• McDonald's brought back the McRib for a national farewell tour in the fall of 2022. 
• The McRib has had at least three other farewell tours and has been on and off menus since 1981.
• It's returned to menus every year since 2023 and is back in select cities on October 27.

When bidding fans a final goodbye, the McRib appears to be taking cues from rock bands like The Who and KISS. The bands are known for farewell tours that didn't stick. The iconic McDonald's sandwich is also pulling a fast one with fans. 

In 2022, McDonald's said the barbecue-slathered boneless pork hoagie would say goodbye to fans in an event billed as the McRib's farewell tour. But the McRib returned to select McDonald's locations in November 2023, and has made similar returns every year since. In fact, the chain announced it will release the McRib again in October in select cities.

For 45 years, the McRib sandwich has been popping up randomly on the McDonald's menu. 

Here's a look at the history of the sandwich. 

Mary Meisenzahl and Nancy Luna contributed to an earlier version of this story.

No single Argentine capability shaped British planning during the 1982 South Atlantic conflict more than the pairing of the Dassault Super Étendard strike fighter and its deadly AM39 Exocet anti-ship missile. Against that threat, the British launched a series of special forces operations, all with the same objective: kill the Argentine pilots and destroy their aircraft and missiles before they could be used again. Together, the strike fighter and missile pairing had proven to be the biggest threat to the Royal Navy task force that had been sent to recapture the islands.

Five Super Étendard aircraft and five AM39 Exocet missiles had been delivered to Argentina before a French embargo took hold. The jets were flown by the Argentine Navy’s 2nd Naval Fighter and Attack Squadron out of Río Grande, on Tierra del Fuego, a region at South America’s southernmost tip, shared by Chile and Argentina. The Super Étendard/Exocet combination had already cost the British the destroyer HMS Sheffield on May 4 and the container ship Atlantic Conveyor on May 25.

The special forces operations were broken down into four phases — named PLUM DUFF, MIKADO, KETTLEDRUM, and IMPI — the last of which is the least well-documented, and the focus of this article.

PLUM DUFF was the insertion phase and was a reconnaissance mission. On May 16, an RAF Hercules airdropped eight special forces troops onto RFA Fort Austin to form a recce party. On the night of May 17/18, a Sea King HC4, ZA290, lifted off from the aircraft carrier HMS Invincible for a one-way flight to Tierra del Fuego, where the men were to observe Río Grande and report back. The patrol was set down far from the objective and never completed the reconnaissance; the helicopter crew flew on into Chile, where the aircraft was deliberately burnt to try and hide the evidence, while they tried to evade capture.

MIKADO was the planned attack phase, and it depended on that missing intelligence. Two Hercules were to air-land up to 70 men of B Squadron, 22 Special Air Service (SAS), directly on Río Grande — the air operation order of May 19 also named Río Gallegos, further up the Argentine coast, as an alternative. The men would destroy the Super Étendards and their Exocets on the ground, kill the pilots, and then withdraw overland into Chile. Commander Task Force 317, at Northwood, accepted from the outset that the mission could well cost both Hercules.

The aircrew did not refuse the task, but they were blunt about what it demanded: formation landing by two heavy transports on a possibly heavily defended, icy military runway, with a probable 20-knot tailwind, at night and on passive night-vision goggles in minimum light levels, with intelligence that was inadequate to support any air-land option at all. The RAF planning team recommended an airdrop as the better way to maintain a covert posture, and the Senior Air Staff Officer at Headquarters 38 Group warned the Air Commander to watch for overambitious schemes coming out of the SAS.

The U.K. Ministry of Defense formally cancelled MIKADO on June 4.

KETTLEDRUM was planned as the third of the set. It was aimed at Puerto Deseado, Santa Cruz Province of Argentina, and would have inserted a Special Boat Service party (SBS, the Royal Marines’ special forces unit) from the submarine HMS Onyx — a boat that will reappear before the end of this story.

None of the three was executed as planned.

Less well-known is that the cancellation of MIKADO produced a fourth project: Operation IMPI, named after a Zulu fighting force.

Cancelling MIKADO did not mean the wider operation was over. Also on June 4, the U.K. Ministry of Defense tasked CTF 317 to produce a new plan for special forces to destroy the combat effectiveness of the Super Étendards.

CTF 317’s staff went to work on what became IMPI. The planning document, Ops 1/3, is dated June 14 — the day of the Argentine surrender in the islands. In broad terms, the objective was to be attacked by special forces arriving both by air and by sea.

That much has been known, in fragments.

What has not been published until now is the fact that the operation had already been resourced.

