The Flintstones, the beloved cartoon family, has been popular with audiences since the show first aired in 1960. However, few people know the behind-the-scenes story of how the show was created, how it got on the air, and how a famous television and movie actor almost had it taken off the air. The show achieved strong ratings when many expected it to fail. Its advertising sponsors changed to reflect an increasingly young audience, and some Flintstones products are still sold today. Even its famous theme song did not appear until the third season.

The show also pushed the boundaries of censorship while still following most of the standards of the day, and its success paved the way for the longest-running animated prime-time series. The Flintstones was pioneering and influential, and its effects are still felt today.

Daniel Boustead explains.

Joseph Barbera and Bill Hanna, 1960s. Source: Public domain, no copyright, available here.

It all began when John Mitchell of Screen Gems approached Hanna-Barbera Productions with the idea for a prime-time animated series.[1] William Hanna and Joseph Barbera tried out ideas for family sitcoms featuring Romans, farmers, hillbillies, and even Gypsies (Romani), but nothing worked. The breakthrough came when storyboard artist Dan Gordon sketched two cave people and a bird playing a stone record. Soon afterward, Gordon, working with designer Ed Benedict, drew Fred and Wilma Flintstone, Barney and Betty Rubble, and the world of Bedrock, and Joe Barbera and Dan Gordon sketched the plots for two episodes: P-1, “The Swimming Pool,” and P-2, “The Flintstone Flyer.”[2]

Once the artwork was complete, Joe Barbera and John Mitchell, Hanna-Barbera’s agent at Screen Gems, went to New York City in early 1960 to pitch the show to advertising agencies and television networks, a campaign that lasted eight weeks. At this stage, the show was called The Flagstones.[3] ABC bought it in March 1960. Screen Gems then sent Joe Barbera to sell the remaining advertising time, believing he was the best person for the job. He traveled to Winston-Salem, North Carolina, to pitch the show to the R.J. Reynolds Tobacco Company, which signed on because, as one of its executives put it, “At least there’s no blood and guts running in the street.”[4] In Chicago, Illinois, Barbera also secured Miles Laboratories as a sponsor; the company later created Flintstones Vitamins.[5] Bayer AG bought Miles Laboratories in 1979 and retired the Miles name in 1995,[6] and Bayer still makes Flintstones Vitamins today.[7]

 

Early days

Meanwhile, the show’s name changed. To avoid a legal dispute with the comic strip Hi and Lois, whose family was named Flagston, the producers dropped the name The Flagstones.[8] For a while, the show was called The Gladstones, until someone at Screen Gems suggested The Flintstones, and the name stuck.[9] The first episode, “The Flintstone Flyer,” aired on ABC on September 30, 1960. “The Swimming Pool,” although produced first, aired third, on October 14, 1960.[10]

The show almost did not survive, because actor Jackie Gleason considered legal action against the producers. It has long been reported that The Flintstones was based on Gleason’s TV show The Honeymooners, and Henry Corden, Gleason’s friend and the second voice of Fred Flintstone, confirmed the story. As Corden remembered, “Jackie’s lawyers told him he could have ‘The Flintstones’ pulled right off the air. But they also told him, ‘Do you want to be known as the guy who yanked Fred Flintstone off the air? The guy who took away a show that so many kids love, and so many of their parents love, too?’ And apparently Jackie thought it over and decided against it.” Flintstones co-creator Bill Hanna acknowledged the Honeymooners connection: “‘The Honeymooners’ was there, and we used that as a kind of basis for the concept.”[11]

The show not only survived but thrived in the ratings. Early on, critics predicted The Flintstones would be a flop.[12] The Nielsen ratings proved them wrong. In the October 1960–April 1961 season, The Flintstones ranked No. 18 among all U.S. programs, with a rating of 24.3. In the 1961–62 season, it ranked No. 21 with a rating of 22.9, tied with CBS’s The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis, and in the 1962–63 season it ranked No. 30 with a rating of 20.5.[13]

The show’s sponsors changed to suit its audience. During the first two seasons, Fred and Barney appeared in Winston cigarette commercials during the show’s breaks.[14] Winston cigarettes were made by the R.J. Reynolds Tobacco Company and had been on sale since 1954.[15] By the third season, which began in September 1962, Winston was out as a sponsor and Welch’s grape juice was in, reflecting the growing number of children watching the show.[16] The change came several months before Pebbles was born on the show in early 1963. During commercial breaks, Fred would also open his medicine cabinet to reveal Alka-Seltzer and One-A-Day vitamins, both made by Miles Laboratories, the show’s other main sponsor.[17]

 

Legacy

The last original episode of The Flintstones aired on April 1, 1966.[18] However, two products closely associated with the show were only beginning their long commercial lives. In 1968, Miles Laboratories began producing Flintstones Vitaminsfor children, and in 1971, Post introduced Pebbles cereal in Fruity and Cocoa varieties. By 1992, more than 60 million boxes of Pebbles cereal had been sold.[19] Both Flintstones Vitamins and Pebbles cereal are still sold today.

Interestingly, the famous theme song was not used when the show first aired. The original theme, “Rise and Shine,” was used for the first two seasons[20] and was a jazzy instrumental with no lyrics.[21] The melody of the now-famous “Meet the Flintstones” first appeared as sad instrumental background music in the episode “The Swimming Pool.”[22] “Meet the Flintstones,” composed by Hoyt Curtin with lyrics by Bill Hanna and Joe Barbera, became the theme song in season three.[23]

The show also challenged a censorship barrier of its time. Fred and Wilma Flintstone were among the first television couples, and very likely the first animated one, to be shown sharing a double bed, something network standards had long discouraged. At the same time, The Flintstones followed the network standards of the day: a stone toilet was strictly prohibited and never appeared on screen, and when Wilma was pregnant, the word “pregnant” was banned and replaced with “expecting.”[24]

The show’s success also paved the way for The Simpsons. The Flintstones was the first animated sitcom to air in prime time.[25] It ran until April 1, 1966, for a total of 166 episodes.[26] It remained the longest-running prime-time animated series until The Simpsons, which is still airing new episodes today, broke the record in 1997, and it went on to spawn several spin-offs and crossovers.[27] Reruns of the original series began after the show ended.[28]

The Flintstones has been a cultural phenomenon since it first aired in 1960. The show avoided legal trouble twice. It achieved strong ratings despite critics’ predictions that it would fail. Its advertisers changed as its audience grew younger. It challenged one censorship barrier while respecting others. And it laid the foundations for the success of The Simpsons. More than six decades on, the legacy of The Flintstones endures.

 

To my paternal grandfather, John Boustead (November 11, 1913 – January 14, 2006): a fan of The Flintstones, a lover of history, and a productive patent lawyer.

 

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References 

Adams, T.R. The Flintstones: A Modern Stone Age Phenomenon. Atlanta, Georgia: Turner Publishing, Inc., 1994.

Brooks, Tim, and Earle Marsh. The Complete Directory to Prime Time Network and Cable TV Shows: 1946–Present. 9thed. New York, New York: Ballantine Books, 2007.

“Flintstones Vitamins.” Bayer. Accessed September 6, 2026. https://www.flintstonesvitamins.com. “Bayer Global – Home.” Bayer Global. Accessed September 7, 2026. https://www.bayer.com/en/.

“The Flintstones (1960): 15 Weird Facts You Didn’t Know!” Remember When. YouTube video, 28:13. Uploaded August 1, 2026. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jgKMi4LvSTg.

Inside Toon. “Flintstones 30th Anniversary Entertainment Tonight 1991 Jean Van der Pyl, Henry Corden.” YouTube video, 3:25. Accessed September 16, 2026. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DYt4K1kXfd0.

“Miles Laboratories.” The Flintstones: Welcome to Bedrock (Fandom wiki). Accessed September 10, 2026. https://flintstones.fandom.com/wiki/Miles_Laboratories.

“Winston.” First Versions. Accessed September 18, 2026. https://www.firstversions.com/2017/06/winston.html#google_vignette.

 

 

 


[1] Adams, T.R. The Flintstones: A Modern Stone Age Phenomenon. Atlanta, Georgia: Turner Publishing, Inc., 1994, 22.

[2] Adams, The Flintstones, 22–23.

[3] Adams, The Flintstones, 22–23, 25.

[4] Adams, The Flintstones, 26.

[5] Adams, The Flintstones, 29.

[6] “Miles Laboratories.” The Flintstones: Welcome to Bedrock (Fandom wiki). Accessed September 10, 2026. https://flintstones.fandom.com/wiki/Miles_Laboratories.

[7] “Flintstones Vitamins.” Bayer. Accessed September 6, 2026. https://www.flintstonesvitamins.com; “Bayer Global – Home.” Bayer Global. Accessed September 7, 2026. https://www.bayer.com/en/.

[8] “The Flintstones (1960): 15 Weird Facts You Didn’t Know!” Remember When. YouTube video, 28:13. Uploaded August 1, 2026. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jgKMi4LvSTg.

[9] Adams, The Flintstones, 36.

[10] Adams, The Flintstones, 26, 146.

[11] Adams, The Flintstones, 38.

[12] Inside Toon. “Flintstones 30th Anniversary Entertainment Tonight 1991 Jean Van der Pyl, Henry Corden.” YouTube video, 3:25. Accessed September 16, 2026. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DYt4K1kXfd0.

[13] Tim Brooks and Earle Marsh, The Complete Directory to Prime Time Network and Cable TV Shows: 1946–Present, 9th ed. New York, New York: Ballantine Books, 2007, 1679, 1682–1683.

[14] “15 Weird Facts You Didn’t Know!,” Remember When.

[15] “Winston.” First Versions. Accessed September 18, 2026. https://www.firstversions.com/2017/06/winston.html#google_vignette.

[16] “15 Weird Facts You Didn’t Know!,” Remember When.

[17] Adams, The Flintstones, 126.

[18] Adams, The Flintstones, 113.

[19] Adams, The Flintstones, 129.

[20] Adams, The Flintstones, 65.

[21] “15 Weird Facts You Didn’t Know!,” Remember When.

[22] Adams, The Flintstones, 65, 146; “15 Weird Facts You Didn’t Know!,” Remember When.

[23] “15 Weird Facts You Didn’t Know!,” Remember When.

[24] Adams, The Flintstones, 62.

[25] “15 Weird Facts You Didn’t Know!,” Remember When.

[26] Adams, The Flintstones, 113, 187.

[27] “15 Weird Facts You Didn’t Know!,” Remember When.

[28] Adams, The Flintstones, 113.

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AuthorHistory Is Now Magazine

In the early 18th century, Liverpool entered the transatlantic slave trade, the darkest chapter in its history. The remnants of this period can still be seen today, scattered throughout the city centre and beyond. From the waterfront to the Town Hall, reminders of Liverpool’s involvement remain embedded in its landscape. This raises the question: what did the slave trade actually mean for the people of Liverpool, and how did an economy built around Atlantic commerce transform the city's workplaces and industries?

Sophie Leigh Riley explains.

A Liverpool Slave Ship by William Jackson. Source: Public domain, Merseyside Maritime Museum, available here.

For Liverpool to become deeply involved in the trade, it first became part of a wider system linking British merchants and ships with the coasts of West Africa and the American plantations. The system involved the forced capture, sale and transportation of more than 12 million African men, women and children across the Atlantic, where those who survived the voyage were subjected to enslavement and forced labour. The commodities they were forced to produce, including sugar, tobacco and cotton, fuelled a vast network of trade and commerce across the globe.

