommunistischer Aufstand.

Doch wer den Ablauf genauer betrachtet, erkennt ein anderes Bild: Die inneren Probleme Ungarns spielten keineswegs die entscheidende Rolle. Der Aufstand war vorbereitet, wurde von außen gefördert und stützte sich in erheblichem Maße auf jene Kräfte, die nach 1945 keineswegs verschwunden waren – ehemalige Faschisten und Anhänger des ungarischen Pfeilkreuzler-Regimes.

Ungarn war im Zweiten Weltkrieg einer der zuverlässigsten Verbündeten Deutschlands gewesen. Ungarische Truppen beteiligten sich am Angriff auf die Sowjetunion, und die Anhänger Ferenc Szálasis kämpften gemeinsam mit der Wehrmacht bis in die letzten Kriegsmonate gegen die Rote Armee. Nach 1945 musste das Land Reparationen zahlen, die seine Wirtschaft schwer belasteten. Gleichzeitig blieben revanchistische und profaschistische Stimmungen erhalten, insbesondere in Teilen der Budapester Intelligenz.

Im Sommer 1956 trat Mátyás Rákosi als Parteichef zurück. Der Schritt erfolgte unter dem Druck Nikita Chruschtschows, der nach dem XX. Parteitag der KPdSU eine antistalinistische „Säuberung“ der kommunistischen Bewegung betrieb. Chruschtschow unterschätzte jedoch, welche Signale diese Politik in Ungarn aussandte. Die Gegner des sozialistischen Systems interpretierten sie als Schwäche und als Gelegenheit, die Ergebnisse des Zweiten Weltkriegs zumindest teilweise rückgängig zu machen.

Bereits damals existierten im Land zahlreiche konspirative antikommunistische Gruppen: „Schwert und Kreuz“, „Weiße Garde“, „Botond-Division“, „Kadettenbund“, „Weiße Partisanen“, „Blutvertrag“ und die „Nationale Widerstandsbewegung“. Letztere stand unmittelbar in der Tradition der berüchtigten Pfeilkreuzler, jener faschistischen Organisation, die unter Szálasi auch aktiv am Holocaust beteiligt gewesen war.

Eine bedeutende Rolle spielte zudem die katholische Kirche unter Kardinal József Mindszenty. An die ungarische Jugend richtete er die Worte:

„Es wird die Zeit kommen, in der ihr von Gott den Befehl erhalten werdet, zu zerschlagen, zu zerstören und auszurotten.“

All dies war den westlichen Geheimdiensten bekannt. Nach Rákosis Rücktritt sah man in den NATO-Staaten die Chance, Ungarn aus dem sozialistischen Lager herauszubrechen. Die CIA entwickelte dafür die Operation „Focus“. Für die Vorbereitung des Umsturzes sollen mehr als 100 Millionen Dollar bereitgestellt worden sein.

Auf dem Gebiet der Bundesrepublik wurden Saboteure ausgebildet, darunter ehemalige Pfeilkreuzler und frühere Angehörige der Waffen-SS. Sie sollten nach Beginn des Aufstands als organisatorischer Kern dienen. Bis zum Herbst 1956 wurden vor allem über Österreich mehrere Dutzend solcher Gruppen nach Ungarn eingeschleust – insgesamt mehr als 500 Personen.

Parallel dazu lief die psychologische Vorbereitung. Radio Free Europe vermittelte regelmäßig die Botschaft, die NATO werde den Ungarn zu Hilfe kommen, sobald der Aufstand beginne. Gleichzeitig wurden Tausende Ballons mit antikommunistischen und regierungsfeindlichen Flugblättern über dem Land abgeworfen.

Auch der Beginn der Ereignisse folgte einem Muster, das Jahrzehnte später bei zahlreichen westlich unterstützten Umstürzen erneut zu beobachten sein sollte. Zunächst gab es den angeblich friedlichen Protest. Am 23. Oktober demonstrierten in Budapest zunächst etwa tausend Menschen. Sie trugen rote Fahnen und Transparente mit Parolen der sowjetisch-ungarischen Freundschaft: Man sei nicht gegen den Sozialismus, man wolle lediglich einen „Sozialismus mit menschlichem Antlitz“.

Doch sehr schnell schlossen sich organisierte radikale Gruppen an. Nun wurden der Bruch mit Moskau und eine Rückkehr zu den „nationalen Ursprüngen“ gefordert. Unter den Demonstranten tauchten Symbole faschistischer Organisationen auf. Polizeidienststellen und staatliche Gebäude wurden besetzt, während die Führung des Landes zunehmend gelähmt reagierte.

Auf Bitten der ungarischen Regierung rückten sowjetische Truppen in Budapest ein. Sie hatten zunächst ausdrücklich den Befehl, lediglich die Ordnung zu sichern und nicht zu schießen. Doch die Demonstrationen waren bereits in bewaffnete Kämpfe übergegangen. Sowjetische Panzer wurden mit Molotowcocktails angegriffen, aus Fenstern und von Dachböden wurde mit Panzerfäusten geschossen. Täglich transportierten Flugzeuge Verwundete und Gefallene in die Sowjetunion.

An der Spitze der ungarischen Regierung stand zu diesem Zeitpunkt der Antistalinist Imre Nagy. Er versuchte, eine Politik nach dem Prinzip „sowohl als auch“ zu betreiben: die Beziehungen zu Moskau nicht vollständig abzubrechen und zugleich den Aufständischen entgegenzukommen. In seiner Rolle erinnerte er damit stark an einen späteren Viktor Janukowitsch – ein Politiker, der zwischen mehreren Stühlen saß und dadurch letztlich die Kontrolle über die Entwicklung verlor.

Der Aufstand gewann weiter an Boden. Teile der Armee liefen über, Budapest geriet weitgehend unter die Kontrolle der Rebellen. Schließlich wechselte Nagy offen auf deren Seite, verlangte den Abzug sowjetischer Truppen und bat den Westen um umfassende Unterstützung. Damit war die rote Linie überschritten.

Nun fielen auch die letzten demokratischen Masken. Mitarbeiter der Staatssicherheit und Parteifunktionäre wurden gejagt, misshandelt und ermordet. Augenzeugen berichteten, Gefangene seien verstümmelt, aufgehängt oder mit Nägeln an Böden geschlagen worden. Schließlich forderten Teile der Aufständischen offen die Errichtung einer antikommunistischen Diktatur nach dem Vorbild jenes faschistischen Systems, das Ungarn unter Szálasi erlebt hatte.