At 2240Z on June 12, Maj. Gen. Jeremy Moore, commanding the land forces as CTG 317.1, signalled Rear Admiral Sandy Woodward’s battle group (CTG 317.8), with Admiral Sir John Fieldhouse at Northwood (CTF 317) and Commodore Michael Clapp’s amphibious group (CTG 317.0) as information addressees. The message called for B Squadron, 22 SAS, to be made available for operations as soon as possible: cover was needed against rapid developments of an unfavorable nature in West Falkland (Gran Malvina), and the theatre’s existing special forces assets were fully absorbed supporting the battle for Stanley — and IMPI. Operation IMPI, Moore noted in passing, was by then self-sufficient.

Examining two lines of routine signal traffic settles several things at once. Forty-eight hours before the surrender, IMPI was not a staff study but an operation that had been resourced, and that was enough to consume the theatre’s special forces and justify calling a fresh SAS squadron forward. It is also the only contemporary, operational-level reference to IMPI released so far: everything else comes from a narrative written years afterwards.

As that later narrative describes it, the concept behind IMPI was much leaner than MIKADO. Against two Hercules and 70 men, the air element of IMPI rested on a single RAF Hercules.

The aircraft was to fly from Ascension Island, refuel in flight, and then track east of the Falkland Islands and south of Cape Horn before making a low-level approach below Argentine radar cover for a night landing of special forces at the airfields codenamed San Jose and Arco Iris. Other special forces would have been inserted by sea. That air element, as will be seen, is the most questionable part of the entire file.

The routing is worth attention, because it rules out the intuitive picture of a direct run south from Ascension. Instead, the aircraft would have entered from the least-covered and least-expected direction, coming around the bottom of the continent rather than from the northeast.

The precise identities of San Jose and Arco Iris are not established in the declassified record.

The most likely reading is that they stand for Río Grande and Río Gallegos — the airfields at which the planned navigation ended, and the two named in MIKADO’s air operation order a month earlier. For a document circulating through restricted channels, encrypting the names of the two targets was an elementary precaution, although it should be noted that an operational order would more commonly have designated them simply as Target One and Target Two.

None of this rules out Chilean participation in other phases of the operation; if anything, it suggests it’s more likely. The narrative survives inside a folder classified Top Secret and restricted to the Chief of the Air Staff, whose declared subject is cooperation with Chile. That setting contrasts with the earlier stage of the planning, when mounting and recovering a special forces insertion from a Chilean airfield was considered and expressly discounted on political grounds — much as the use of an Antarctic strip was discounted after the New Zealand High Commission advised that the Antarctic winter precluded safe trans-polar flight.

The maritime half of IMPI can be traced in the records of those who were there.

Navigational support for the final phase was to come from the nuclear attack submarine HMS Conqueror. On June 9, 1982, Conqueror was off Bahía Camarones, working as an advanced picket and hunting targets of opportunity that ventured outside the 12-nautical-mile limit of Argentine territorial waters, with authority to sink any civilian vessel judged to be running to the Falklands/Malvinas; that same morning the sub had in fact entered Argentine territorial waters trying to locate the Argentine Navy’s Task Group 79.2.

That day, Conqueror received preparatory information on IMPI. The sub’s task was to come to periscope depth and act as a radio beacon, giving the Hercules a radio reference against which to refine a navigation that, low and at night, allowed no error. The resulting picture is an odd one: a nuclear submarine deployed on interdiction off the Patagonian coast, turned into a navigation aid for a transport aircraft.

The insertion itself fell to HMS Onyx, the Oberon class diesel-electric boat that had already taken part in Operation KETTLEDRUM and the only conventional submarine Britain deployed to the South Atlantic. On June 14, at 0815Z, lying in San Carlos Water, Onyx embarked a party of 10 men from B Squadron, 22 SAS and the SBS for the mission. The timing matches Moore’s signal of two days earlier almost exactly.

The plan called for the submarine to surface some two nautical miles offshore at night. The troops would close the beach in Gemini inflatables and destroy the objective — aircraft and missiles, if any were there — using anti-tank weapons and demolition charges.

What happened next illustrates the inertia of military machinery. The Argentine surrender in the islands came on that same June 14, hours after the party had gone aboard Onyx. Even so, preparations did not stop at once: on June 15 the embarked troops carried out practice landings from a Gemini. That does not mean IMPI was ever executed — it was not — but it does show that with the strategic outcome already settled, the machine was still rehearsing.

The British record closes the matter with administrative dryness: the surrender of the Argentine forces in the Falkland Islands and the cessation of hostile activity by Argentine aircraft resulted in the operation being cancelled.

The air part of the mission is another matter entirely and is where IMPI becomes more uncertain.

The only link between IMPI and an aircraft is a single paragraph in an RAF historical narrative. The folder that holds it was opened on April 18, 1986 — four years after the war — as an eyes-only briefing file for the Chief of the Air Staff, and the pages appear to be a working draft rather than a finished submission, carrying pencil amendments throughout.