To understand Liverpool’s growth as a port, we need to go back to the city’s humble beginnings. For centuries, the Liverpool we see today was a small town whose economy relied on fishing, farming and coastal trade. The restoration of King Charles II in 1660 marked a period of significant change, as Liverpool began its transformation from a minor port into a major maritime centre. During this period, Parliament passed several maritime laws that helped create favourable conditions for the expansion of English shipping. The Navigation Acts, for example, required colonial goods to be carried in English-owned ships, contributing to the growth of Liverpool’s ship-owning and shipbuilding industries.

Yet the port itself remained undeveloped. Before 1715, Liverpool had no purpose-built docks: ships entered the river and anchored offshore, and their cargo was brought ashore by small boats. In 1709, Parliament passed legislation enabling the construction of the world’s first commercial enclosed wet dock, designed by the London engineer Thomas Steers. It opened in 1715, providing a safe harbour for the burgeoning overseas trade in sugar, tobacco, grain and timber. As Liverpool’s growth accelerated throughout the late 18th century, an intricate network of docks and spacious warehouses developed along the waterfront, creating the infrastructure for the next stage of the city’s maritime expansion.

The reasons for Liverpool’s rise in the transatlantic slave trade are still debated, but historians point to a combination of geography, commercial opportunity and the rapid development of the port’s infrastructure. National Museums Liverpool notes that the city’s geographical position gave its merchants ‘easy access to the goods that would sell in Africa’. Liverpool’s connections to the wider British manufacturing economy also gave merchants access to commodities that could be exchanged on the West African coast, including Lancashire cotton and firearms from Birmingham. The Old Dock strengthened Liverpool’s position further by allowing ships to stay afloat and load or unload cargo regardless of the tides. As the port expanded, so too did the network of businesses and industries surrounding it. The wealth generated by this expanding Atlantic commerce helped fuel Liverpool’s commercial and urban growth, while creating an increasingly large workforce whose livelihoods depended on the trade.

But Liverpool’s involvement in the slave trade was not confined to the merchants who financed the voyages or the captains who commanded them. Behind every ship leaving the Mersey was a workforce whose labour kept the city’s maritime economy moving. Dockers, shipwrights, coopers and sailors all contributed to the operation of Liverpool’s expanding port, with some directly repairing and maintaining slave-trading vessels, while others were employed in industries that supplied them. As the trade expanded, so too did the number of livelihoods connected to the commercial networks it sustained. For some workers, opposition to the slave trade threatened their employment and wages, creating an uneasy relationship between the working class and the city’s elite. This hostility towards abolitionists could turn violent. When Thomas Clarkson visited Liverpool in 1787 to gather evidence about the slave trade, he was cornered by a hostile group of men on the pier head and barely escaped with his life. The incident demonstrated just how deeply the trade had become embedded within the city’s working and commercial life.

The influence of this wealth can still be traced through Liverpool’s streets today. As you walk past the city’s grand architecture and historic street names, the question of how they were funded is often less visible. Wealthy merchant families, including the Gladstones and the Gildarts, built vast fortunes through connections to West Indian plantations and the slave trade, helping to fund the city’s institutions and shape its landscape. John Gladstone, for example, was a wealthy Liverpool merchant who owned or held mortgages over 2,508 enslaved people on plantations in British Guiana and Jamaica. When slavery was abolished, he received around £106,000 in compensation from the British government, one of the largest awards made, and his wealth helped fund the elite education of his son, the future Prime Minister William Gladstone.

These fortunes were not confined to individual families. They also became part of Liverpool’s wider financial and commercial expansion. To understand Liverpool’s rapid rise as a financial centre, we must look at the men who financed the docks and participated in the city’s expanding commercial networks. Prominent merchants such as Thomas Leyland and the Heywoods built substantial fortunes through a range of commercial activities, including the slave trade. Their wealth was later channelled into banking: the banks they founded were eventually absorbed into institutions that are now part of Barclays and HSBC. This illustrates how capital generated through Liverpool’s trading networks could be reinvested in the city’s developing economy. By the late 18th century, the transatlantic slave trade was therefore connected to a wide range of Liverpool businesses and workplaces, extending far beyond the merchants who directly financed the voyages.

The expansion of Liverpool’s docks was central to this economic transformation. The profits generated by the city’s maritime trade helped drive investment in its pioneering dock system, from the construction of the Old Dock in 1715 to George’s Dock in 1771. These developments transformed Liverpool from a relatively small port town into an international shipping hub, with its population rising from around 5,000 people to between 77,000 and 85,000 people by the end of the 18th century. In the city’s bustling workplaces, the trade created an insatiable demand for manual labour and skilled trades. Between 1701 and 1810, local shipyards built some 2,120 vessels for the slave trade, as well as repairing and refitting many more. Nearby ropewalks and sailmaking lofts supplied rigging and canvas, while iron foundries forged the chains and manacles carried on long-distance slaving voyages.

Furthermore, the slave trade had economic consequences far beyond Liverpool’s docks, stimulating demand across Lancashire’s manufacturing industries. Cooperages thrived by producing barrels to hold imported commodities such as sugar, rum and tobacco, while local textile mills processed raw cotton cultivated by enslaved labourers in the Americas. The connections stretched across industries, linking Liverpool’s port to manufacturers, merchants and workers throughout the region. By the late 18th century, capital generated through the slave trade had become deeply embedded in Liverpool’s commercial and industrial life, connecting the docks to workplaces and industries far beyond the waterfront.

However, despite the impact the slave trade had on Liverpool’s expansion, a crisis emerged in 1807 when Parliament passed the Slave Trade Act, abolishing the trade in enslaved people across the British Empire. This was followed by the Slavery Abolition Act of 1833, which abolished the institution of slavery itself in most British colonies and, in turn, freed around 800,000 enslaved people, although most were forced to serve a period of ‘apprenticeship’ until 1838. Despite the fears and objections of local merchants, Liverpool adapted its docks, workplaces and industries to new and lucrative forms of global trade, such as palm oil, much of which was still produced by enslaved labour in West Africa. Furthermore, although the Acts stopped British ships from carrying enslaved people, Liverpool continued to profit from slavery elsewhere. The port became the principal point of entry for raw cotton, much of it grown by enslaved people in the American South, and the city’s brokers supplied millions of bales to the textile mills of Lancashire.

Today, attitudes towards the slave trade have shifted, and Liverpool has sought to confront and remember its past through dedicated museums, annual commemorations and educational initiatives, including bronze street plaques explaining the slavery links of names such as William Brown Street. Rather than erasing or renaming the past, these actions demonstrate an approach centred on accountability and education rather than denial.

Ultimately, the history of the slave trade and its impact on Liverpool was not made only by the merchants whose names appear in ledgers. It was also made by the thousands of workers whose labour kept the port moving, and by the enslaved people whose forced labour produced the commodities that passed through it. So, next time you walk around Liverpool, ask yourself: what stories should we tell when we look at the docks, warehouses and city streets?

 

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Author Bio

Sophie Riley is a history writer specialising in twentieth-century Europe and the interrogation of historical myth. Her work focuses on figures such as Witold Pilecki, whose experiences complicate dominant narratives of contemporary history. She is the creator of Sophieleighwrites on Substack and shares her work on LinkedIn and Instagram, where she examines overlooked histories and reconsiders widely held historical assumptions.

 

 

Further Reading Material

Anthony Tibbles, Liverpool and the slave trade, (Liverpool University Press, 2018)

National Museums Liverpool (2023). Archive sheet 3 - Liverpool and the transatlantic slave trade. [online] National Museums Liverpool. Available at: https://www.liverpoolmuseums.org.uk/archivesheet3 [Accessed 23 Sept. 2026].

Roger Anstey, and P E H Hair, Liverpool, the African slave trade, and abolition: Essays to illustrate current knowledge and research, First Edition edn, (Liverpool: Historic Society of Lancashire and Cheshire, 1976)

Rice University (2019). Slave voyages. [online] Slavevoyages.org. Available at: https://www.slavevoyages.org/ [Accessed 23 Sept. 2026].

Suzanne Schwarz, Slave captain: the career of James Irving in the Liverpool slave trade, (Liverpool University Press, 2008)

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AuthorHistory Is Now Magazine

More than two-thousand people were present to greet the Soviet Agricultural delegation that arrived in Des Moines, Iowa on July 18, 1955. Their leader, Vladimir Matskevich, a bald, rotund man, who looked a lot like Nikita Khrushchev, stepped off the plane and enthusiastically greeted the cheering Iowa crowd.

Lee Winningham explains.

1950s Soviet stamp showing agriculture in the USSR - planting potatoes. Source: Public domain, Post of the USSR, available here.

The arrival of the Soviet delegation on July 18 was the culmination of an effort that originated with an invitation extended by the Des Moines Register on February 10, 1955. In the editorial “If the Russians want more Meat…,” Lauren Soth, in response to Nikita Khrushchev’s desire, expressed a month earlier, to apply United States agricultural methods to the Soviet Union, offered Iowa’s help toward this goal.

The Russians quickly accepted the invitation and in the months that followed, neither Iowa citizens nor elected officials nor other newspaper editors were shy with their opinion on the invitation. By July, all the annoying bureaucratic details had been ironed out, itineraries set, and ordinary American farmers and a dozen Soviet officials crossed the Iron Curtain. From the American perspective it was a student/teacher relationship, but one that also offered a chance to break the ideological and cultural barriers that separated each nation.

Back in 2007, I wrote about this topic for History News Network, where I tied the trip to politics and foreign policy. It has been two decades, and the agricultural exchange is still a neglected episode in Cold War history, usually only appearing as evidence or data point in a broader argument. Moreover, Nikita Khrushchev’s more publicized 1959 trip to the United States overshadows the 1955 trip.

My focus has always been the interactions between the Soviet officials and American citizens, trained by a culture to despise, fear, and view with suspicion anything associated with the Soviet Union or Communism. How ordinary Americans felt about and reacted to the presence of real communists from the Soviet Union in their communities, not ones from their imagination, provides a window into how much Americans really “feared” Communism and the Soviet Union. This was an era where everything and everyone from popular culture to shameless demagogues, conditioned Americans to fight communism in almost every aspect of life. Americans often said it was better to be dead than red, while, at the same time, families in Iowa were wining, dining, and letting actual “Reds” spend the night in their homes.

Beyond the big questions about Cold War foreign policy, cultural exchange programs, and Red Scare culture and politics, Soviet officials traveling the country from Iowa to Texas to California is just interesting. Unique stories emerge in all the places that the Soviets visited. Many of these stories are local histories that have never been told or gone unnoticed for decades. This was my experience with Ennis, Texas, a town where the local paper won a journalism award for its coverage of the visit almost a year later.  Despite the coverage then, this is an obscure event for residents today. These are not stories that will ever solve a grand historical mystery or give a definitive answer to larger questions, but they are no less valuable. There are many such examples as one follows the Soviets state by state.

The delegation arrived in Minnesota in early August. It was here that the Russians saw the first real demonstration of their presence, when over four hundred Ukrainian nationalists showed up to protest the Russian arrival in Minneapolis. “Beware of the Russian Smile” read a placard on a car outside of the Nicollet Hotel in Minneapolis. The demonstration in Minnesota did not derail the tour, but it does present quite the contrast since, at the same time, the leader of the Soviet delegation was visiting farms in North Texas, arguably the most anti-Communist state in the country, with no such public outcry.