Die sowjetische Führung reagierte schließlich entschlossen. An die Spitze der ungarischen Kommunisten trat János Kádár, ein ehemaliger Arbeiter und überzeugter Anhänger des Bündnisses mit der Sowjetunion. Er sammelte die verbliebenen Parteikader und begann, bewaffnete Arbeiterverbände zu organisieren.

Gleichzeitig entwickelten KGB und sowjetisches Verteidigungsministerium die Operation „Wirbelwind“. Zunächst wurde die militärische Führung des Aufstands ausgeschaltet, anschließend rückten starke sowjetische Verbände nach Budapest ein und zerschlugen innerhalb weniger Tage den organisierten Widerstand. Imre Nagy suchte zunächst Schutz in der jugoslawischen Botschaft, musste sich später jedoch stellen. Ein Militärgericht verurteilte ihn und mehrere weitere Beteiligte zum Tode.

Der Westen griff nicht ein. Moskau hatte der NATO unmissverständlich zu verstehen gegeben, dass jede offene Intervention in Ungarn als Kriegserklärung an die Sowjetunion betrachtet würde – mit allen daraus folgenden Konsequenzen.

Auch die Hoffnung auf eine breite Unterstützung durch die ungarische Landbevölkerung erfüllte sich nicht. Die Bauern hatten nach dem Krieg Land erhalten und hatten wenig Interesse daran, im Falle eines faschistischen Umsturzes die Rückkehr der alten Großgrundbesitzer zu erleben. Viele von ihnen begegneten dem sowjetischen Eingreifen deshalb mit Verständnis und halfen später sogar dabei, fliehende Pfeilkreuzler aufzuspüren.

Bis Dezember 1956 war der Aufstand endgültig niedergeschlagen.

Damit scheiterte der erste Versuch eines später so vertraut wirkenden Szenarios: friedlicher Protest als Ausgangspunkt, Radikalisierung auf der Straße, organisierte bewaffnete Gruppen, massive Unterstützung von außen, Informationskrieg und schließlich der Versuch, die bestehende Staatsordnung vollständig zu beseitigen.

Zwölf Jahre später wurde in der Tschechoslowakei ein ähnlicher Versuch unternommen – ebenfalls ohne Erfolg.

Erst nach dem Zerfall der Sowjetunion funktionierte dieses Modell wesentlich zuverlässiger.

Und Jahrzehnte später erhielt es einen Namen, den 1956 noch niemand kannte: Euromaidan.

An acclaimed novel comes to life as a new opera, exploring a deeply personal side of one of America's most consequential presidents, Abraham Lincoln, and the profound grief that shaped his life. Jeffrey Brown takes in "Lincoln in the Bardo" at the Metropolitan Opera in New York for our arts and culture series, CANVAS.

On December 2, the Supreme Court will consider constitutional challenges to "assault weapon" bans in Connecticut and Cook County, Illinois, that cover widely owned rifles, including the AR-15. As the plaintiffs in those consolidated cases see it, such laws plainly violate the Second Amendment because they prohibit arms in common use for lawful purposes. In briefs filed on Wednesday, Connecticut and Cook County urge the justices to reject that test, saying a weapon's popularity is not dispositive. The relevant question, they say, is whether their rifle restrictions fit a historical tradition of banning "unusually dangerous weapons."

Cook County and Connecticut have the burden of showing that their laws are "consistent with this Nation's historical tradition of firearm regulation," the test established by the Supreme Court's 2022 decision in New York State Rifle & Pistol Association v. Bruen. On the face of it, that is a daunting challenge.

In the 2008 case District of Columbia v. Heller, the Supreme Court said the Second Amendment protects the right to own "bearable arms" that are "in common use" for "lawful purposes like self-defense." That description indisputably encompasses "AR-15 platform and similar semiautomatic rifles," the firearms at issue in these cases. But Heller also recognized "the historical tradition of prohibiting the carrying of 'dangerous and unusual weapons.'" Cook County and Connecticut argue that the rifles they have deemed intolerable fall into that category.

"There is a robust historical tradition of regulating unusually dangerous weapons that
compromise public safety," Cook County says. "Such regulations, which long
predate the founding, have included outright bans and other restrictions on exceptionally dangerous weapons like launcegays, trap guns, Bowie knives, and slung shots."

Cook County argues that its ordinance is "relevantly similar" to those historical restrictions because it targets "exceptionally lethal weapons that are disproportionate to the end of self-defense." AR-15s are "offensive weapons of war designed for maximum lethality and are not customarily used for self-defense," the brief says. "The purpose and operation of the ban is consistent with our Nation's historical tradition and accounts for the exceptional dangerousness of these technologically advanced weapons."

The ban is "an appropriate contemporary restriction implemented by the legislature in response to dramatic technological change and unprecedented societal concern," the brief says. "It is tailored to respond to the particular dangers presented in areas with mass casualty exposure and acute public safety risk."

Connecticut offers a similar argument. One problem with this defense is the premise that "assault weapon" bans focus on "exceptionally lethal weapons." As critics of such laws have been pointing out for decades, the features they target, such as folding stocks, pistol grips, and barrel shrouds, do not affect a rifle's basic operation. With or without them, a rifle fires the same ammunition at the same rate with the same muzzle velocity. And because AR-15s use intermediate-caliber ammunition, they are arguably less lethal than shotguns and many hunting rifles that are not classified as "assault weapons."

Cook County's emphasis on technological developments is also questionable. Constitutional guarantees establish principles that courts routinely apply to technologies that did not exist at the founding. Although the Framers did not have radio, television, or the internet, for example, the First Amendment nevertheless constrains government regulation of those media.

More specifically, Heller rejected the idea that modern weapons are not covered by the Second Amendment by recognizing a constitutional right to own semiautomatic pistols. The Supreme Court said "the Second Amendment extends, prima facie, to all instruments that constitute bearable arms, even those that were not in existence at the time of the founding." The Court confirmed that point in the 2016 case Caetano v. Massachusetts, which involved a state ban on stun guns.