Had a Hercules been earmarked, there is no doubt which unit would have provided it. The Special Forces Flight that runs through the whole chapter — five crews, commanded by a squadron leader, exercising regularly with SAS and SBS Sections — appears with its squadron number blanked out, yet the number surfaces a few paragraphs later, where two of its crews are described training on the probe-fitted Hercules C1P. The unit was No. 47 Squadron, RAF, home-based at Lyneham, and it would keep the special forces air support role for decades afterward.

The men who were at Ascension with that detachment, however, say they had nothing to do with it. Reliable sources with direct knowledge of the flight’s activity state that they never saw the codeword at the time, had never heard of the operation until this file surfaced, and consider it inconceivable that a special forces Hercules and crew could have been earmarked for a mission of this kind without the flight — a community of five crews that has stayed in touch ever since — learning of it at some point in the intervening four decades. By June 14, at most one aerial-refueling-qualified special forces crew was at Wideawake.

That skepticism is reinforced by the way the same narrative handles events those crews lived through. Its account of their own work-up does not survive contact with their logbooks.

For example, a practice infiltration into RAF Laarbruch in Germany that the narrative describes as successful had in fact been detected; the Hercules was notionally shot down about two miles out on the approach. The ramp toes (attachable extension plates located at the very end of the rear cargo ramp) it describes as droppable at 20 to 30 knots were never meant to be lowered with the aircraft moving, which would have been unsafe and risked the airframe. There are other anomalies, too.

A document that misstates the squadron’s own exercises is thin evidence on which to place that squadron over Tierra del Fuego.

What is not in question is what the Special Forces Flight could have done, had it been asked.

By mid-May the flight had two crews qualified in air-to-air refueling — one deployed to Ascension, the other held in the United Kingdom to train the others — flying Hercules C1s fitted with probes and, where the task required it, additional fuel tanks in the fuselage. It had rehearsed stream landings and rapid offloads, parachute insertion below radar cover to a pinpoint coastal feature, as well as flying on ANVIS goggles at 250 feet over sea and land. The goggles themselves were fitted to the crews’ helmets by RAE Farnborough specialists in a single day in mid-April. The reach was demonstrated on May 16, when the sortie that dropped the PLUM DUFF party stayed airborne for 24 hours and five minutes, with Victor tankers refueling some 1,800 miles from Ascension. Almost none of it was routine: nearly everything the force did during the conflict was improvised, at speed, in a matter of weeks.

What never had an answer — not for MIKADO, and not for whatever IMPI intended — was the other end of the problem. Putting men ashore deep inside Argentine territory was the solvable half. Getting an aircraft and its passengers out again after a direct action, from a strip in range of the Argentine Air Force, was not.

All of the above is reconstructed from lateral references: the RAF’s narrative in file AIR 20/13036 at the National Archives, unit records, submarine logs, operational signal traffic, and the accounts of participants.

The specific file — the one holding the complete plan with its annexes, the identification of the airfields and the execution sequence — remains closed. It is DEFE 71/980, titled Operation Corporate (Falklands Conflict): Operation IMPI, retained at the National Archives at Kew with no announced opening date. Until it is released, the air element of IMPI cannot be settled either way.

Forty-four years after the conflict, the last British special operation of the war is still, in essence, a document the British state is not prepared to show. That is not a trivial detail: the files touching on cooperation with Chile have consistently been the most reluctantly opened of all.

What remains is an operation of two halves. One of them is solid: a resourced plan, declared self-sufficient on June 12, with a nuclear submarine briefed to act as a beacon, 10 men of the SAS and the SBS embarked in a conventional submarine in San Carlos on the morning of the surrender, and rehearsals continuing the following day. The other half — a lone Hercules coming round Cape Horn to land on a codenamed strip — rests on one paragraph of a flawed staff narrative and is rejected by the only men who could have flown it.

Either way, the obsession is the same.

Between June 4 and June 14, 1982, while the final battle for Port Stanley/Puerto Argentino was being fought and the Argentine land campaign was collapsing, part of the British planning effort was still revolving around five French-built aircraft, their 10 aircrew, and their missiles. That the plan carries the date of the surrender itself, that it was still being rehearsed the following day, and that it remains classified today says a good deal about how far the British were prepared to go to destroy the Super Étendards and their Exocets.

Contact the editor: thomas@thewarzone.com

Mariano Sciaroni holds a master’s degree in Strategy and Geopolitics as well as a postgraduate diploma in Contemporary Military History, both earned at the Argentine Army’s Military Academy. Sciaroni has published five books and numerous articles on military and naval history. He is also an active member of the Argentine Institute of Military History and serves as a sub-lieutenant in the Argentine Army Reserve (Army Aviation Reserve Squadron). You can find out more about his books here.