Likewise, in South Dakota, the headline “Russians Get Scant Notice in Mitchell,” kicked off an editorial tit for tat between the Mitchell Republic of Mitchell, South Dakota, and the Argus-Leader of Sioux Falls from early to mid-August. Was the Argus-Leader’s headline a shot at Mitchell? It certainly looked that way for the editors of the Republic because they accused Sioux Falls of being jealous that Mitchell, not Sioux Falls, was on the Russian itinerary.  This debate over the nature of each paper’s coverage continued long after the Russians had left the state. Later, an editor would call the trip a “most unusual event.” Indeed, it produced two newspapers in the heartland arguing over supposed jealousy concerning the clout that came with hosting Soviet Communists.

“Extralegal diplomacy” is what William C. Ives of Galesburg, Illinois called the Des Moines Register’s invitation to the Soviet Union in March of 1955.  Ives was one of many that wrote to the Register in the days and weeks after the February 10th invitation with an opinion on it. Some were for it, many were against it, and some just had a million questions.

On March 1st, Robert Herz of Dallas, Texas wrote that he wanted an even larger cultural exchange of each other’s citizens. On March 22nd, Guy Wright of Earlham, Iowa thought the invitation was a great idea and (along with others) offered his farm for a visit. Four days later, I.L. Dunnington, a Methodist minister in Iowa City, referenced his experience travelling in Russia to declare that there was nothing to fear and that this could do more for the cause of freedom and teach the American way of life.

Most of the people that wrote in favor of the invitation expressed the belief that cultural understanding could promote peace or that it presented an opportunity to teach the Soviets. On the other side of the argument, many citizens were deeply suspicious of the Russians. They viewed them as the enemy, one that should not be courted or aided in any way. On March 22nd, sandwiched in between two letters praising the Register, Mary Helen of Webster City, Iowa called the proposed visit an “ill-advised publicity stunt.” A week earlier, Sivert Myres asked if the newspaper was “dumb,” and told the Register that the Soviet’s real agricultural problem was that they were “crooks,” while Josephine McHenry, from Denison, Iowa expressed the belief, on March 12th, that in the long run it was better for the Russian people to remain hungry and discontented with their government.

Most of the opposition was couched in language of fear, suspicion, and a belief that nothing the United States could do would educate a Communist and such efforts would only weaken us. Some Iowans were undecided and just had questions, like the thirteen sophomores at Meservey Consolidated High School who sent, on April 6th, no less than ten questions to the Register and Mrs. Torkelson from Ringsted, Iowa who, on July 9th, had no firm opinion but felt as though something this big should be put to a vote. None of this, however, derailed the tour. The preparations continued through the spring and with the support of President Dwight Eisenhower and most of Iowa’s elected officials, the Russians boarded their plane bound for Iowa. It would remain to be seen how Iowans would react once the Russians began travelling the state.

From that hot afternoon in July until the end of August 1955, Soviet delegation traveled to over a dozen states. REVISE SENT: They traveled to Minnesota, Nebraska, California, Missouri, North and South Dakota, Michigan, Wyoming, Texas, and Iowa, where they spent most of their time. They ate burgers, hot dogs, complained about the heat, ate barbecue, went to shows, experienced local cultures, and hammed it up with reporters and civilians wherever they went all the while, they talked of goodwill, cooperation, and coexistence at a tense, but nonetheless optimistic, time of the Cold War. It was an era in which the Cold War appeared to be thawing, and both nations were openly talking about “peaceful coexistence.” In the summer of 1955, ordinary Americans and a dozen Soviet agricultural officials would put such talk to the test.

 

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References

Russell, J. S. “It’s Down to Business for Group Today.” Des Moines Register (Des Moines, Iowa), July 18, 1955. Newspapers.com.

Soth, Lauren.  “If the Russians Want More Meat ... “ Des Moines Register (Des Moines, Iowa), February 10, 1955. Newspapers.com

Bus, Daniel W. “News Rated Tops in News Writing.” Ennis Daily News (Ennis, Texas), June 23, 1956. 1st ed. University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History.

Smith, Robert T. “City Ukrainians Demonstrate Against Russ.” Star Tribune (Minneapolis, Minnesota). Mon, Aug 8, 1955. Newspapers.com.

“Russians Get Scant Notice in Mitchell.” Argus-Leader (Sioux Falls, South Dakota).

Aug 2, 1955. Newspapers.com.

“Russian Farm Group Leaves Argument Behind in S.D.” Argus-Leader (Sioux Falls, South Dakota).

Aug 11, 1955. Newspapers.com.

Ives, William C. Letter to the Editor. Des Moines Register (Des Moines, Iowa), March 22, 1955.

Herz, Robert. Letter to the Editor. Des Moines Register (Des Moines, Iowa), March 1, 1955.

Wright, Guy W. Letter to the Editor. Des Moines Register (Des Moines, Iowa), March 22, 1955.

Dunnington, I.L. Letter to the Editor. Des Moines Register (Des Moines, Iowa), March 26, 1955.

Helen, Mary. Letter to the Editor. Des Moines Register (Des Moines, Iowa), March 22, 1955.

Myres, Sivert. Letter to the Editor. Des Moines Register (Des Moines, Iowa), March 15, 1955.

McHenry, Josephine. Letter to the Editor. Des Moines Register (Des Moines, Iowa), March 12, 1955.

“School Class in Doubt on Russian Visit.” Letter to the Editor. Des Moines Register (Des Moines, Iowa), April 6, 1955

Torkelson, Mrs. Thomas. Letter to the Editor. Des Moines Register (Des Moines, Iowa), July 9, 1955.

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AuthorHistory Is Now Magazine

The Battle of Hastings, fought on the 14th of October 1066, decided the immediate fate of the English crown, but it did not deliver England into William of Normandy's hands overnight. Harold Godwinson was dead, his army had been defeated, and the Anglo-Saxon kingdom had lost the king who had led its defense against two successive invasions. Yet England was far from conquered. Its towns remained occupied by people who had not necessarily accepted William as their ruler; its northern and western regions retained powerful traditions of independence, and many of its leading nobles had little reason to welcome a foreign duke who claimed their kingdom by right of conquest. William had won the battle that opened the road to the throne, but the far greater challenge now lay before him: turning military victory into political authority.

Terry Bailey explains.

Read part 1 on the pre-invasion world of 1066 here, part 2 on the road to invasion here, part 3 on the Battle of Stamford Bridge here, and part 4 on the Battle of Hastings here.

Bishop Odo of Bayeux, William the Conqueror, and Count Robert of Mortain. Source: Public domain, Baeux tapestry Museum, available here.

The events of 1066 had brought England to a moment of extraordinary uncertainty. Edward the Confessor had died without a surviving child, and the competing claims of Harold Godwinson, William of Normandy and Harald Hardrada had exposed the vulnerability of a kingdom whose political stability depended heavily upon the strength and legitimacy of its monarch. Harold's victory over Hardrada's invading Norwegian army at Stamford Bridge had removed one rival, but it had exhausted his forces immediately before William's arrival. Hastings had then removed Harold himself. With the king dead and much of his army destroyed, the English faced a crisis that extended far beyond the battlefield. The question was no longer simply who had the strongest claim to the crown, but whether England could preserve its independence or would be forced to submit to a new ruling dynasty.

In the days following Hastings, William consolidated his position in the south-east. His army had suffered casualties, and he needed time to secure his supplies, organize his forces and establish a reliable base from which to continue the campaign. Rather than immediately rushing towards London, he moved through the surrounding countryside, securing strategic locations and placing pressure upon communities that might otherwise support English resistance. The Normans had demonstrated at Hastings that they could defeat the English in open battle, but William understood that the conquest of a kingdom required more than another spectacular military victory. He needed to control roads, river crossings, settlements and centers of political authority, while convincing England's surviving leaders that resistance had become more dangerous than submission.

London was the crucial objective. As England's largest and wealthiest urban center, it possessed immense commercial importance and considerable political influence. Its position on the River Thames made it a strategic gateway into the heart of the kingdom, while its proximity to the principal routes connecting southern England with the Midlands gave it particular military significance. Whoever controlled London would possess a powerful base from which to influence the rest of the country. Yet the city was not simply waiting to welcome a new king. It contained powerful interests of its own, and the death of Harold had created an opening for English leaders to consider an alternative to immediate Norman domination.

Among the most prominent candidates was Edgar Ætheling, the young grandson of Edmund Ironside and a member of the old West Saxon royal dynasty. Edgar possessed royal ancestry that made him an attractive figure to those who wished to preserve the native monarchy. Following Harold's death, leading English nobles and churchmen recognized him as king, although the precise circumstances and extent of his proclamation remain uncertain. His candidacy represented an attempt to restore continuity with England's established royal house at a moment when the kingdom had lost both its king and the army that had defended him. Edgar's youth, however, presented a serious difficulty. He lacked the military experience, established political authority and independent power necessary to unite the kingdom against William. His claim possessed dynastic legitimacy, but legitimacy alone could not stop an advancing Norman army.

William's response was calculated and relentless. Rather than immediately committing his forces to a direct assault upon London, he continued his advance through the south-east, exploiting the uncertainty among the English leadership. His troops moved through areas from which they could threaten the capital, while his commanders sought to prevent the English from organizing an effective defensive position. The destruction and intimidation associated with the Norman advance increased the pressure upon communities that had to decide whether to resist or negotiate. William's strategy combined military force with political calculation: he wanted the English to understand that continued opposition could bring devastation, while submission offered at least the possibility of preserving local privileges and avoiding further bloodshed.

The English leadership soon found itself divided between the desire to resist and the necessity of preserving what remained of the kingdom. The deaths of Harold and many of his most experienced commanders had weakened the political and military structures upon which resistance depended. Some leading figures recognized that a prolonged struggle against William might result in the destruction of their lands, the loss of their positions and further casualties among an already weakened population. Others remained determined to defend the independence of the English monarchy. Yet without a strong king, a unified army or a settled succession, resistance became increasingly difficult to coordinate. The crisis that had begun with Edward the Confessor's death was now being exploited by a foreign conqueror who understood how quickly political divisions could become military advantages.

As William approached London, prominent English figures began to submit. Among those who eventually accepted his authority were Archbishop Ealdred of York and other important churchmen and nobles, although the process was neither immediate nor universal. The submission of influential leaders helped William present himself not merely as an invader but as the lawful successor to Edward the Confessor. His supporters maintained that Edward had promised him the throne, and William claimed that Harold had broken an earlier oath supporting his succession. These arguments formed an important part of the Norman justification for conquest, although the historical circumstances surrounding Edward's intentions and Harold's oath remain contested. Whatever the merits of William's claim, his growing military advantage made it increasingly difficult for the English leadership to impose an alternative.

William's advance also demonstrated that conquest did not require the complete destruction of every opponent. Political submission could be as valuable as battlefield victory, particularly when it brought towns, estates and religious institutions under his authority without the cost of a prolonged siege. By compelling influential Englishmen to acknowledge him, William weakened the possibility of a united national resistance before it could fully develop. Edgar Ætheling's position consequently deteriorated, and the young claimant lacked the means to turn his royal ancestry into effective military power. England's traditional political leadership was beginning to fracture, and William was prepared to exploit every division.