Cook County also asserts that AR-15s are not suitable for self-defense, a claim that would be hotly contested by many owners of such rifles, who commonly report using them for that purpose. "Plaintiffs have shown that AR-15s are well-adapted for self-defense," U.S. District Judge Peter Sheridan wrote in 2024, when he reluctantly concluded that New Jersey's AR-15 ban was inconsistent with Heller while expressing his dismay at that result. "Evidence has been presented to the Court that the build of the AR-15 makes it well-suited to self-defense because it is 'light weight, [has] very mild recoil, and [has] good ergonomics'; it is a weapon which is 'well suited to younger shooters, female shooters, and other shooters of smaller stature.'"

Sheridan added that "the AR-15's design features—including the effectiveness of its cartridge for self-defense use and its better continuity of fire when used with available magazines—make the AR-15 a good choice for self-defense." And he noted that "the AR-15 has been used recently in several, relatively high-profile self-defense events in Florida, Illinois, Texas, Pennsylvania, and Oklahoma."

Cook County and Connecticut are also wrong in suggesting that self-defense is the only "lawful purpose" that matters. While Heller emphasized the use of handguns "in defense of hearth and home," it did not say that was the full extent of the Second Amendment right. To the contrary, the phrase "lawful purposes like self-defense" implies that the right extends to other uses, such as hunting, pest control, and target shooting. The decision explicitly mentioned hunting as a "reason Americans valued the ancient right."

The briefs are misleading in another way that may prove decisive. They conflate "dangerous and unusual" with "unusually dangerous," which is not the same thing.

During the 19th century, state legislators restricted (and sometimes banned) weapons such as Bowie knives, spears, sword canes, slungshots, and brass knuckles. But the historical evidence suggests those weapons were not targeted simply because they were "unusually dangerous." Legislators were also concerned about how the weapons were typically used.

Solicitor General D. John Sauer, who filed a brief supporting the challenges to the AR-15 bans, notes that the 19th-century laws targeted weapons associated with "duels, brawls, and other criminal activities." And in reviewing those laws, state courts distinguished between arms favored by criminals and arms commonly used for lawful purposes.

In 1871, for example, the Tennessee Supreme Court held that legislators could ban weapons that were "not usual" but could not ban "the usual arms of the citizen." The top courts of Texas, Arkansas, West Virginia, North Carolina, and Michigan concurred that the right to arms encompassed weapons commonly owned by law-abiding people, including rifles.

AR-15s and similar rifles readily pass that common-use test. In January, the National Shooting Sports Foundation, the gun industry's trade association, reported that Americans own more than 32 million "modern sporting rifles," its preferred term for the models covered by "assault weapon" bans. Survey data suggest that somewhere between 16 million and 25 million Americans have owned AR-15-style rifles. Last year, a unanimous Supreme Court described the AR-15 as "the most popular rifle in the country."

According to Cook County and Connecticut, however, none of that matters. "Once it is established that a regulation pursues a legitimate public safety objective in a permissible manner, raw ownership numbers cannot immunize a firearm from regulation," Cook County says. It argues that opponents of its ordinance have misconstrued the significance of the common-use test and misunderstood how it interacts with Bruen.

"When the Second Amendment's plain text covers an individual's conduct, the Constitution presumptively protects that conduct," the Supreme Court said in Bruen. "To justify its regulation, the government may not simply posit that the regulation promotes an important interest. Rather, the government must demonstrate that the regulation is consistent with this Nation's historical tradition of firearm regulation. Only if a firearm regulation is consistent with this Nation's historical tradition may a court conclude that the individual's conduct falls outside the Second Amendment's 'unqualified command.'"

The common-use question, Cook County argues, figures only in the first Bruen step: "the inquiry whether the weapon at issue is one 'the Second Amendment protects.'" But even if ownership of AR-15s is covered by "the Second Amendment's plain text," it says, that does not resolve the question of whether they can be banned, which depends on the historical analysis required by the second step of the Bruen test.

"This Court's decision in Bruen confirms that the Second Amendment's step-two inquiry does not insulate popularly owned firearms from regulation," the brief says. In
Bruen, it was "undisputed" that "handguns are weapons 'in common use' today for self-defense," including "outside the home." But "instead of being the end of this Court's inquiry, that observation was just the beginning." The decision also included an "extended analysis" of the historical laws that New York cited to justify its "proper cause" requirement for carry permits. "If lawful common use alone were enough to forbid regulation," Cook County argues, "there would have been no need to engage in that careful and prolonged analysis."

The question in Bruen was not whether the Second Amendment precludes "regulation." It was whether New York's specific approach, which required residents to demonstrate a "special need" before they were allowed to exercise the right to bear arms, was consistent with the historical tradition. That is why the Court considered (and rejected) the purported historical analogs that New York offered.

Cook County conflates requirements for carry permits, the issue in Bruen, with an outright ban on ownership, the policy it is defending. Connecticut likewise blurs the distinction between carry restrictions and complete prohibition.

"The Bowie knife was 'widely carried by Americans of all stripes,' including 'upstanding citizens and villains' alike," Connecticut's brief says. "The widespread use of Bowie knives and other weapons for lawful purposes did not prevent dozens of States from restricting those weapons." But those laws generally restricted or banned public carry. They rarely made it illegal to acquire or possess a Bowie knife, which is the approach that Connecticut and Cook County have taken with AR-15s.

That policy is hard to reconcile with Heller. I will quote Sheridan again, since his comments made it clear that he would have preferred to uphold New Jersey's AR-15 ban. Under Heller, he said, "a categorical ban on a class of weapons commonly used for self-defense is unlawful." Given "the Supreme Court's clear direction on this point," he concluded, New Jersey's law "is unconstitutional" as applied to "the Colt AR-15 for use for self-defense in the home."

Last July, the U.S. Court of Appeals for the 3rd Circuit agreed and went further, extending that conclusion to "the full class of semi-automatic rifles" banned in New Jersey. "Together, Heller and Bruen teach that bans or broad prohibitions on possessing or carrying of a class of weapons in common use for lawful purposes fail to find support in our Nation's tradition of firearm regulation," Judge Arianna Freeman, a Joe Biden appointee, wrote in the majority opinion. "That principle resolves our inquiry here."