The post Britain’s Final Plan To Kill Argentina’s Super Étendards Attack Jets appeared first on TWZ.

• The US has diverse architecture and building designs across the 50 states.
• History, art, and local aesthetics are all reflected in some of America's most unique buildings.
• From prehistoric dwellings to kitschy designs, these buildings make for unique tourist attractions.

Throughout its 250-year history, the US has produced some striking and unique architecture that you can't find anywhere else — and lots of it can look wildly different across state lines.

Defining what we consider "coolest" is hard. We evaluated every state on its own terms and found that the architecture across all 50 states and Washington, DC, can be as diverse as the country's population.

In states like California and Massachusetts, picking the most striking building meant finding ones that look futuristic and elegant, like something out of a science-fiction movie. In other states, like Maine and the Carolinas, we found that the coolest buildings are distinctive because of their place in history or their states' cultures.

Whether you're looking for a piece of history or a glimpse into the future, these buildings can show you what different worlds look like.

James Grebey and Jacob Shamsian contributed to an earlier version of this story.

The article examines how editorial disputes, legal restrictions and institutional decisions shape the way Palestinian history, suffering and political expression are presented to the public.

by Patti Johnson, Glory To God Studio: As a baby boomer raised in a sheltered, church-going family, I loved the Beatles like every other teenager. I wore out my copy of Sgt. Pepper and sang “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.” I had zero idea that “Lucy” stood for LSD, or that John Lennon was […]

Hungary’s Western anchor is set. The rest depends on pipelines, not speeches.

Join us on Telegram, X, and VK.

Contact us: info@strategic-culture.su

The days of October

“Magyarország nem kompország”: Hungary is not a “ferry country”; it cannot drift between East and West. With this statement, delivered on October 23 before the Parliament in Budapest, Prime Minister Péter Magyar set the political tone for the 70th anniversary of the 1956 revolution. Immediately afterward, he added that in ’56 the Hungarians had already made their choice: “We belong to a free and democratic Europe.”

The phrase is no accident. The kompország is an image coined by Endre Ady, who in 1905 described Hungary as a ferry doomed to shuttle back and forth between East and West without ever docking permanently on either shore. For sixteen years, Viktor Orbán had overturned that assessment, transforming the oscillation into a strategy: Hungary as a bridge, Moscow’s interlocutor within the European Union, a hub of “opening to the East.” The new government chose the day most steeped in memory on the national calendar to declare that era over. This is the political significance of the day, and it is the appropriate place to begin.

On October 23, 1956, students from the Budapest University of Technology took to the streets in solidarity with Polish workers. The procession gathered in front of the statue of General Bem, then headed toward the Parliament; among their demands were free elections and the withdrawal of Soviet troops. In the evening, part of the crowd moved to Városliget, where the monument to Stalin stood. The Budapest police chief, Sándor Kopácsi, provided a detailed account in his book *Au nom de la classe ouvrière*: the demonstrators wrapped a steel cable around the neck of the statue—which, including its pedestal, stood about twenty-five meters tall—while others, who had arrived in trucks loaded with oxygen tanks and cutting torches, began cutting through the bronze at the level of the boots. It took about an hour for the statue to collapse. Only the boots remained on the pedestal, into which a Hungarian flag was planted. At the same time, in front of the Radio headquarters, the political police (ÁVH) opened fire on the crowd, and the protest turned into an armed uprising.

On October 25, in Kossuth Square, shots fired at demonstrators gathered in front of the Parliament caused a massacre whose death toll, even today, ranges from a few dozen to several hundred. This year’s state ceremony took place in that same square.

The revolution was not a bloodless affair on just one side. In the alleys of the 8th and 9th districts, around Corvin Passage, groups of insurgents—many of whom were boys barely out of their teens—attacked Soviet tanks with Molotov cocktails, and many crew members were burned to death inside their vehicles. Total Soviet casualties exceeded seven hundred. The fiercest violence, however, was directed at the men of the political police. On October 30, in Republic Square (Köztársaság tér), the insurgents stormed the party headquarters in Budapest: more than twenty ÁVH officers and conscripts were killed, some lynched and hanged from trees, along with City Secretary Imre Mező. The revolution’s own leaders condemned these acts and called for an end to summary justice.