On Christmas Day 1066, William was crowned king of England at Westminster Abbey. The ceremony was an extraordinary moment in English history: a Norman duke, whose army had defeated the English king only weeks earlier, was formally invested with the crown of the kingdom he had invaded. Archbishop Ealdred of York performed the coronation, lending the ceremony an important element of ecclesiastical legitimacy. The choice of Christmas Day reinforced the solemnity of the occasion, associating William's accession with one of the most significant celebrations in the Christian calendar. The coronation also allowed him to present his rule as the lawful continuation of the English monarchy rather than simply the personal dominion of a victorious foreign commander.

Yet the ceremony contained a revealing contradiction. William's coronation took place within one of England's most important religious buildings, according to the established traditions of kingship, but the army that had brought him to the throne remained a foreign occupying force. The ceremony could establish his claim to the crown, but it could not automatically secure the obedience of every English lord, town or community. Nor could it remove the resentment generated by invasion, casualties, confiscations and the replacement of established leaders. William was king in law and ceremony, but his authority across the kingdom remained incomplete.

This distinction between becoming king and conquering a country is essential to understanding the years that followed. In medieval Europe, royal authority depended upon personal relationships, military strength, control of land and the cooperation of powerful local figures. A king might be crowned in his capital while distant regions continued to obey rival leaders or reject his demands. England possessed a sophisticated administrative tradition and a powerful network of local institutions, but these did not guarantee that a foreign monarch could immediately command universal loyalty. William had secured the crown, yet he still needed to establish a system through which his commands would be obeyed and his opponents prevented from organizing further rebellions.

Resistance continued throughout England, particularly in regions where the Norman presence was weak and local leaders retained the ability to mobilize armed followers. In the west and south-west, opposition reflected both loyalty to the old political order and hostility towards the new regime. William responded through further military campaigns, the establishment of garrisons and the construction of fortified positions. Some communities submitted when confronted by overwhelming force; others continued to resist, sometimes joining wider rebellions when opportunities arose. The conquest was therefore not a single, uninterrupted advance from Hastings to complete domination, but a prolonged process in which military operations, negotiations and political settlements repeatedly reinforced one another.

The north of England proved especially difficult to control. Its distance from the principal Norman power base in the south, its strong regional identities and its connections with Scandinavia created conditions in which opposition could survive. The north had also suffered from the devastation of the Norwegian invasion in 1066, and the political upheaval that followed Hastings created fresh uncertainty. William initially attempted to govern through a combination of military pressure and the appointment of trusted men, but the arrangements proved fragile. Rebellions and attacks on Norman officials revealed how limited his authority remained outside the areas most firmly controlled by his army.

In 1069, northern resistance intensified, and English rebels received support from a Danish fleet whose intervention threatened to turn regional unrest into a wider challenge to Norman rule. Attacks on Norman positions, including the seizure of York, exposed the vulnerability of William's northern administration. The rebellion was not merely a collection of isolated disturbances. It demonstrated that opponents of the new regime could cooperate with external powers and exploit the geographical difficulties of governing a large kingdom. For William, the danger was profound. If the north became a secure base for resistance, his control of southern England might not be sufficient to prevent the emergence of a rival political center.

William responded with a campaign of extraordinary severity, culminating in the operations remembered as the Harrying of the North. During the winter of 1069–1070, Norman forces devastated large areas of northern England, destroying settlements, burning buildings and destroying or seizing food supplies. The purpose was to deny rebels the resources necessary to sustain resistance and to make it impossible for hostile forces to use the region as a secure base. It was a brutal application of medieval warfare, in which the destruction of the land itself became a weapon against those who challenged the king.

The consequences were catastrophic for many communities. Contemporary accounts describe widespread destruction and famine, although the precise scale of the devastation and the number of deaths remain subjects of historical debate. The Domesday survey, compiled in 1086, records numerous northern estates as waste or severely diminished, providing evidence of the profound disruption that followed the conquest and subsequent military campaigns. It would be misleading to attribute every recorded instance of devastation directly to the Harrying, since warfare, earlier unrest and wider economic changes also affected the region. Nevertheless, the campaign inflicted suffering on a scale that made it one of the most notorious episodes of William's reign.

The Harrying of the North reveals the darker reality behind the establishment of Norman England. William was not simply replacing one royal family with another; he was attempting to make resistance materially impossible. By destroying resources, intimidating communities and weakening the regional structures that could sustain rebellion, he sought to transform military superiority into permanent obedience. Such methods could suppress organized opposition, but they also generated enduring hostility. The north became a powerful reminder that conquest was achieved not only through claims of legitimacy and the rituals of kingship, but through coercion and the deliberate use of devastation against those who refused to submit.

Alongside military campaigns, William developed a system of control that would become one of the most recognizable features of Norman England: the castle. The Normans did not invent castles, but they employed fortification with exceptional effectiveness as an instrument of conquest. Early castles, often built as motte-and-bailey structures, could be constructed relatively quickly and provided a defended base from which soldiers could dominate surrounding settlements and countryside. A motte consisted of a raised mound supporting a fortified enclosure or keep, while a bailey formed an enclosed courtyard containing buildings and accommodation. Many early Norman castles relied heavily on earthworks and timber before some were later rebuilt in stone.

The strategic importance of these fortifications extended far beyond their defensive value. A castle housed troops, protected supplies, guarded roads and river crossings, and provided a refuge for Norman officials surrounded by a potentially hostile population. Its presence could also serve as a permanent reminder of the new political order. Towns that resisted could be threatened from nearby strongholds, while the surrounding countryside could be subjected to military patrols and the demands of the garrison. Castles allowed William to establish control without maintaining a large mobile army in every region, creating a network of fortified positions through which his authority could be projected across the kingdom.

The construction of castles also changed the physical appearance of England. In some places, existing settlements were disrupted or cleared to make room for new fortifications, while prominent urban locations became sites of Norman military power. The development of the Tower of London, begun under William's rule, illustrates the connection between fortification and political authority. Situated beside the Thames, the stronghold helped secure the capital and provided a base from which royal power could be enforced. Across the country, castles increasingly shaped the relationship between rulers, soldiers and local populations, contributing to the emergence of a more heavily fortified political landscape.

Military occupation alone, however, could not sustain the new regime indefinitely. William also needed to reward the men who had helped him win the crown and ensure that the lands they received would strengthen his authority. He therefore began a far-reaching redistribution of property, confiscating estates from many English nobles who had died fighting against him, resisted his rule or were considered politically unreliable. Their lands were granted to Norman and other continental followers whose fortunes became dependent upon the king's continued success. In this way, William transformed the conquest into a system of patronage: those who benefited from the new order had powerful reasons to defend it.

The redistribution of land was not always immediate, uniform or complete. Some English landowners initially retained their estates, particularly where they had submitted early or demonstrated their usefulness to the new king. Others lost their property as rebellion, political suspicion and changing royal priorities reshaped the settlement. Over time, however, the English aristocracy was displaced on a remarkable scale. By the time of the Domesday survey in 1086, most major estates were held by the king, the Church or a relatively small group of powerful tenants-in-chief, many of whom were of Norman or other continental origin. The precise pace of this transformation varied by region, but the broad direction was unmistakable: the old Anglo-Saxon landed elite had been largely replaced by a new ruling class whose position rested upon the conquest.

This transformation had consequences extending far beyond the ownership of individual estates. In Anglo-Saxon England, the great landholders had formed part of a political system in which royal authority depended upon relationships with powerful regional families. William could not simply remove every existing institution without risking administrative collapse, so he retained and adapted many established practices. Yet by transferring the wealth and responsibilities of major estates to his own supporters, he changed the balance of power at the highest levels of society. The new aristocracy owed much of its position to the king, while the king gained a network of landholders whose military service and political loyalty were central to the maintenance of Norman rule.

The process was particularly devastating for families that had supported Harold Godwinson or participated in resistance after Hastings. Some were killed in battle, others fled abroad, and many lost their lands through confiscation. The destruction of the Anglo-Saxon aristocracy was therefore both a physical and a political transformation. England did not lose every member of its established elite, and some English landowners continued to hold property, serve in local government or exercise influence within the Church. Nevertheless, the upper ranks of society were remade. A new generation of lords emerged whose language, customs and continental connections differed from those of the people over whom they ruled.

The change was not simply a matter of replacing English names with Norman ones. The new lords had to establish themselves in communities whose inhabitants possessed their own laws, traditions and loyalties. They required local officials, laborers, tenants and agricultural workers to maintain their estates and generate the wealth that sustained their households. Their position also depended upon military readiness, because an apparently subdued region could erupt into rebellion if royal forces were withdrawn or the authority of local commanders weakened. The Norman aristocracy was therefore both an instrument of conquest and a means through which the conquerors gradually became established within English society.

William's transformation of England also involved government. Here, the Normans inherited a kingdom with administrative institutions far more developed than those of many contemporary European states. Anglo-Saxon kings had relied upon shires and hundreds as units of local administration, while sheriffs, royal officials and written records helped the Crown collect revenue and exercise authority. The kingdom possessed an established system of taxation, a functioning royal treasury and a tradition of issuing written commands. William did not create these structures from nothing. Instead, he preserved many of them because they were effective, adapting them to serve a new monarchy.

The continuity of administration is an important corrective to the idea that the Norman Conquest instantly erased Anglo-Saxon England. Many ordinary people continued to live in the same villages, cultivate the same fields and participate in local communities whose routines had existed long before 1066. Existing legal customs and administrative practices survived in altered forms, while the Church retained its central role in religious life and the organization of society. The Norman transformation was most dramatic at the top of the political and social hierarchy, where landownership, military authority and senior ecclesiastical appointments increasingly passed into new hands. Beneath that level, continuity and change existed side by side.

Even so, William's government increasingly reflected the interests and ambitions of the conquerors. Royal authority was reinforced through castles, loyal aristocrats and the redistribution of estates, while ecclesiastical leadership was gradually reshaped through the appointment of Norman and other continental churchmen. In 1070, the appointment of Lanfranc, an Italian-born scholar and abbot who had become prominent in Normandy, as Archbishop of Canterbury marked an important stage in the reorganization of the English Church. Under Lanfranc and William, ecclesiastical administration and royal government became more closely aligned with continental practices, although the transformation was neither immediate nor uniform.

Language also became a visible marker of the new order. Norman French gained prestige among the aristocracy and the royal court, while Latin remained essential to ecclesiastical learning, official records and much formal administration. English continued to be spoken by the overwhelming majority of the population, and the Old English language did not disappear after the conquest. Instead, England developed a society in which different languages served different social and institutional purposes. Over subsequent generations, their interaction would help shape the development of Middle English, but in William's lifetime the linguistic division reflected the sharp distinction between the new ruling elite and the people it governed.

The continuing rebellions of the late 1060s and early 1070s demonstrated that conquest remained an unfinished process. English resistance was not extinguished by the coronation, the construction of castles or the redistribution of land. It resurfaced in local uprisings, regional alliances and attempts to exploit divisions within the Norman leadership. William's opponents could also look beyond England's borders for support, particularly to Scandinavia and the continent. Yet the failure of these challenges to restore the old monarchy gradually strengthened the new regime. The king's ability to respond with military force, reward loyal supporters and adapt existing institutions made it increasingly difficult for resistance to develop into a successful national alternative.

The conquest also altered the relationship between England and continental Europe. Before 1066, the English monarchy had maintained important connections with Normandy and other European powers, but William's accession united the English crown with the vast interests of a ruler whose principal continental territory lay across the English Channel. This created new opportunities and new dangers. England's wealth and resources became entangled with Norman dynastic politics, while the king's obligations and ambitions in France repeatedly influenced his decisions. The conquest was therefore not merely a domestic revolution; it also changed the strategic position of England within western Europe and established political connections that would shape Anglo-French relations for centuries.