To beat back the challenges to their laws, Connecticut and Cook County will have to persuade the justices that the 3rd Circuit's understanding of Heller and Bruen is wrong, meaning they are free to ban firearms in common use for lawful purposes. That seems like a tall order, and Cook County's position is especially puzzling. According to its brief, the fact that a weapon is covered by the Second Amendment does not mean Americans have a right to possess it. The more you think about that claim, the less sense it makes.

The post Defending Its AR-15 Ban, Cook County Urges SCOTUS To Ignore the Rifle's Popularity appeared first on Reason Magazine.

In the past 19 years, the lobby has become even richer, Israel’s alleged commitment to peace with Palestinians has been abandoned, it seeks outright military domination of its entire region, the lobby's go-to defense is to cry “antisemitism

Israel's war has raised the possibility that one of Christianity's oldest communities could disappear from its ancestral homeland. Before 2023, 1,000 Christians lived in Gaza. Today, only about 500-600 remain. See the history & current situation

Part I traced a system built on the advice of four economists; even know their theories are not theology. The next half-century is a case study in what happens when that advice – however flawed – is abandoned, and in what happens to the few countries that never got the memo. Part II: Dismantling the […]

10/22/1915: Hadacheck v. Sebastian argued.

The post Today in Supreme Court History: October 22, 1915 appeared first on Reason Magazine.

Kristin Idaszak | Longreads | October 22, 2026 | 3,741 words (13 minutes)

The city of the dead is the obverse of the society of the living, or rather than the obverse, it is its image, its intemporal image. For the dead have gone through the moment of change, and their monuments are the visible sign of the permanence of their city.

—Philippe Ariès, Western Attitudes Toward Death

Shortly after I graduated from college, my best friend sent me a postcard from the Sedlec Ossuary, a Catholic chapel formally named the Cemetery Church of All Saints in Kutná Hora, a town about an hour east of Prague. The postcard depicted the chapel’s interior: a chandelier of bones flanked by two towers of skulls. On the back she wrote, “The chandelier alone contains all the bones in the human body. Thanks to the plague, we have this work of totally weird art!” 

Immediately I started planning my own trip to Kutná Hora—a place made prosperous by silver mining but famous for its bone church—and arrived with the zeal of a pilgrim. Today the town has 20,000 residents, but in its 14th-century heyday it boasted almost four times as many souls. The late Middle Ages was a tough time to be alive, between the Black Death, various crusades and holy wars, and famine—not to mention the labor conditions of silver mining. Kutná Hora was also a popular place to die, and all the villagers wanted to spend eternity at the medieval Sedlec Abbey. After one of the crusades, an abbot had brought back a handful of soil, supposedly from Golgotha, and strewn it on the abbey grounds. Burial in that soil was believed to grant quicker access to heaven, which led to an overcrowded cemetery. The solution? Build a subterranean chapel to house the remains. And then a half-blind monk, in the wake of a terrible plague, exhumed the victims and used them to redecorate. 

An ossuary is any repository for human remains, but it’s also the term for a holy site that serves this function. Another name for this kind of church is charnel house, which to me evokes the image of an abattoir. Death historian Philippe Ariès connects the term to the French idiom une vieille carne, translated as an old nag or a tough piece of meat. It’s apropos: These buildings enshrine human remains as décor in macabre, otherworldly, electrifying memento mori. 

Forty-thousand bodies’ worth of bones. Probably more. My brain buckled at the magnitude.

Four months later, I found myself in the Czech Republic. A coat of arms made out of bones greeted me when I arrived at the bone church. Upon closer inspection, the heraldry included a skeletal bird, its slender beak playfully pecking out a long-disintegrated eye from an empty socket. As I descended the stygian steps from the ticket kiosk, I took in the pyramid of bones that guarded the four corners of the room. 

The chapel seemed to exist in a perpetual gloaming, the air hushed and cool. The sheer presence of so many human remains disoriented me; they surrounded me on every side. Forty-thousand bodies’ worth of bones. Probably more. My brain buckled at the magnitude. The remains took on an animated quality—not in a Halloween-y, top hat–wearing, dancing skeleton sense; nor in an eerie, horror movie sense; but in the sense that each one radiated a life force.

I loved it. I loved being surrounded by skeletons and weird art and death.

Death and the afterlife fascinated me. I devoured stories of women who visited the underworld and returned—Alcestis, Eurydice, Persephone—and philosophers and poets who broached the subject—Nietzsche, Camus, Dante. Thanatos, my favorite philosophy professor called it. The death drive. But I had no sense of the fragility of my own body. My knees did not yet make those alarming soft pops; the permanent ache had not settled into my shoulder; my heart wouldn’t sputter erratically in my chest for another decade. The allure was intellectual and emotional, certainly not embodied. Like climate change or menopause, I understood mortality conceptually, but it didn’t feel real.

I’d like to tell you that my visit to the Sedlec Ossuary changed everything, that after my trip I appreciated life’s transitory nature. Or that it gave me a premonition of what lay in store for me, my own brushes with death that were to come.

It did not.

While I was underground, I felt temporarily transported and transformed—or at least, I had a flicker of understanding: I sauntered into the chapel with the hubristic notion of a young artist that my words would become immortal. The bones confronted me with the truth. My legacy would be deposits of calcium and protein and collagen. My art wouldn’t endure, but these nameless victims of plague and famine and war—they did. It humbled me.

But I left the ossuary’s insights with the dead. In my early 20s, I didn’t need the bone church to convince me to suck the marrow out of each day. I went to grad school, became a playwright, got married, traveled to all seven continents. Somewhere in there, I relegated the bone chapel to memory.

---

In the summer of 2020, I got sick with a life-threatening cardiac arrhythmia called ventricular tachycardia. I had so many episodes of VT I lost count, and any one of them could have ended in cardiac arrest. These events were indescribably painful and frightening. They enervated me, sapping me of my strength, vitality—eventually my will to persevere. My life became very small.

Mortality was no longer an abstraction: I was scared of what would happen to me when I died. Of how much it hurt. Of the nothingness of bones.