The October 28 ceasefire marked the beginning of the withdrawal phase. Moscow agreed to withdraw its units from Budapest on the condition that they be replaced by Hungarian units and that the insurgents surrender their weapons. The columns in direct contact with the fighters left their positions on October 30; the last ones departed from the Parliament area in the early afternoon of the 31st. It was a retreat carried out in an openly hostile atmosphere. The groups at the Corvin Passage, convinced that this was a ruse, refused to assist in securing the convoys, and their suspicion was not unfounded: several armored vehicles remained hidden in Népliget and other parts of the city. However, the available sources—both Hungarian and Soviet—do not document any systematic attacks against the departing troops during those two days. The most harrowing accounts—those of Soviet soldiers killed while fleeing from burning vehicles—pertain to the clashes that occurred after November 4. Meanwhile, on October 31, the Presidium of the CPSU had already overturned the decision.

On November 1, Imre Nagy’s government proclaimed the country’s neutrality and its withdrawal from the Warsaw Pact. At dawn on November 4, Operation “Turbine” brought seventeen Soviet divisions back to Budapest. The final toll included approximately 2,500 Hungarian deaths, about 200,000 exiles, tens of thousands of convictions, and more than two hundred executions; Nagy, Pál Maléter, and Miklós Gimes were hanged after a secret trial in June 1958.

Three squares, three memories

Magyar said that for years Hungarians had been led to believe that the national holiday belonged to a single political party. The day showed that the memory of ’56 remains divided, even if the roles have been reversed. The state held its celebrations in Kossuth Square, with the morning flag-raising ceremony and a solemn session of Parliament. Fidesz, KDNP, and Mi Hazánk did not participate because they do not recognize the legitimacy of the new President of the Republic, András Baka.

Fidesz organized its own “March of the National Flag” from the Technical University to Bem Square, following the route taken by the students in 1956. Speakers included former President János Áder, historian Mária Schmidt, and parliamentary group leader János Bóka. For the first time in many years, Orbán did not deliver the October 23 speech: he was in Paris and limited himself to sharing Bóka’s video on social media. The slogan chosen for the demonstration—“No war, no gender, no migration—God, homeland, family”—makes it quite clear which interpretation of 1956 the opposition intends to uphold: that of a revolt for the nation, faith, and family against ideology—an interpretation to be revived today against Brussels.

Mi Hazánk has taken this interpretation to its logical conclusion. Its leader, László Toroczkai, has argued that in 1956 the Hungarians did not rebel against Russia but against an internationalist empire—and that today that empire is called the European Union—which reveals that, at least for a segment of the Hungarian right, 1956 has become an anti-Western symbol.

Magyar’s speech in Kossuth Square addressed this contentious issue. He recalled Erika Szeles, Péter Mansfeld, István Angyal, Nagy, and Maléter; he said that military superiority was able to crush the revolution and execute “the martyred prime minister,” but could not extinguish the desire for freedom. Then he turned to the present. Those who seek support against their own people “in Moscow or elsewhere,” he said, should remember that power sustained by foreign backing lasts only a short while. Anyone who, after 1956, parades an aggressor through the streets or subordinates the nation to foreign empires “has understood nothing of the message of ’56,” and Magyar added: “whether in Budapest or on a Parisian terrace” . The target was Orbán.

The section on foreign policy was brief and clear: Hungary wants to be a reliable ally and an equal partner, not a country that follows an isolated course. The speech never explicitly mentioned Russia, nor did it speak of neutrality. This choice is significant. In 1956, neutrality was Nagy’s ultimate demand; seventy years later, the Hungarian government interprets that same legacy as an anchor to the West, not as equidistance.

Brussels in Budapest

The presence of Commission President Ursula von der Leyen and European Council President António Costa gave the day an explicitly European framework. Von der Leyen, on her first visit to Hungary since 2024, spoke in Parliament of a return “to a reborn country.” She said that in 1956 even the Soviets were afraid, because a victory by the Hungarian people would have spread the desire for democracy. She then directly linked the anniversary to the April 12 election: in April, Hungary would once again send a message of hope, demonstrating that democratic regression is reversible. She had already made the same comparison between Orbán’s defeat and the 1956 revolution in the aftermath of the elections, sparking protests among the Hungarian right.

The rest of the guest list was more modest than the government had led people to believe. Delegations were sent by some forty countries, almost all at the level of ministers or parliamentary speakers; Moldovan President Maia Sandu and Georgian Prime Minister Irakli Kobakhidze were in attendance. Emmanuel Macron, whose attendance Magyar had announced in an interview, did not attend: the French embassy clarified that the visit had never been confirmed, following days of tension over certain comments by the Hungarian prime minister regarding the unrest in France. Also absent were Giorgia Meloni, who was visiting Kuwait, and Donald Tusk, who was in India. Volodymyr Zelenskyy was not present; Ukraine was represented by the Speaker of Parliament. Vladimir Putin was the only head of state from Europe to not receive an invitation.