By the time William's rule had been consolidated, England had undergone a profound redistribution of power. The king's authority was supported by a network of fortified strongholds, a reconstituted aristocracy, loyal churchmen and an administrative system adapted to the needs of the new regime. Yet the kingdom was not transformed overnight into an entirely foreign creation. The conquerors depended upon the institutions, agricultural wealth and administrative experience of the country they had taken. The Norman rulers had to govern England as it existed, even as they sought to reshape it according to their own interests.

This tension lies at the heart of the Norman Conquest. William needed to destroy the capacity of his opponents to challenge him, but he also needed England to remain productive, governable and wealthy. Excessive destruction could undermine the resources upon which royal power depended, while insufficient force risked allowing rebellion to return. His methods therefore combined ruthless punishment with political accommodation, the replacement of the old aristocracy with the preservation of useful institutions, and the assertion of foreign authority through familiar traditions of English kingship. The result was not a simple Norman takeover, but a difficult and often violent process of adapting an established kingdom to the demands of a new ruling class.

The year 1066 had begun with a succession crisis that exposed the fragility of England's political arrangements. It had produced rival claims, two invasions, two major battles and the death of a king. By the end of the year, William of Normandy wore the English crown, but the events of the following years revealed that the crown was only the beginning. His victory at Hastings had removed Harold Godwinson and opened the path to the throne; it had not secured the obedience of the kingdom. That required further campaigns, the suppression of rebellions, the destruction of opposition, the construction of castles and the remaking of the aristocracy.

William had conquered England militarily, but the final transformation was only beginning. The Anglo-Saxon kingdom had not simply vanished, nor had the Norman state emerged fully formed from the ruins of Hastings. Instead, the old and new systems collided, adapted and gradually became intertwined. The next stage moved beyond the battlefield and the changing ownership of land, the transformation of the Church and government, the evolution of language and culture, and the emergence of a society that was neither wholly Anglo-Saxon nor simply Norman.

 

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In Ancient Rome the dead were laid to rest in different ways. Here, William McGrath looks at how funerals occurred in different parts of Roman society.

Crane relief from the Tomb of the Haterii on Via Labicana, Rome. Source: Public domain, Vatican Museums, available here.

The insula

The cart came from nowhere, or so it seemed to those who saw it after. Livia had crossed a hundred streets like this one, stepping stone to stepping stone, the way every girl in the Subura learned before she could properly walk. She was thinking of bread. Of whether there would be enough coin left after today to buy it, or whether her mother would have to trade the last of the oil instead. She stepped down off the crepido a heartbeat too soon.

The mule did not even startle. The driver did not even look back until the shouting started behind him. Livia lay where she fell, her temple against the raised stone edge of the walkway, and did not move again.

By the time her mother reached her, kneeling in the filth of the street with her daughter's head in her lap, the blood had already gone dark and thick in Livia's dark hair. There was no time to grieve properly, not yet. There was only the question of what came next, and how a family with nothing would find the coin to bury a daughter who had died with nothing in her hands but the empty basket she'd been sent out to fill.

 

The domus

Two miles away, in a house with heated floors and painted walls, Aemilia was laughing.

She had been in the caldarium since the ninth hour, skin flushed pink from the heat, her hair pinned up by a slave girl who had done it a hundred times before. The marble floor beneath her feet, wet from the steam and the splashing of the pool, had always been treated with the easy confidence of someone who had never once thought about falling on it.

She was reaching for a cup of watered wine when her foot went out from under her. It happened the way these things always happen, too fast to catch, too ordinary to seem dangerous even as it was killing her. Her head struck the edge of the marble step down into the pool, and she was still, quite suddenly, the only sound left in the room the steady drip of water and the low murmur of the hypocaust below the floor.

The slave girl found her within moments, and screamed for help immediately. It made no difference. Aemilia had struck her head in exactly the way any woman might, on wet stone, in a moment's carelessness, and the wealth of the house around her, the heated floors, the painted walls, the slave standing ready at her side, had not been enough to stop it.

 

The insula

There was no one to hire. Livia's mother washed her daughter herself, on the same table where they ate, water carried up six flights of stairs by a neighbour who did not ask for anything in return. Her hands shook so badly that she spilled half of it on the first attempt, and she had to stop, kneel on the floor, and simply breathe before she could try again. She used what oil they had, the last of it, rubbing it into skin that had never known perfume in life and would only know it now, at the end, because there was nothing else left to give. She kept whispering her daughter's name, quietly, as though saying it enough times might call her back.

There was no white toga to dress her in, only her own tunic, the good one she wore for festivals, mended so many times at the hem that the thread no longer matched. Her mother combed her hair the way she had every morning since Livia was small, and found herself doing it long after there was any need to, simply because her hands did not know how to stop, and because stopping meant admitting there would never be a morning after this one.

A single coin was placed beneath her tongue, borrowed that afternoon from a woman two floors down who had lost a son the previous winter and understood, without needing to be asked, why it mattered. Charon would not row a girl across for nothing, even a girl who had nothing. Her mother pressed her lips to her daughter's forehead and stayed there a long moment, tears rolling silently down her cheeks, as if she could pour everything unsaid into that single point of contact before it was too late to say any of it at all.

 

The domus

In the domus, the pollinctores arrived within the hour, professional layers-out of the dead, paid well to make grief look dignified. They washed Aemilia in water scented with nard and cinnamon, anointed her with oils her family had bought in bulk for exactly this purpose long before they ever imagined needing them, and dressed her in a stola so fine it had likely never been worn.

Her mother did not wash her. That was not a mother's task in a house like this. She stood in the doorway instead, one hand pressed hard against the frame to keep herself upright, watching strangers prepare her daughter's body with practised, careful hands. She wanted to push past them, to do it herself, to be the one touching her daughter for the last time instead of paid strangers who had never known her laugh or her temper or the particular way she used to burst into a room. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she let them fall without wiping them away, uncaring for once who saw. But that was not how things were done, not in a house like this, and so she stood, and watched, and silently hated the marble floor, the painted walls, and every luxury that had failed to keep her daughter alive.

There was a coin for Charon too, of course, a proper one, freshly minted, placed with ceremony rather than desperation. It did nothing to loosen the grip in her mother's chest.

An imago, a wax death mask, was already being discussed for the family's collection before the body had even cooled. Aemilia would join the ancestors on the wall, paraded at funerals for generations of her family, long after anyone living had known her laugh. Her mother heard the discussion happening quietly behind her and thought, with a kind of numb fury, that she did not want her daughter remembered as wax on a wall. She wanted her daughter alive.

 

The insula

There was no procession, not really, just Livia's mother, her father, and a handful of neighbours who left their own work to help carry her. She was wrapped in a plain shroud, carried on a simple bier borrowed from the same neighbour who had loaned the water, and taken on foot through streets that did not stop for her. Carts still rattled past. Vendors still called out their prices. Nobody in the Subura had the luxury of pausing for every death that passed through it, and so the small group walked, heads down, past a city entirely indifferent to their grief, toward the common burial ground outside the walls where the poor of Rome were laid to rest without ceremony, without a name carved anywhere that would outlast the season.

 

The domus

Aemilia's procession filled the street. Hired mourners, praeficae, wailed and tore at their hair with practised grief, paid to perform sorrow so the family did not have to bear the full weight of showing their own in public. Musicians played. Slaves carried the imagines of ancestors long dead, their waxen faces bobbing above the crowd as though the whole family history had turned out to walk her to her grave. At the front, her father delivered a eulogy in the Forum itself, his voice carrying over a crowd of mourners and the merely curious alike, praising a daughter whose life, he said, had been full of joy, and grace, and promise cut short.

The procession moved slowly, deliberately, blocking the very road that led toward the burial ground beyond the walls. It would take the better part of the afternoon to pass.

Which meant that somewhere behind it, delayed at the city gate by a wealthy family's grief, a much smaller group waited with a body they could not yet bury.

 

The gate

Livia's mother stood at the back of the small crowd gathered at the city gate, her daughter's body resting on its borrowed bier in the dust, and watched the wealthy procession crawl past without end. Musicians. Mourners paid to weep louder than she had wept all morning. A father's voice still echoing faintly from the Forum behind them, praising a life that had lasted exactly as long as her own daughter's, eighteen years, not one more.

She did not resent the girl. She could not, looking at the small crowd around that other family and understanding, in some tired part of herself, that a mother was a mother whatever the width of the road between them. But she resented the wait. The sun was climbing, and Livia had been dead since dawn, and still they stood, small and silent, while Rome made way for someone else's grief before it would make way for theirs.

It was Aemilia's mother, walking at the rear of the procession with her hand still pressed white against her own chest, who saw them first. A handful of people at the roadside, no mourners hired, no wailing, just a girl on a plain bier and a mother standing over her with the exact same stillness Aemilia's mother recognised from her own reflection that morning.

Their eyes met across the width of the road, across every difference Rome had built between them, and for one moment neither woman was rich or poor. They were only two mothers who had buried a daughter of eighteen on the same day, in the same city, for reasons that would not matter to either of them by nightfall.

Aemilia's mother lowered her head, very slightly, to the woman on the other side of the road. It was not much. It cost her nothing. But it was the first time all day that anyone in that procession had acknowledged the small crowd waiting at the gate, and Livia's mother, exhausted and grieving and furious in equal measure, found she could not hate her for it.

The procession passed. The road cleared. And at last, far too late in the day for it to feel like anything other than an afterthought, Livia was carried through the gate to be buried.

 

After

Livia was buried without ceremony, without a mask, without a name that would last beyond the memory of those who loved her. Her mother stayed at the graveside long after her father had turned to walk home, until the light began to fail and there was nothing left to do but leave her there and carry on living, because that, in the end, was what the poor of Rome were always asked to do.

Two miles away, behind the walls, Aemilia's name would be spoken at family funerals for generations, her wax face carried through the streets by descendants who never knew her voice. She would be remembered, in a manner of speaking, forever.

But on that single afternoon, in that single city, both mothers walked home to empty rooms, and Rome, indifferent as ever to the two rooms it had emptied, went on exactly as it had before.

 

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Will McGrath is a historical writer based in South Gloucestershire, drawn to the everyday, sensory details of life in the ancient world. He is the self-published author of two novels, The Emperor's Lament, set in Hadrian's Rome, and Neptune: God of the Horses, exploring Roman chariot-racing culture. His work can be found at amazon.com/stores/Will-McGrath/author/B0D86PZKJ8.

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The Christian Kingdom of Makuria was in modern-day Egypt at the time of Arab Conquest of Egypt, under the Rashidun Caliphate. Here, Husain Roussel explains the 642 AD & 652 AD Wars between them, including the First and Second Battle of Dongola.

Image: A possible depiction of king David of Makuria. Source: Public domain, pcma.uw.edu.pl, available here.

Introduction

A new religion known as Islam was making a strong presence in the Middle East and the holy warriors of the Islamic faith were defeating the most powerful armies known to exist during the late antiquity into the early medieval period. The Islamic forces of the Prophet Muhammad and his successors were sending the armies of the Byzantine Empire and the Sasanian Empire of Persia on the run. The Islamic military machine’s conquests of the Arabian Peninsula, Persian controlled territories, and North African Byzantine Christian territories seemed to have no end in sight. Christian communities around the newly conquered realms of the caliphate now under Islamic jurisdiction while not under threat of persecution from the Islamic leadership would have to pay their due in taxes to avoid impressment for military service. This included swearing loyalty to the new overlords of the Islamic faith to maintain their way of life under occupation. In Egypt after the conquest and takeover by the Rashidun Caliphate from the Byzantine Empire (Eastern Roman Empire) between 639 and 642 AD several Christians decided to flee into Nubian controlled lands rather than submit loyalty or convert to Islam.