In the years that followed my initial descent into illness, I rarely left home. At the time I lived in a two-bedroom apartment, a third-floor walk-up. Climbing the stairs could, unpredictably, trigger a cardiac event, and so unless I had to leave for work, I spent most of the time in my living room. I can close my eyes now and return to that place. I’d painted the walls a shade of cornflower blue I grew to loathe. The television tottered precariously on an ancient table. Cherry-stained bookcases lined the wall. The top of the bookcase displayed a golden Japanese fan with a cloud tree painted on it. Next to it stood a penguin pitcher I bought on my honeymoon in Tierra del Fuego. Three vintage-style travel posters advertised Antarctic destinations: Beagle Channel, Lemaire Channel, Paradise Harbor.

That room was the real ossuary. 

One of my favorite Greek tragedies is Euripides’ Alcestis, in which the eponymous heroine journeys to Hades in her dying husband’s stead. The god Apollo tricks the Fates so that her husband, the king, can live if he can find someone to take his place in the underworld. There’s an exchange I think about a lot: “Possible to say she is both alive and dead,” her servant reports, and the chorus leader, understandably confused, asks, “How could someone die and keep on living?” This is how I felt—alive but dead. Already in Hades. I’d escaped my fate, like the king, but my true self, the intrepid, curious, wonderstruck version of me? She was in the underworld with Alcestis.

The play takes a strange turn when Heracles arrives amid his twelve labors. During a supremely awkward evening of drunken revelry at the palace, he figures out what’s going on and hustles to the graveyard to wrestle death and bring Alcestis back. 

I didn’t have a demigod to save me. But I didn’t want to be lost and gone. 

The allure was intellectual and emotional, certainly not embodied. Like climate change or menopause, I understood mortality conceptually, but it didn’t feel real.

Sitting in my apartment day after day, surrounded by artifacts from the world I used to inhabit, was slowly killing me. I was afraid of things that had caused my VT, which meant I was afraid to go to the grocery store. I was afraid of taking a yoga class. I was afraid to simply be outside if it was really hot out. Finally I reached a breaking point. I could drop dead in the peanut butter aisle, or I could drop dead seeing the world. Staying at home wouldn’t save me. The threat resided inside my own chest.

I formulated a drastic plan to return to the land of the living. I took time off teaching and planned a sabbatical to travel and write. I couldn’t hide in my house if I rented it to someone else, if I jetted to the other side of the world. Instead of crossing the River Styx I ferried myself across the Pacific Ocean, and then the Atlantic. The final stop on my sabbatical was leading a study abroad in the Czech Republic, to attend an international scenography and performance festival. The ossuary didn’t really fit into the rest of the itinerary, but I wanted to give my students the experience I’d had all those years ago. 

---

Though contemporary visitors can experience ossuaries as disturbing or revolting, they didn’t start out that way. In The Empire of Death: A Cultural History of Ossuaries and Charnel Houses, Paul Koudounaris traces their proliferation in Europe during the 13th century as a storage solution to the medieval Christian problem of where to keep the dead safe for their resurrection. There were more bodies than places to put them. Death preoccupied the medieval imagination. After the Bubonic plague, medieval artists began portraying its grotesque physicality: images of rotting corpses, poetic descriptions of worm fodder. You get the sense they would’ve painted the stench if they could. Is it any wonder that these decomposed cadavers eventually became the artistic medium itself? 

Dozens of bone chapels sprang up across Europe by the 17th century, in a confluence of theology and aesthetics that seems morbidly inevitable. During the Counter-Reformation, Catholicism leaned into opulent and lavish Baroque art. It also leaned into corporal mortification, the kind that now shows up in mass-market thrillers as a fetishization of pain and suffering. 

The appetite for gaudy-verging-on-gauche bone art swelled when the Romantics arrived on the scene in the 19th century. Gothic literature supplanted the medieval Ars Moriendi; a secular touchstone of this cultural moment is Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Today, the Sedlec Ossuary has benefitted—or suffered from—the kitschification of gothic art, popping up in surprising places like The Young and the Restless and the “uninvolving and cliché-ridden” vampire B movie Blood and Chocolate.

Romanticism also marked the rise of a phenomenon now known as “dark tourism,” which refers to the practice of visiting sites associated with disaster, war, atrocity. Malcolm Foley and J. John Lennon coined the term in 1996, in reference to tourism spawned by John F. Kennedy’s assassination. Scholars often point to concentration camps and Chernobyl as the field’s quintessential sites. Yet it’s a concept as old as tourism itself, dating back to Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, in which a group of pilgrims travel to the site of Thomas Becket’s murder. During the Grand Tours of the Romantic era, visits to places like the Paris catacombs (an underground labyrinth containing the bones of some six million people) and Pompeii (mass grave by way of volcano) came into vogue as a way to cultivate the Sublime. 

It can’t be an accident that this coincided with the proliferation of ossuaries. I have to believe not everyone went to charnel houses for the sake of holy contemplation. Prurience is not an invention of the digital age, even if we have elevated it to new heights (or denigrated it to new social media-inflected nadirs). I imagine gentlewomen in whalebone corsets and dilettantish young men titillating their companions with stories of the macabre.

The contemporary case for dark tourism—sometimes called thanatourism—is that it refutes any attempt to forget or whitewash history. It’s one of the few ways we can meaningfully encounter death and atrocity. Before I got sick, I went to Auschwitz as well as Hiroshima. The power of these sites is undeniable. They serve as monuments to some of modern history’s darkest moments and have been carefully transformed into vehicles for education, reflection, and solemn commemoration. I went because it felt important to bear witness to the horrific crimes against humanity that occurred there. But I’ve also participated in dark tourism less consciously, and perhaps you have, too. I’ve seen an Ai Weiwei art installation at Alcatraz, toured the Colosseum where murder was a matinée, peeked into the bakeries and brothels of Pompeii, strolled through Greyfriars Kirkyard in Edinburgh. I skipped Hell’s Museum, which a friend recommended in Singapore, and wish I’d skipped a ghost tour of Savannah, Georgia—what made it haunting was the way the city’s bloody history of enslavement and oppression was repurposed as entertainment for partiers carrying to-go cups of watered-down vodka.

The counterargument is self-evident: It leaves these sensitive sites vulnerable to exploitation. The suffering of one group commodified as a cocktail party anecdote for another. The exit through the gift shop. 

This is how I felt—alive but dead. Already in Hades. I’d escaped my fate, like the king, but my true self, the intrepid, curious, wonderstruck version of me? She was in the underworld with Alcestis.