On October 23, he symbolically confirmed a shift that had already begun in practice. The Magyar government has classified Russia as a security threat, given the green light to open four negotiation chapters for Ukraine’s accession to the European Union, and set the 2027 defense budget at 2% of GDP. The role of bridge between Europe and Russia—which Orbán had made the hallmark of Hungarian foreign policy—is no longer government doctrine.

It remains to be seen to what extent this can be achieved in practice. Last April, Magyar pointed out that Hungary is “close to Russia” and that paying more for raw materials harms European competitiveness; he said he was ready for pragmatic cooperation with Moscow and wanted to renegotiate the terms of Paks II with the Kremlin. Oil still comes via the Druzhba pipeline, and the country’s only nuclear power plant burns Russian fuel. Energy Minister István Kapitány maintains that, starting in October 2027, gas could come entirely from non-Russian sources, and a decision on Paks II is expected by the end of the year.

The 70th anniversary thus leaves one question unanswered. Ady feared that Hungary would remain a ferry forever. Orbán had tried to turn the ferry into a bridge. Magyar now promises a permanent landing on the western shore. Whether that landing will be stable will be determined more by geography and infrastructure than by speeches.

The two squares on October 23—Kossuth and Bem—did not celebrate the same revolution.

Twenty years since the DPRK’s first nuclear test is a good occasion to recall things that seemed far from obvious at the time. To begin with, had the United States and the collective West been less inclined to view North Korea as a tyrannical regime on the verge of collapse, and had they therefore faithfully […]

10/27/1787: First Federalist Paper is published.

The post Today in Supreme Court History: October 27, 1787 appeared first on Reason Magazine.

The blaze leaves Bavaria weighing tourism against historical memory of Nazi era

If there’s a Wikipedia page about yourself, you must be famous—some kind of celebrity—or an expert in your field, or a figure who’s made a prominent contribution to human history or culture. But what happens when that page is nominated by Wikipedia editors for deletion? In a quirky tech story for Wired, Duncan Fyfe reports on the strange experience of being told you’re just not notable enough.

There is, when you look for it, a careless and cocky tone that can creep into the verdicts of Wikipedia editors who have been doing the job for a long time. “This guy is a nobody. Delete him.” “I’ve got more followers on Instagram than he does.” “All we have here are stand-up comedy, opinion columns, being a guest or collaborator on some non-notable podcasts … This is more or less every twentieth person who lives in NYC.”

A review of “Crossing the Red Line: Biden, His Advisors, and Israel’s War in Gaza.” The President deferred again and again to Israel’s narrative and sold weapons that were used in war crimes.

As the Left unites with Islamists to march against Israel, what it forgets is that Zionism was always a progressive movement – and the Irish forget that they originally identified with the Jews, says Andres Roth.

The post The Left Forgets That Zionism is a Progressive Movement appeared first on The Daily Sceptic.

From the 17th to the 20th century, Ukrainian lands were split between empires and states. Their rulers tried to assimilate Ukrainians and block their self-determination by going after what set them apart: their language and culture.

Nobody has an exact count of the bans. Historian Pavlo Hai-Nyzhnyk says there were more than 100 and that the real number is likely higher, because governors issued local bans too.

These measures differed in purpose and reach. Some restricted publishing, schooling, or official use; others suppressed cultural institutions or pushed assimilation. Most served the forced Russification of Ukrainians in the Russian Empire and the USSR. The timeline below is a selection of documented events, not a count of bans.

Russia has not stopped. Since 2014, schooling in Ukrainian has collapsed in the territories it occupies, and in 2025 it removed Ukrainian from the federal school programs it imposes there.

Here are some of the most important restrictions on Ukrainian language and cultural life imposed by the regimes ruling over Ukraine.

17th century

1627: Muscovy. Moscow church authorities condemn Kyrylo Trankvilion-Stavrovetskyi’s Didactic Gospel, a collection of sermons printed in Ukraine in 1619, and order copies burned in Moscow.

1697: Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. An act requires tribunal and court decisions in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania to be written in Polish, displacing Ruthenian in those courts.

18th century

1720: Russian Tsardom. Peter I’s decree restricts the Kyiv and Chernihiv presses to approved reprints of church books and requires them to conform to Russian editions, suppressing local textual and linguistic differences.

1728: Russian Empire. Under the Decisive Points (Reshytelni punkty), the legal texts used in the Hetmanate’s courts are to be translated into Russian and compiled into a single code.

1730s: Russian Empire. Under Empress Anna, Kyiv’s archbishop is instructed to replace older locally printed church books with Moscow editions.

1769: Russian Empire. The Holy Synod refuses the Kyiv-Pechersk Lavra permission to print primers in the local language and tells it not to submit such requests again.

1775: Russian Empire. A Russian army destroys the Zaporozhian Sich, the Cossacks’ last stronghold and one of Ukraine’s own political institutions.