The Coptic Christians of Egypt who remained were allowed to practice their faith as long as they paid tribute and swore loyalty to the new rulers however the Nubian Christian Kingdoms seemed to offer the best chance of protection for those Coptic Christians fearing any suppression or persecution of their faith by the Islamic administration. A reconquest of Egypt by the Byzantine Empire was obviously in doubt however thanks to Byzantine missionaries Nubia already had a strong Orthodox Christian foundation for populations south of Egypt during the years of Byzantine control and later under Islamic control. The Rashidun Caliphate of Egypt now decided to lead holy jihad expeditions for Islamic dominance in Nubian lands. The embolden warriors of Islam believed their mission was to spread the new faith as far as possible with new lands to convert always welcomed on the list of potential conquests. They saw themselves as unstoppable and their army of God invincible. These holy jihads and skirmish raids in the Nubian controlled lands would be the setting for two conflicts in a battle of faiths between the Christian Nubian Kingdom of Makuria in Nubia (Sudan) and the Islamic Kingdom of the Rashidun Caliphate that now ruled in Egypt. The Kingdom of Makuria was determined to protect their Christian faith, Christian citizens, and independence from Islamic control at all costs. They would therefore become the iron wall that would resist the goals of the Rashidun Caliphate to spread Islam further into Nubian lands.                                                             

 

Background of the Kingdom of Makuria

The Kingdom of Makuria was one of the Sudanese Nubian kingdoms to emerge as successor states to The Kingdom of Kush after it had fallen to the Aksumites in 350 AD. The emerging Nubian groups formerly under control of the Kushite Kingdom and remnants of the Meroitic Kushite population began mixing with a host of Nubian settlers forming into three new Christian kingdoms called The Kingdom of Nobatia (400 AD - 7th Century AD), The Kingdom of Alodia (6th Century AD - 1500 AD), and the Kingdom of Makuria (5th Century - Late 15th Century) in addition to the Christian Kingdom of Aksum located in Ethiopia and Eritrea. Makuria emerged around 500 AD and became a Christian kingdom and ally to the Byzantine Empire sometime in the 6th century AD. The Kingdom of Makuria initially covered the Nile area from the 3rd Cataract and somewhere between the 5th and 6th Cataracts. During the peak of the kingdom’s Golden Age, they had managed to reach from the Aswan in southern Egypt down toward the present day capital city of Khartoum in central Sudan.

The capital of the kingdom of Makuria named Old Dongola was located on the east bank of the Nile River between the 3rd and 4th Cataracts in northern Sudan. Old Dongola (not to be confused with present New Dongola) consisted of several Nubian and Byzantine mixed architectural designed buildings including churches like the Church of the Granite Columns, several royal administrative buildings, and a heavily fortified citadel. The Makurians in addition to their native tongue of Nubian spoke the Greek and Coptic languages for ecclesiastical purposes and relied on Greek and Arabic for diplomatic relations. They had a powerful military, and like the Kingdom of Kush before them was known for their army of skilled and deadly accurate Nubian archers in battle. The 9th century Muslim Historian Al-Baladhuri mentions an account in which the Nubians were associated with the epithet "pupil smiters" because of their skill in striking the eyes of their opponents

 

Annexation by Makuria of The Nubian Christian Kingdom of Nobatia

From 618-629 AD the Sasanian Empire of Persia managed to occupy the Byzantine Prefecture (Province) of Egypt during their ongoing wars with the Byzantine Empire before Byzantine forces were able to retake it. This break with Byzantine Egyptian trade networks weakened the ongoing trade and economy of Makuria’s northern neighbor the Nubian Christian Kingdom of Nobatia located on the 1st Cataract extending down to the 3rd Cataract of the Nile River. The Kingdom of Makuria took the instability in Nobatia as an opportunity to annex the kingdom and thereby creating a unified Nubia to repel any potential invasion from outsiders in the future. This would later mean that the Rashidun Caliphate was now sharing a border with the Kingdom of Makuria putting a target on the backs of the Makurians and moving them closer to the top on the Rashidun Caliphate’s hit list of future invasions.

Once Makuria annexed The Kingdom of Nobatia they left the culture and traditions intact with some autonomy except for the administration of the territory. The King of Makuria decided to remove the royal family of Nobatia from power and installed his own viceroy called the Eparch of Nobatia (Domestikos of Pakhoras) in the capital of Nobatia called Faras (Pachoras). The Eparch of Nobatia would administer the territory from Faras on behalf of the King of Makuria and to be his eyes and ears in that region for threats or rebellions. The annexation expanded the reach and profits of the Makurian Kingdom as they began to obtain vast control of Nubian gold mines, several crucially important desert trade routes, and major oases that extended into the western and eastern deserts. Their expansions also included parts of the northern Kordofan area of Sudan rich in agricultural and pastoral resources.

 

Kingdom of Makuria’s Relationship with the Byzantine Empire

The Kingdom of Makuria shared a very mutual and friendly relationship early with the Byzantine Empire. The relationship began sometime around 530 AD when the Byzantine Emperor Justinian wanted to seek new allies against the expansionist policies of the Sasanian Empire of Persia. Emperor Justinian was of the Orthodox Chalcedonian faith while his wife the Empress Theodora was a champion of the Orthodox Miaphysite doctrine. They both sent missionaries into Nubia to convert the populations after 540 AD to counter any plans by the Persians for building a Nubian alliance. The Kingdom of Makuria embraced the Chalcedonian beliefs of Emperor Justinian while the Kingdom of Nobatia and Kingdom of Alodia aligned with the Miaphysite beliefs of the Empress Theodora due to their close ties with the Coptic Orthodox Church of Alexandria in Egypt.

The Makurians and Byzantines regularly exchanged diplomats and delegations. For example, Makuria sent a delegation in 573 AD to give diplomatic gifts in the form of ivory and exotic animals like giraffes to the Byzantine Emperor and Empress to strengthen cooperation and trade networks. The exchange of ideas, culture, military tactics, and languages was evident as seen in Byzantine Greek administrative titles used by the Kingdom of Makuria like Architriclinus (Master of Banquet), Eparchos (Governor / Prefect / Bishop), and Meizoteros (Chief Steward) for their own official royal court titles. Trade flourished between them as the Byzantines provided new knowledge and assisted with Nubian architectural designs for fortifications, Nubian textiles with unique Byzantine influenced clothing, and the spreading of the Orthodox Christian faith.

 

Background of the Rashidun Caliphate

The Rashidun Caliphate was the continuation of the mission to spread the Islamic faith after the death of their leader the Prophet Muhammad in 632 AD. The successors leading the Rashidun Caliphate were his closest companions and commanders who served him during his campaigns in the Arabian Peninsula to spread the new faith and defeat his pagan enemies. The four rulers of this first Islamic State to emerge after the death of the Islamic Prophet Muhammad were known as the Rightly Guided Caliphs named Abu Bakr, Umar, Uthman, and Ali. While they were either related by blood to the Prophet Muhammad or marriage within his family this was not a hereditary privilege and they were elected to their post by a council of peers. The Rashidun Caliphate expanded quickly after successfully taking over the Arabian Peninsula. Their vast empire between 632-661 AD controlled the Middle East, the Caucasus, and parts of North Africa, and to be even more precise their conquests included all of the Arabian Peninsula, the Levant, the Caucasus and Anatolia regions, Mesopotamia including former Sasanian Empire of Persia territories and the grain wealthy Byzantine Prefecture of Egypt.

 

Rashidun Caliphate in Egypt

Byzantine Egypt was a logical choice for invasion as a major breadbasket to provide the grain and wheat necessary to feed the caliphate’s massive army to fight more wars and a source of food in case of famine within the regions controlled by the caliphate. Egypt also provided a new source of income from the taxes paid by the newly acquired subjects to fund additional campaigns for extending the territory of the emerging Islamic State. The Byzantine naval yards in Egypt along with the location of Egypt provided the perfect staging area for launching more invasions throughout North Africa and Byzantine controlled areas in the Mediterranean Sea like Cyprus, Rhodes, Sicily, and Crete. The exhaustive wars fought between the Sasanian Empire of Persia and the Byzantine Empire over the years weakened both of these former superpowers while draining manpower and resources needed to defend Egypt. This proved to be a deciding factor in delivering a very easy conquest of the territory for the Rashidun Caliphate. Egypt was invaded during the reign of Caliph Umar and led by his General Amr ibn al-As in 639 AD. General Amr invaded the territory with 4,000 troops a decision he made on his own due to previously living in Egypt as a merchant and understanding the Byzantine military situation in the region.

General Amr both understood and calculated that the Byzantine forces left to maintain order in Egypt at the time were made up of local Coptic militias designed more as a border garrison police force than a formidable fighting force. He managed to defeat all of the local Byzantine counter offenses and negotiated treaties of surrender with the fortified cities he laid siege on. The Byzantine Empire did make a request to their Nubian allies the Kingdom of Makuria for assistance against the Rashidun Caliphate in defense of Egypt against the Muslims, however the Nubian forces were too far away and locked down in local conflicts to offer any kind of assistance. They were fighting a war with fierce nomadic tribal groups like the Blemmyes (Beja) who were once enemies of the Kingdom of Nobatia and now a problem inherited by Makuria. The Byzantine Empire eventually sent an invasion fleet of 300 ships under Byzantine Admiral Manuel to retake Alexandria and other territory in 645 AD by order of the Byzantine Emperor Constans II. The Byzantine success was however short-lived as the Muslim General Amr now serving under the reign of the Rashidun Caliph Uthman was dispatched with 15,000 men to repel and defeat the Byzantines in the region once and for all. This last Muslim victory formerly secured Egypt from further Byzantine invasions and outside Christian influence.

 

Rashidun Caliphate Invades Christian Nubia and the Kingdom of Makuria

The Kingdom of Makuria and the Rashidun Caliphate began exchanging small raids into each other’s territories which eventually grew troublesome for stability on the shared border. The Rashidun Caliphate wanted to secure the southern border of Egypt from further raids and realized there was also wealth and new trade routes to obtain in conquering the Nubians. The Rashidun Caliphate was already high on adrenaline and knew no defeats on any of the fronts they were fighting a war on. Driven by their faith in God, superiority in military might, and the teachings of Islam they probably did not expect much from what must have been seen as a backwater kingdom when they decided in Egypt to invade and march on the Kingdom of Makuria. Makuria was cut off from any support by the Byzantine Empire and the Rashidun Caliphate’s worse fear was a large unified Christian army created between the Makurians and the Christian Kingdom of Aksum in Ethiopia. They also did not know if the largest Nubian Kingdom south of Makuria the Nubian Christian Kingdom of Alodia who shared a peaceful relationship with Makuria would also be part of a potential unification. The Muslim General Amr ibn al-As now the acting Rashidun Governor of Egypt decided in 642 AD to send his nephew General Uqba ibn Nafi with an army and cavalry of about 20,000 men to crush the Nubians and annex the territory.