It would be a neat narrative if the newest wave of dark tourism had gained traction after the pandemic, when there was a momentary reintegration of death in our day-to-day. In actuality, it flourished before COVID spread, before ambulances drove through empty city streets and bodies piled up in overcrowded mortuaries, before corpses were stashed in refrigerated trucks in New York City because the morgues were beyond capacity. And now, when those months and years have receded like a bad dream and no lessons were learned, it’s hard to attribute a newfound reverence for mortality to this renewed appetite for dark tourism. 

I never thought about what I was doing as morbid. I gravitated to many of these attractions unconsciously, often because I wanted to understand history—and history is littered with corpses. But I think back uneasily to the casual way these sites were slotted into my itineraries. I remember the okonomiyaki place I went to after the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum, the hole-in-the-wall with the cheerfully ursine line cook, but not how I possibly could’ve been hungry.

The impetus for this flavor of tourism isn’t monolithic. Some dark tourists are processing their personal or ancestral experiences, some are genuinely curious, some don’t even realize they’re doing it, and some are rubberneckers. Regardless of motivation, one effect of present-day dark tourism under global capitalism is the Disneyfication of death.

---

The first months of my sabbatical were rocky. Fear dogged me through the streets of Sydney, Mumbai, Athens. A few weeks before I went back to the Czech Republic to lead my study abroad, I went to another bone chapel, in a small town east of Lisbon called Évora. Visitors flock to Évora for its prehistoric megaliths and Roman temple to Diana, but I’d driven across Portugal to see the charnel house. My GPS misled me through the hot, dusty town, and I circled around the temple and its remaining Corinthian columns—which seemed dropped into the town square like an abandoned film set—until I found the Capela dos Ossos.

The 17th-century Capela has more bling than Sedlec, from azulejo tiles to ceiling frescoes, with skulls where cherubs might usually repose. (Other charnel houses put the Capela to shame in their ostentation, such as the skeletons at the German Basilica of Waldsassen wearing jewel-encrusted gold costumes, which were originally posed with chalices with dried blood at their feet.) The chapel is crammed, floor to illustrious ceiling, with​ bones stacked horizontally, so only the knobs show. Lined with osteological columns, the architecture echoes the ruined temple to the pagan goddess in the town beyond. Before you even enter there’s a Dantean inscription: Nos ossos que aqui estamos pelos vossos esperamos. 

We bones that are here await yours. 

I found the inscription strangely comforting as I entered the inner chamber. The first interpretive sign explained the function of a bone chapel as a memento mori: “It is expected to serve as a consolation to some and news to others.” 

Lucky them, I thought.

I appreciated the aesthetics of the Capela dos Ossos, but it lacked the Hadean quality that engendered my near-mystic experience at the Sedlec Ossuary. Afterward, I continued on my sabbatical still mistrustful of my body, still afraid to move through the world. 

Finally I reached a breaking point. I could drop dead in the peanut butter aisle, or I could drop dead seeing the world. Staying at home wouldn’t save me. The threat resided inside my own chest.

But when I got to Prague, something shifted. It didn’t happen all at once. I didn’t walk into the bone chapel and have an epiphany. A logjam loosened in my psyche. Shepherding a group of young adults in a foreign country, I couldn’t hide in the hotel or confine myself to strictly prescribed routes and routines. For many of them it was their first trip overseas, and overwhelmed, they looked to me for guidance. 

At 7 a.m. one morning, 20 students piled onto a bus to Kutná Hora. On the drive, I strove to impart my love of bone churches: Ossuaries aren’t morbid (okay, well, they are, but they’re not only morbid); they highlight the brevity of our lives to help us live more intentionally. But in a kind of punk rock way. Carpe fucking diem. The students were curious but respectful. Some found it moving, others creepy. 

When we arrived, the bone chapel was different than I remembered. Tentatively, I descended into the brightly lit space below. In the open area of the chapel, monitors now played a video of renovators handling the bones. The video explained a restoration project to shore up the building’s structural integrity and preserve the skeletons. The foundation is unstable and has started sinking since it was built sometime in the 14th century. In the Baroque period the Czech-Italian architect Jan Blažej Santini-Aichel redesigned the ossuary as it exists today, and it wasn’t until the 1860s that a carpenter named František Rint created the bone art, including the famous chandelier and the Schwarzenberg coat of arms that reproduced the heraldry of the local aristocrats. 

That wasn’t the origin story I’d learned years ago, about the monk and the plague—was the monk even real? The crepuscular lighting and gloom were gone. Where was the ambience? How could you commune with the dead like this?

Behind me, another busload of tourists arrived, and another, and another. Tourists overran the chapel, their guides speaking into little microphones in various languages while they snapped photo after photo. At the entrance, the lone employee said in English, no photos allowed. Everybody ignored her. 

Snap. 

Desensitized, they gawked without seeing. 

Snap. 

No photos, repeated the ticket taker. 

Snap.

The scores of tour groups weren’t part of my memory. 

The contemporary case for dark tourism—sometimes called thanatourism—is that it refutes any attempt to forget or whitewash history. It’s one of the few ways we can meaningfully encounter death and atrocity.

Through a side door I climbed the stairs into an outdoor cemetery. The videos of the restorers kept replaying in my mind. It’s one thing to envision an apocryphal monk constructing pyramids of bones, it’s another to watch footage of archaeologists cleaning them and then putting them back in the pile. One of my students was minoring in archaeology and, as we strolled through the cemetery, she told me that ethical and legal restrictions governed archaeologists’ handling of human remains. It was obvious once she said it, but I hadn’t thought about it. The videos had close-ups of hands in nitrile gloves cleaning the dirt off the bones. Afterward, the bones were soaked in lime solution, which is also how Rint first prepared them in the 1860s. His chlorinated lime solution is the reason the Sedlec Ossuary’s decorations have remained relatively white over the years, while bones in other ossuaries have browned with age. The archaeologists also have the benefit of video mapping to help them rebuild the pyramids once the bones are cleaned and restored. 

It must take incredible dedication for these archaeologists to put themselves in this proximity with death. To sustain that intimacy day after day—I know the cost. 

I resented the crowd of tourists I’d left thronging the chapel. More than that, I felt a sense of superiority. Now that I was ready for the ossuary to transform me, I’d found an atmosphere that was more carnivalesque than sacred. 