1780s: Russian Empire. Samuil Myslavskyi, metropolitan of Kyiv from 1783, insists on literary Russian as the only language of instruction at the Kyiv-Mohyla Academy.

1789: Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. The Commission of National Education orders the Ukrainian parish schools of Right-Bank Ukraine Polonized.

19th century

1847: Russian Empire. After suppressing the Cyril and Methodius Brotherhood, a secret society that called for a federation of free Slavic peoples, the authorities ban and withdraw from sale specified works by Taras Shevchenko, Panteleimon Kulish, and Mykola Kostomarov.

1859: Austrian Empire. Austrian officials back a plan to replace the Cyrillic alphabet used for Ukrainian in Galicia with a Latin one. Ukrainian opposition defeats the plan in what became known as the “alphabet war.”

1862: Russian Empire. The authorities close the Sunday schools, free schools for working adults and young people, including Ukrainian ones. They begin reopening under tighter control in 1864.

1863: Russian Empire. Interior Minister Pyotr Valuev’s circular tells censors not to approve Ukrainian religious, school, and popular-reading books, while still allowing fiction under censorship. It claims that most Little Russians themselves argue that “there was not, is not, and cannot be any special Little Russian language.”

1864: Russian Empire. The 1864 statute requires Russian as the teaching language in the elementary schools it regulates.

1869: Austria-Hungary. Polish becomes the internal language of administration and the courts in Galicia. The 1867 school arrangements had already strengthened Polish dominance, while leaving limited room for Ukrainian-language schooling.

1876: Russian Empire. Alexander II’s secret Ems Ukaz severely restricts Ukrainian publishing and bans Ukrainian publications from abroad, Ukrainian stage performances and public readings, and Ukrainian lyrics printed with music. Exceptions allow historical documents in their original spelling and fiction in Russian spelling under censorship.

1881: Russian Empire. New rules ease parts of the Ems Ukaz: Ukrainian plays may be staged with a governor’s special permission. Theater troupes performing only in Ukrainian stay banned.

1883: Russian Empire. Kyiv Governor-General Aleksandr Drenteln bars Ukrainian theater troupes from performing in the Kyiv, Podillia, Volhynia, Poltava, and Chernihiv governorates.

1895: Russian Empire. The censorship authorities ban the publication of Ukrainian children’s books.

20th century

1910: Russian Empire. A circular from Pyotr Stolypin’s interior ministry tells governors to refuse registration to non-Russian national societies, Ukrainian ones included, and to review existing ones for closure. Kyiv’s Prosvita is dissolved the same year.

1914: Russian Empire. The authorities ban public celebrations of Taras Shevchenko’s centenary. After the empire enters World War I, they close most Ukrainian periodicals, including the Kyiv daily Rada.

1914–15, 1916–17: Russian Empire. Russian occupation authorities suppress Ukrainian institutions and publications in Galicia and Bukovyna. The first occupation brings mass arrests and deportations, the destruction of Ukrainian books, and the arrest of Metropolitan Andrei Sheptytskyi.

1923: Soviet Ukraine. Dmytro Lebid, second secretary of the Communist Party of Ukraine, sets out the “theory of the struggle of two cultures,” which holds that the Russian culture of the city is more advanced than the Ukrainian culture of the village. The party rejects it and adopts Ukrainization the same year.

1924: Poland. Three laws of 31 July make Polish the state language of administration and the courts, keep limited rights for minority languages, and set school rules that favor Polish-Ukrainian bilingual schools over separate Ukrainian ones.

1924: Romania. The primary education law requires citizens of Romanian origin who have “lost their mother tongue” to send their children to Romanian schools. Ukrainian historians say it was applied to Ukrainians in Bukovyna.

1925: Poland. The Lviv Underground Ukrainian University, which had taught clandestinely since 1921, stops teaching after police raids and the Polish state’s refusal to recognize it.

1926: USSR. In a letter to Kaganovich and the Ukrainian Politburo, Stalin attacks Oleksandr Shumskyi and Mykola Khvylovyi and rejects Ukrainizing Russian workers “from above,” while still backing controlled Ukrainization of official institutions.

1932–33: USSR. A secret resolution of 14 December 1932 orders the Ukrainian-language paperwork and press of the North Caucasus switched to Russian at once and its schools prepared for teaching in Russian. In Soviet Ukraine, it puts Ukrainization under tighter party control and demands purges of “nationalist” elements. The repression of 1933 dismantles Ukrainization.

1938: USSR. A decree of 13 March makes Russian a compulsory subject in the non-Russian schools of the national republics and regions.