The monarch of Makuria at this time was King Qalidurut and had at his disposal according to modern accounts an army consisting of deadly archers numbering between 8,000 to 10,000 men to defend the Kingdom of Makuria from the Arab invasion. The Muslim army managed to reach Dongola the capital of the Kingdom of Makuria and laid siege to the town in what would be known as the First battle of Dongola. General Uqba ibn Nafi’s army left a path of destruction but could not break the Nubian will to fight and die for their king, land, and Christian God. The Makurian warriors chose to use a variety of military tactics versus face to face combat that was unfamiliar to the Muslim army. The Nubians fought ferociously to defend their capital using several forms of guerilla warfare while their archers inflicted heavy damages on the advancing Muslim lines. So precise were the Nubian archers that many warriors in the Muslim army returned home with one eye left for sight. The 9thCentury Muslim historian Al-Baladhuri states the Muslims found that the Nubians fought strongly and met them with showers of arrows. Many of the Muslims returned wounded, including with injuries to the eyes. The accounts of the time while uncertain show about 10,000 to 15,000 Muslim soldiers killed in the battle while the accounts for the Nubians show about 2,000 warriors dead. Regardless of the numbers the Muslim army unable to adapt to Nubian war tactics and secure a quick major victory decided to withdraw from the conflict. The orders for withdrawal came from the Caliph Uthman, and the Arab General disgusted with a rise in heavy losses gathered what remained of his expeditionary army and return empty handed back to Egypt without conquering the Nubian homeland.

 

Rashidun Caliphate’s Second Invasion to Destroy the Makurian Kingdom

The Kingdom of Makuria and the Rashidun Caliphate managed to work out some form of peace treaty around 645 AD. The peace treaty eventually came to an end under accusations that the Nubians had violated the treaty. The Rashidun Caliphate once again decided to invade the Kingdom of Makuria and face the fierce Nubian warriors of King Qalidurut in what would become known as the Second Battle of Dongola. The Arab army went in confident of victory because this time they had a siege weapon called a manjaniq (traction trebuchet) to breach the fortified walls of the capital city. The Rashidun Caliph Uthman ordered his governor in Egypt Abdallah ibn Sa'd to make the Nubians pay for breaking the peace treaty.  The Egyptian Governor Abd Allah ibn Sa'd sent about 5,000 men including heavy mailed cavalry troops with the catapult for a siege of Dongola in 652 AD to begin the conquest of Nubia. They managed once again as in the first invasion to reach the capital Dongola and create mass destruction in the surrounding areas around the city. The Arabs assumed the heavy cavalry charges combined with the siege weapon firing relentlessly on the city would break the morale of the Nubian defenders. The catapult weapon was indeed destructive while destroying several buildings and the city cathedral however like in the first invasion the Arabs underestimated the skill of Nubian archers.

The Nubians had the high ground on the walls of a heavily fortified city and despite multiple firing from the catapult the reign of fire from their arrows was equally destructive and decimated the Arab heavy cavalry charges. According to the 10th century Shiite Historian Ahmad al-Kufi, “the Muslims had never [before] suffered a loss like the one they had in Nubia”. Governor Abdallah ibn Sa'd had inadvertently turned his heavy cavalry charges into lambs for the slaughter against the barrage of fire from Nubian arrows. The Makurian King Qalidurut remained defiant, refused to surrender, and rejected any unfavorable terms during the battle. King Qalidurut instead relied on his legendary archers to turn the tide and force a diplomatic stalemate. The Arab army was unable to breach the walls or obtain anything to force a surrender by The Kingdom of Makuria or the inhabitants. The battle did not give way to either side and continued to be a draw with losses by the Arab army especially the cavalry becoming extremely heavy. The two rivals made the decision to agree on a pact called the Baqt to end the conflict which provided equal terms for trade, peace, tribute, and mutual cooperation in the future. This allowed for the Kingdom of Makuria to remain a separate regional power in their own right preserving Christianity in Nubia for the next 600 years.

 

Conclusion

The Kingdom of Makuria having the ability to defend themselves valiantly against the Rashidun Caliphate when so many other kingdoms and empires had fallen so quickly is at best a true David and Goliath story with credit to their skilled archers of whom gained great respect from several medieval Muslim Historians. Makuria eventually switched from loyalty to the Byzantine Church due to diplomatic isolation to the Coptic Church in Egypt allowing for more unity with Egyptian Christians. The Baqt treaty signed in 652 AD created a mutual ceasefire for a stable frontier where Makuria would send 350-400 noncitizen slaves of working age to the Rashidun Caliphate and the Rashidun Caliphate would send barley, lentils, wine, textiles, grain, and specially bred horses to the Kingdom of Makuria. The Baqt pact more importantly required safe passage of Muslims and Christian Nubians within Egypt and Nubian lands.

Muslim historians of much later times would claim that King Qalidurut of Makuria fell to his knees begging for mercy and peace from the Arabs during the second invasion, and yet the Makurians under King Kyriakos were said to have led an invasion force of 100,000 men in 748 AD simply to save just one man. The man they saved was Pope Michael I the Patriarch of the Coptic Church in Alexandria from the Umayyad Caliphate governor of Egypt after imprisonment and extortion. The Makurian military began to siege the Egyptian capital of Fustat resulting in the Umayyads releasing the Patriarch to diminish hostilities. This is not the reasoning nor actions taken by a supposedly broken people on their hands and knees begging for mercy. The Baqt nonaggression pact would hold for the next 600 years allowing Christianity to flourish in Nubia until the collapse of Makuria that finally opened the gates for Arab and Islamic influence to get a foothold and spread across the Sudan Region.

 

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References

O'Kelly, M. (2026). The Makurian Invasion of 748 AD and the Forgotten Christian Kingdom That Defied Islam. Mark Kelly.

Oriental Publishing. (2024). The History and Rise of the Rashidun Caliphate. [E-book]

Faraji, S. (2012). The roots of Nubian Christianity uncovered: The triumph of the last pharaoh: Religious encounters in Late Antique Africa. Africa World Press.

Lobban, Richard (2003). Historical dictionary of ancient and medieval Nubia. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield.

Spaulding, Jay (1995). "Medieval Christian Nubia and the Islamic World: A Reconsideration of the Baqt Treaty". The International Journal of African Historical Studies. 28 (3): 577–94.

Clark, Desmond J.; Roland Anthony Oliver; J. D. Fage; A. D. Roberts (1975). The Cambridge History of Africa Volume 2 c. 500 B.C. - A.D. 1050. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Illustration 1: Mural from Faras showing a Nubian dignitary protected by Jesus Christ from the 12th century. (Public Domain Illustration).

Illustration 2:  Painting from Faras, Nubia, depicting a female member of the royal Makurian family, perhaps a princess. She is protected by Virgin Mary and the Christ Child. Dated to the 12th century. Michalowski: "Faras. Die Kathedrale aus dem Wüstensand". pp. 167-168. (Public Domain Illustration)

He rode through a 19th century West of thirst, dust, hunger, and hard bargains, where cattle were money on the hoof and a man could spend a week smelling of sweat, horse, smoke, and sour coffee.

Brian D’Ambrosio considers the life of Charles Goodnight.

Charles Goodnight. Source: Public domain, PBS, available here.

Charles Goodnight came to Texas as a boy and grew into the sort of plainsman who seemed to have been manufactured by the country itself: lean on schooling, heavy on experience, suspicious of comfort, and possessed of a memory for trails, water holes, cattle, and weather.

Born March 5, 1836, in Macoupin County, Illinois, Goodnight arrived in Texas with his family late in 1845. He was nine years old. His formal education amounted to six months, but the prairie supplied another curriculum. He learned hunting and tracking from a man called Caddo Jake, hired out to neighboring farms at eleven, worked with livestock, freighted with ox teams, and by his early twenties had begun building the knowledge that would carry him across some of the hardest country in the American West.

The frontier made no allowance for romantic notions. A cattleman needed grass, water, a good horse and a tolerance for misery. Goodnight acquired all four.

During the Civil War he served as a scout and guide with the Texas Frontier Regiment. He ranged across country that later became central to his cattle operations, learning the contours of the Llano Estacado and the western plains. After the war, Texas was awash in cattle and short of profitable markets. Goodnight and Oliver Loving understood that the hungry military posts and Indian agencies of New Mexico represented an opportunity.

In the spring of 1866, they drove their first herd from the Fort Belknap region toward Horsehead Crossing on the Pecos and then north to Fort Sumner. Eighteen cowhands made the trip, among them Bose Ikard, Robert Clay Allison, and One-Armed Bill Wilson. The route became the Goodnight-Loving Trail, eventually extending north through New Mexico and Colorado.

It was a journey measured in miles, blisters, bad water, dust and the temperament of cattle.

And somewhere in the middle of all that came the wagon.

 

The Chuckwagon Rolls Into History

Goodnight's great practical contribution to the cattle drive was not glamorous. It was a kitchen.

As drives grew longer, cowboys could no longer conveniently carry enough provisions on horseback. In 1866, Goodnight converted a surplus Army wagon into a mobile kitchen. He fitted a pantry box onto the rear, equipped with shelves and drawers, and made its hinged door serve as a table. A lower compartment, called the boot, held heavier cooking gear such as cast-iron skillets and a Dutch oven. The wagon carried much more than food: tools, sewing supplies, first-aid necessities, bedrolls, firewood and water.

It was a simple solution to a brutal logistical problem.

The chuckwagon became the nerve center of the cattle drive. The cook did not merely fry bacon and boil coffee. He drove the wagon, established camp, maintained supplies and often became the outfit's unofficial barber, doctor, dentist and banker. Three hot meals a day were expected, which meant that somebody had to make civilization appear on a patch of dirt where there was no civilization within fifty miles.

Imagine the evening… The herd is settling. Horses steam in the cooling air. Dust hangs over the cattle like dirty gauze. A man swings down from his saddle with his legs stiff from riding. His shirt is crusted with sweat. His mouth tastes of alkali. Somewhere behind the herd comes the smell that matters most: wood smoke, coffee and supper.

The chuckwagon arrives.

Beans, beef, biscuits, coffee—plain food, hard food, food built to survive distance. The Dutch oven becomes a little iron planet over the coals. Tin cups pass through hands. For a few minutes, men who have spent the day watching cattle and the horizon can watch one another instead.

That is why the chuckwagon outlived the cattle drives.

The open range disappeared beneath barbed wire, railroads, farms and highways, but the mobile kitchen remained. Its descendants survive in ranching demonstrations, Western museums, historical programs and competitive chuckwagon cooking. Clarendon, near Goodnight's later ranch, still stages the Colonel Charles Goodnight Chuck Wagon Cook Off. The event has become a living piece of the culture Goodnight helped create, keeping the wagon, the cookfire and the old camp meal in public memory.

Perhaps that is the most revealing monument to Goodnight: not a bronze statue, but a kitchen built to move.

 

From Cattle Drive to Panhandle Institution

Goodnight's life after the first cattle drives became almost as consequential as the journeys themselves.

In 1867 Oliver Loving was mortally wounded during a drive. Goodnight remained with him as he lingered at Fort Sumner and honored Loving's final request that his body be returned to Texas. After Loving died, Goodnight arranged for his remains to be carried home for burial. The partnership ended in death, but their names became permanently attached to the route.

Goodnight later pushed into the Palo Duro country with about 1,600 cattle. He reached the canyon in 1876 and established the operation that became the JA Ranch with John G. Adair in 1877. His first quarters were a rough dugout, and the early ranch stood amid a landscape of canyon walls, buffalo, old Indian paths and grassland. The Palo Duro-Dodge City cattle route later carried JA herds north toward the Kansas railhead.