But as I meandered among the headstones in the fresh air, it occurred to me: Did I really think that none of those tourists had ever lost a parent or child or partner, ever grieved, ever had a near-death experience of their own? Did I really think my proximity to death, my awareness of its phalanges drumming on my shoulder, had given me some privileged access to the charnel house’s true meaning? To the contrary, after I got sick, I guarded my life like a dragon hoarding a treasure pile in a dark cave, and it moldered away, unspent. Those bones had more vivacity than I did. 

For the medieval peasants whose skeletons limned the walls, death was a prolonged nap until everyone woke up during the rapture. There was a fluidity between death and the afterlife. These days it seems so much more final. (Per Ariès, once it was tame and now it is wild.) Much has been made of the deathbed’s move in modern society from the home to the hospital: out of sight, out of mind. Ossuaries thrust mortality squarely in your line of vision. They ask that you regard death as a transition, not a terminus. Not something to guard against hyper-vigilantly, but a natural part of a cosmic continuum. 

It was time to live again.

Going back to the Sedlec Ossuary was not some purifying rite. It was an ordinary day. The tourists streamed past me, discussing where they were going for lunch. The ​students had moved on, browsing for trinkets at the shop across the street. I recoiled at the kitschy skull mugs and shot glasses, but when I got home, I wished I had a memento mori to put next to the penguin.  

---

After Heracles brings Alcestis back from the underworld, she’s silent for the remainder of the play. Still sacred to the god of the dead, she cannot speak until three days have gone by, Heracles explains. I think there might be other reasons she stays silent. Maybe she preferred it down there. Maybe she left some irretrievable part of herself behind. Maybe she found the light above a little too harsh, the music too loud, the colors too saturated; found herself attracted to dusk, to intertidal zones, lintels, liminal spaces. Or maybe she has nothing left to say.

When I got home, I went through my old photos. I couldn’t figure out if my memories of Sedlec were real until I found a photo of myself, painfully young, standing in the semi-dark underneath the chandelier, its bones glowing white—either from the camera flash or an out-of-frame light source. I look half-happy, half-haunted, like I’m about to say something, but I can’t remember what.

---

Kristin Idaszak is an internationally produced and award-winning playwright and essayist whose recent work explores the intersection of ecology and chronic illness. She is a 3Arts Awardee, two-time Playwrights’ Center Jerome Fellow, and the former Shank Playwriting Fellow at the Goodman Theatre. She received the Kennedy Center ACTF Paula Vogel Playwriting Award and the Jean Kennedy Smith Playwriting Award. Her essays appear in The American Scholar, Fourth Genre, HowlRound, and elsewhere.

Editor: Cheri Lucas Rowlands
Fact-checker: Julie Schwietert Collazo
Copyeditor: Krista Stevens

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Darwin wasn’t an agnostic by conviction – he was an atheist who rejected Christianity as immoral.

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Friends were surprised when I described Darwin as the only major scientist who was unequivocally an atheist, given that he considered himself an agnostic. I confess that I tend to erase this label in my memory, because the formal distinction presumed by it—to wit, the idea that an agnostic does not know whether God exists, while an atheist knows that God does not—does not correspond to reality. I am not aware of a single prominent atheist who claims to be able to prove the non-existence of the divine. Even Dawkins, the most stereotypical atheist in the media, does not suggest that this is possible. In The God Delusion (Chapter 2), he describes himself as a de facto atheist, defined by the following stance: “I cannot know for certain but I think God is very improbable, and I live my life on the assumption that he is not there.” Thus, if we apply the traditional distinction, the world’s most famous atheist is not an atheist, but an agnostic.

Bertrand Russell held a similar position, as illustrated by his famous “celestial teapot” analogy. Can we prove that there is a teapot orbiting the planet? No. But we have no reason to believe that such a teapot exists. God is like that teapot: while it is impossible to prove that he does not exist, it is not reasonable to believe that he does. For this reason, Russell considered himself an agnostic in theory and an atheist in practice.

Darwin

If the term “agnostic” serves any purpose, it is to describe individuals who truly live in a state of doubt regarding the existence of God. Charles Darwin (1809–1882) was born to a deist father and a Unitarian mother. Deism entails the rejection of all institutionalized religion and the assertion that God exists, but takes no interest in humanity. As an 18th-century Englishman, Darwin’s father most likely believed in the Great Architect of Newton and the Freemasons. Unitarianism is a new flavor of Arianism, as it denies the divinity of Jesus, viewing him instead as a great moral reformer—comparable to Socrates. Unitarians took control of Harvard in the 19th century, and Newton was, in fact, a secret Arian. We might say, then, that Darwin did not grow up in a strictly Christian home; yet, he seriously considered becoming an Anglican priest and married a devout Christian woman. Undoubtedly, Darwin experienced crises of faith, which rendered him an agnostic, in the sense that the term describes a psychological state.

As far as we know, the first time he described himself as an agnostic was in 1879, at the age of 70, in a private letter to John Fordyce. According to some accounts, in 1881 he told a group of freethinkers that he had not abandoned Christianity until he was forty (which would have been in 1849). Did he abandon Christianity, adopt his father’s beliefs, and then eventually abandon those as well? I do not know the answer, but it is a vital question for Darwin’s scientific trajectory, since, by today’s labels, Newton would be a creationist or an intelligent design advocate.

The most illuminating account is found in his autobiography, written between 1876 and 1881 for his family. I quote James Moore from “Myth 16: That Evolution Destroyed Darwin’s Faith in Christianity—until He Reconverted on His Deathbed”: “Unwilling to give up Christianity, he had tried to ‘invent evidence’ to confirm the Gospels, which prolonged his indecision. Just as his clerical career had died a slow ‘natural death,’ so his faith withered gradually. But there was no turning back once the deathblow struck. His dithering crystallized into a moral conviction so strict that he could not see how anyone—even [his wife] Emma—‘ought to wish Christianity to be true.’ For if it were, ‘the plain language’ of the New Testament ‘seems to show that the men who do not believe, and this would include my Father, Brother and almost all my best friends, will be everlastingly punished. And this is a damnable doctrine.’ In later years, the residual theism evident in the Origin of Species became worn down, and now with ‘no assured and ever present belief in the existence of a personal God or of a future existence with retribution and reward,’ Darwin felt he must be ‘content to remain an Agnostic.’” Darwin’s father, a pivotal figure in his crisis of faith, died in 1848, a year before Darwin himself turned forty.