1947: Poland. In Operation Vistula, Polish authorities forcibly resettle about 150,000 Ukrainians to northern and western Poland, under an assimilation policy that sought to keep them below 10% of any locality.

1958–59: USSR. The school reform expands parents’ choice of teaching language and makes the study of Ukrainian optional in Russian-language schools in Soviet Ukraine.

1960s–70s: Romania and Poland. Romania nearly eliminates Ukrainian-language schooling from the mid-1960s. In Poland, Ukrainian schools and Ukrainian classes shrink.

1972: USSR. The party’s resolution on the USSR’s 50th anniversary promotes the “new historical community, the Soviet people,” an idea first voiced in 1961. Soviet ethnographers wrote that the spread of Russian among non-Russian peoples played the paramount role in forming this community.

1978: USSR. The USSR Council of Ministers orders wider study of Russian in the union republics. Ukraine’s implementing resolution of 2 November requires Russian from first grade in Ukrainian-language schools from the 1980/81 school year.

1983: USSR. A resolution of 26 May gives specified teachers of Russian in non-Russian schools in villages and small towns a 15% pay raise from 1984.

1984: USSR. The school reform resolution of 12 April adds two to three hours of Russian a week in grades 2 to 11 of non-Russian schools.

1989: USSR. The Communist Party’s party platform of 20 September calls for making Russian, by law, the language of the whole country alongside the republics’ state languages.

1990: USSR. The April 1990 law on the languages of the peoples of the USSR makes Russian the official language of the Soviet Union, while letting the republics set their own state languages.

21st century

2014–18: Crimea. Under Russian occupation, schooling in Ukrainian collapses. In 2013/14, 12,694 children studied in Ukrainian in 7 schools and 829 classes; by 2017/18, 318 children did, in one school and 13 classes, the UN human rights office reports, noting the figures conflict in places.

2020: DNR and LNR. The so-called DNR votes to amend its “constitution” on 6 March, dropping Ukrainian as a “state language” and leaving only Russian. The so-called LNR does the same in June.

2022: Occupied Kherson and Zaporizhzhia oblasts. Russia’s Education Ministry says on 12 August that schools in newly occupied areas will teach in Russian, with Ukrainian allowed only as an optional “native” language. Occupation authorities then cap Ukrainian at three hours a week, Human Rights Watch reports.

2023: Occupied Donetsk and Luhansk oblasts. Russia removes nearly all Ukrainian literature from local libraries, most likely destroying it, Ukraine’s National Resistance Center reports. The so-called LNR publishes a list of banned books.

2024: International Court of Justice. On 31 January, the court ruled, 13 votes to 2, that Russia violated the UN convention against racial discrimination in how it ran school education in Ukrainian in occupied Crimea.

2025: Russia. Education Ministry Order No. 729, in force since 15 December, removes Ukrainian language and literature from Russia’s federal primary and lower-secondary programs, the UN human rights office reports. Russia imposes these programs on schools in the occupied territories, where about 582,000 children study, the Almenda center says.

What we changed in October 2026

Editor’s note, 27 October 2026: We first published this timeline in 2017. Like many lists of bans on Ukrainian that circulate online, it repeated some claims that have no document behind them. In October 2026, we went back to historians’ work and to the decrees themselves.

We removed about fifteen entries. Most we could not confirm; a few were not about language. We corrected others where the documents say something different: some bans had exceptions, some dates were off by a year, and the end of Ukrainization came in 1932–33. We replaced the old count of 60 bans, which we could not trace, with a historian’s estimate. And we added what Russia has done to the Ukrainian language in the territories it has occupied since 2014.

If you have a document for something we left out, write to us.

The electric vehicle might seem like a very modern invention, but is actually as old as automobile itself. It first appeared in the autumn of 1888 on the streets of Coburg, a small German town. With four wheels and a wooden body, it looked remarkably like a horseless carriage, but instead of relying on an internal combustion engine, it drew its power from electricity.

The machine was called the Flocken Elektrowagen, and it is widely regarded as one of the world's earliest electric automobiles.

A modern replica of the Flocken Elektrowagen. Credit: Wikimedia Commons

Ahead of the Oct 27 vote, Noam ranks Israel’s 8 biggest political earthquakes—from Begin’s 1977 upset to the 2019–2021 election chaos, plus predictions for what's next.

10/26/1774: First Continental Congress ends its first session in Philadelphia.

The post Today in Supreme Court History: October 26, 1774 appeared first on Reason Magazine.

Losing Chagos would end the claim that the sun never sets on the British Empire. From Bermuda to Pitcairn, the UK's remaining territories form an unrivalled network worth keeping, argues James Alexander.

The post The Bermuda Quadrangle? Why the UK Should Hold On to the Empire on Which the Sun Never Sets appeared first on The Daily Sceptic.

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.