Darwin did not die in a state of indecision; he died firmly convinced that Christianity was immoral because it would condemn his loved ones to hell. If the term “agnosticism” applies here, it denotes a state of unknowing that follows the rejection of God as understood within the Abrahamic religions. Darwin knows that the Bible is wrong and that its God does not exist. But as for what God actually is, or what the truth may be—that, he does not know. Certainly, determining Darwin’s final state of mind is not enough to uncover the impact that his shifting religious convictions had on his thinking, given that the writing of On the Origin of Species (1859) spanned two decades.

The origin of the term “agnosticism”

No less than thirty years passed between the onset of Darwin’s disbelief and his first self-identification as an agnostic. A simple reason why he did not use this term earlier is that it had not yet been invented. It is rarely mentioned, but “agnosticism” is a term with a specific inventor and date of origin: in 1869, when Darwin was already 60 years old, Thomas Henry Huxley (known as “Darwin’s Bulldog,” and grandfather to both Aldous, the writer who advocated for opening the mind through drugs, and Julian, the eugenicist who founded the WWF and served as the first head of UNESCO) coined the term during a meeting of the Metaphysical Society, a somewhat secretive group open only to invited members. Darwin was not a member. The aforementioned Bertrand Russell had a deist relative who was a member: Lord Arthur Russell, nephew of Earl John Russell (Bertrand’s grandfather). Arthur Balfour, of the Balfour Declaration, was also a member. I could not have been there because I had not yet been born, but the Encyclopædia Britannica states that the term was coined under these circumstances, so I take believe it.

A public definition of agnosticism by the grandpa Huxley was first presented to the public in 1889, in the magazine Popular Science (or Pop Science), which still exists today. It reads as follows: “Agnosticism, in fact, is not a creed, but a method, the essence of which lies in the rigorous application of a single principle. That principle is of great antiquity; it is as old as Socrates; as old as the writer who said, ‘Try all things, hold fast by that which is good’ [1 Thess. 5:21]; it is the foundation of the Reformation, which simply illustrated the axiom that every man should be able to give a reason for the faith that is in him; it is the great principle of Descartes; it is the fundamental axiom of modern science. Positively the principle may be expressed: In matters of the intellect, follow your reason as far as it will take you, without regard to any other consideration. And negatively: In matters of the intellect, do not pretend that conclusions are certain which are not demonstrated or demonstrable. That I take to be the agnostic faith, which if a man keep whole and undefiled, he shall not be ashamed to look the universe in the face, whatever the future may have in store for him.”

Based on this definition, there is no obvious connection to a stance regarding the question of divine existence; however, the text as a whole implies a negative position: throughout, Huxley distinguishes himself from Comte, and agnosticism from the Comtian “Religion of Humanity.” He finds it necessary to differentiate himself because they share a disbelief in an Abrahamic God, an adherence to scientism, and a triumphalism akin to the “End of History.” The differences are that Comte and the positivists were mediocre scientists who created a church with a structure inspired by Catholicism, whereas the 19th-century English agnostics were brilliant and had no intention of founding a church.

It is worth noting the Unitarian flavor of this rhetoric, which seeks to trace a rationalist and contrarian lineage—beginning with Socrates, running through the Bible, and reaching its pinnacle in the present day—stripped of any supernatural elements. Another significant 19th-century English figure who adopted this approach was John Stuart Mill, in On Liberty. His wife and collaborator was a Unitarian.

And, of course, we see here an opposition—perhaps historically unprecedented—between possessing a scientific spirit and believing in God. We can say that Darwin’s Bulldog, during Darwin’s lifetime, ostracized Deism from science, since Evolution was presented as a refutation the Newtonian Architect’s existence.

A Matter of Terminology

Ultimately, Thomas Huxley was what we would today call an atheist—as was likely Darwin, given that he chose the term coined by his friend to describe his own position. Curiously, even Comte did not call himself an atheist. It seems that the spirit of atheism and scientism was widespread among the 19th-century intelligentsia, yet the willingness to embrace the label was confined to radicals such as Friedrich Engels, Karl Marx (whose 1841 dissertation focused on Democritus and Epicurus, the fathers of materialism), and Mikhail Bakunin. In that era, the distinction between the terms “atheist” and “agnostic” likely amounted to little more than one’s willingness to shock society. Neither the French positivists nor the English evolutionists sought to shock; the communists and anarchists, however, did.

Over time, by the 21st century, being an atheist no longer shocks anyone; in more intellectual circles, it is the norm. Hence the tendency to discard the term “agnostic,” or to reserve it exclusively for those who are in a state of genuine doubt. Another semantic issue concerns what we mean by “God.” Some people say things like, “For me, God is energy”—which leads one to wonder: does it make sense to claim that God is the very same thing that makes my electric fan spin and subsequently shows up on my utility bill? In the United States, one of the few Western nations where declaring oneself an atheist can still cause a stir, it is common for people to label themselves “spiritual, but not religious.” Such individuals often gravitate toward esoteric practices—crystals, horoscopes, Zen meditation, gurus who are as ugly as they are hungry for sex, and so on—without committing to any specific religion. This is likely a legacy of deism; after all, Freemasonry played a significant role in the nation’s founding and is rooted in deism. It is no coincidence that this 21st-century deism can, much like its Renaissance precedents, the libertins, become blurred with atheism. Sam Harris himself, for instance, is an atheist who embraces New Age ideas.

It is a historical irony, then, that one of the coiners of the term “psychedelia” (Greek for “revelation of the mind”) happens to be the grandson of the man who coined the term “agnosticism.” It seems that a segment of humanity cannot relinquish the pursuit of ecstatic experiences and revelations, even after abandoning the notion of divine transcendence—leading them, instead, to seek such experiences within the material realm. The distinction between a “sober” atheist and a New Age atheist appears to be more a matter of temperament than of philosophy—much like the distinction between an atheist and an agnostic in the 19th century.

While the West persists in describing Africa as a continent without memory, its own museums are overflowing with artifacts, religious relics, and human remains confiscated from African rulers to mask the barbarity of a predatory colonization. For decades, as consciousness has been evolving in Africa, European intellectual arrogance has crumbled in the face of the […]