The country around Goodnight is still marked by his passage.

The Charles and Mary Ann Goodnight Ranch State Historic Site preserves the couple's 1887 ranch house near Goodnight, Texas. The restored home, visitor center and grounds tell the story of the ranching operation and the Goodnights' preservation of a remnant Southern Plains bison herd. Descendants of that herd remain nearby.

The Charles Goodnight Memorial Trail and the highway toward Palo Duro Canyon State Park follow or approximate portions of the country Goodnight traveled. Near the highway is a restored dugout thought to have been his first 1876 quarters. His papers and artifacts are preserved at the Panhandle-Plains Historical Museum in Canyon, where the Charles Goodnight Memorial Trail marker also recalls the route he used to bring his cattle into the Palo Duro country.

Farther north, Capulin Volcano National Monument in New Mexico preserves another piece of the story. Goodnight used the region during his cattle operations, and after becoming dissatisfied with tolls at Raton Pass, he used Trinchera Pass west of Capulin Mountain on his 1867 route toward Colorado. The old cattle country survives there not as a preserved trail, but in the landscape itself—the volcanic ground, distant mountains and immense sky that Goodnight and his cattle once crossed.

Goodnight spent his later years breeding cattle, experimenting with bison and agricultural projects, supporting education and watching the old frontier become something else. With Mary Ann's encouragement, he preserved a domestic bison herd when the wild Southern Plains herds had been devastated. The couple also established Goodnight College in 1898.

Mary Ann died in 1926. Goodnight, already ninety, married Corinne Goodnight on his ninety-first birthday in 1927. They later moved to Clarendon. He spent his final winter in Phoenix and died there on December 12, 1929, at ninety-three. He was buried beside Mary Ann in the Goodnight community cemetery.

By then the cattle drives were gone.

The routes had become roads, markers and memories. The hungry riders had become photographs. The enormous herds had been divided by wire.

But the chuckwagon remained.

It had begun as a crude answer to a problem: men needed to eat while cattle moved across hundreds of miles of unforgiving country. It became something larger—a symbol of the working West, of meals taken beside a fire when there was nowhere else to go, of the stubborn human habit of making a home wherever night happened to fall.

Indeed, Goodnight's most lasting invention was not really a wagon.

It was the idea that even on the longest road, somebody ought to bring supper.

 

Brian D'Ambrosio is the author of Montana Eccentrics, New Mexico Eccentrics,  Italian-Americana: Explorers, Entertainers, and Eccentrics, and American Eccentrics: Mavericks, Misfits, and Visionaries. Available here: Amazon US | Amazon UK

 

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Primary Sources:

·       Texas Historical Commission: Goodnight Ranch History | Texas Historical Commission

·       The Charles Goodnight Memorial Trail: Texas Historical Marekrs Database: Charles Goodnight | Humanities Texas

·       National Parks Service: Charles Goodnight - Capulin Volcano National Monument (U.S. National Park Service)

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Why could children could go 28 days without fresh linen while supplies sat in storage? Here, Ilias Konstantinidis considers this question in the context of some of the challenges with the centralized Soviet system of governance.

An image sourced to be of Russian street children in the 1920s. Source: Public domain, Журнал "Гость", 1927, №2 с.27 (Рига, Латвия), available here.

In December 1935, inspectors entered a Soviet children's home near Moscow and found a scene that looked, at first, like an ordinary story of shortage. The children had gone twenty-eight days without bathing. They had also gone twenty-eight days without a change of underwear or bed linen. Beds were packed tightly together. There were not enough cups, so tea was served in plates.

Then the inspectors opened the warehouse.

Inside were 1,100 clean sheets, 1,200 pillowcases, 1,300 towels and 300 coats. The institution had linen. It had towels. It had clothing. What it did not have was a functioning path from counted stock to children's daily lives.

That distinction matters. We often imagine scarcity as a simple absence: there is not enough of something, so people go without it. Soviet child-welfare records from the 1930s reveal a more complicated failure. Sometimes there genuinely was too little food, clothing, fuel or space. But sometimes the resource existed, had been purchased, entered into a ledger and stored - and still failed to reach the child for whom it was supposedly provided.

The Moscow inspection was not an isolated curiosity. In children's institutions in the Urals, records show that two internats had no toothbrushes at all, while children in another used toothbrushes collectively. At the same time, 300 new toothbrushes were sitting in a warehouse. Elsewhere, officials reported children remaining in dirty linen despite available funds and stocks of clothing.

A regional party resolution from 1934 described an even larger version of the same problem. Orphanages urgently needed clothing while coats, dresses and shirts were already lying in warehouses in their thousands. Some 16,000 metres of purchased cloth sat unused in Sverdlovsk. The document used an unexpectedly vivid expression: the cloth was, in effect, "marinating aimlessly" in the city.

The phrase is almost comic. The consequences were not.

By 1938, Ural records still showed severe deficits: thousands of children lacked winter coats, more than 11,000 pairs of shoes remained undelivered, and blanket provision covered only a fraction of recorded need. In one children's home, more than sixty children lacked coats while the director was accused of using warehouse leather to make himself a jacket and shoes for his wife. In another institution, children reportedly tore sheets into strips and wrapped them around their feet so that they could move through the snow.

The obvious temptation is to treat all of this as evidence that Soviet bureaucracy simply did not know what was happening. The archive suggests almost the opposite. The system often knew a remarkable amount.

The 1935 Moscow inspection recorded not only the children's living conditions but precise inventories. It also documented food losses: staff were accused of consuming provisions intended for children, and inspectors recorded a large gap between the official meat norm and what actually entered the cooking pot. The report travelled upward. Nikolai Semashko, the physician and former People's Commissar of Health who chaired the Children's Commission, personally forwarded the findings to senior political leaders.

The state could therefore see the failure. The problem was that seeing, recording and fixing were different administrative acts.

This becomes clearer when we follow the objects. A sheet could be purchased, delivered to a warehouse, counted in an inventory and reported as available. Every one of those steps generated evidence that the supply system was functioning. Yet none guaranteed that the sheet reached a bed, was washed, changed regularly or protected a child from cold and dirt. Administrative success could be registered before material provision was complete.

The same problem appeared in less spectacular objects. A spoon, a toothbrush or a pair of boots might seem trivial beside the grand themes of Stalinism. But they are useful precisely because they reveal where a system stopped working. In several children's homes, the absence of spoons and cups forced children to drink tea or soup directly from plates. A preschool orphanage in Perm requested twenty toothbrushes for forty children - effectively treating one brush for two children as an acceptable norm of shortage.

Sometimes improvisation became more desperate. In children's quarters at Ubozhenskoe in 1935, a lack of fuel reportedly drove children to burn coats, blankets, books and sheets in stoves to keep warm. The welfare system was literally consuming the goods intended to sustain the children.

Children's own words occasionally enter the administrative record. In August 1935, two boys in an orphanage in Sverdlovsk region complained that they were poorly fed, that lunch soup was "like water", and that basic hygiene was neglected. Their letter ended with a plea: "do not forget us in the deep taiga". An official examining the letter noted that it was useful material to work on.

That small bureaucratic response captures something larger. Distress became information. Information became a document. The existence of the document proved that the problem had entered the administrative system. What remained uncertain was whether the system could convert that knowledge back into food, heat, clothing or care.

This is why the history of Soviet scarcity cannot be written only from production totals or legal promises. The crucial question is often logistical: where did the chain break? A central authority could issue a norm. A factory could produce the goods. A warehouse could receive them. An inspector could certify their presence. Yet the child at the end of that chain could still be barefoot.

Nor should every failure be reduced to a single explanation. Some institutions faced genuine shortages so deep that no clever management could have solved them. Some records point to theft, corruption or incompetent directors. Others reveal failures of transport and distribution. The point is not that Soviet officials invented scarcity on paper. It is that their documentary machinery could sometimes treat an intermediate administrative achievement - allocation, stock, inspection, reporting - as if it were equivalent to successful provision.

The result was a peculiar form of bureaucratic abundance amid material deprivation. There could be more reports, more inspections, more tables and more precise inventories at exactly the places where children lacked basic things. Documentation did not necessarily conceal failure. Often it preserved the evidence of failure in extraordinary detail. But a record of a missing coat was not a coat.

That sounds obvious. Administratively, it is not. Large organisations routinely govern through proxies: a completed form stands for a completed process; an inventory stands for availability; a budget allocation stands for capacity. Usually those substitutions are useful. They allow institutions to operate at scale. The danger begins when the proxy becomes the endpoint - when the system proves to itself that something has happened because the paperwork says that an earlier stage has been completed.

The Soviet children's-home archive makes that danger unusually visible because the final test was so physical. A ledger might say that linen existed. A child's body could show that it had not arrived.

The most revealing Soviet shortage, then, was sometimes not an empty warehouse. It was a full one.

 

 

Author's note: This article draws on the author's archival research into Soviet child welfare and institutional provision in the 1930s. Translations from Russian archival documents are the author's own.

Ilias Konstantinidis is an independent researcher working on Soviet social history and institutional epistemology. His work includes a publication in Russian History (Brill), and he serves as a peer reviewer for an Elsevier journal. More at konstantinides.co.uk.

 

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By the autumn of 1066, England had become the prize at the center of one of the most extraordinary succession crises in medieval European history. What had begun as a dispute over the English crown had already drawn armies from Scandinavia and Normandy onto English soil, forcing King Harold Godwinson to fight two invasions in the same year.

Yet the events that unfolded at Stamford Bridge had not ended the crisis. Instead, Harold's spectacular victory over Harald Hardrada had left him facing an even greater danger. While the English king had been marching north, fighting and defeating the Norwegian invasion, William, Duke of Normandy, had been preparing his own army across the Channel.

Terry Bailey explains.

Read part 1 on the pre-invasion world of 1066 here, part 2 on the road to invasion here, and part 3 on the Battle of Stamford Bridge here.

Scene 53 of the Bayeux Tapestry. Mounted Normans attacking infantry Anglo-Saxons. Source: Public domain, Bayeux Tapestry Museum, available here.

On the 28th of September 1066, William's invasion fleet crossed the Channel and landed on the Sussex coast near Pevensey. The Norman army came ashore without encountering the kind of resistance that might have been expected from a kingdom supposedly prepared for invasion. Harold was still in the north, and William immediately understood the importance of establishing a secure base. Pevensey offered a valuable harbor and the remains of an old Roman fortification that could be strengthened and used as a defensive position. From there, William moved eastward towards Hastings, where the Normans established another fortified position and began devastating the surrounding countryside.

William's strategy was calculated to force Harold to respond. The Norman army could not simply remain indefinitely on English soil waiting for the king to arrive. Its soldiers needed food, supplies and secure territory, while the destruction of the surrounding countryside served a second purpose: it demonstrated the consequences of resisting William and placed pressure upon Harold to act. The Norman duke had come to England claiming that the English crown had been promised to him. He now intended to make that claim impossible to ignore.

For Harold, the situation was extraordinarily difficult. He had only recently returned from the north after his victory at Stamford Bridge, where his army had defeated and destroyed much of Harald Hardrada's invading force. The English king and his soldiers had marched an extraordinary distance in a remarkably short period of time. They had fought one of the most important battles of the year, celebrated victory and then learned that another invasion had already begun hundreds of miles away. Harold now had to make another decision that would determine the fate of England.

Rather than waiting for William to advance deeper into the kingdom, Harold gathered his forces and marched south. The speed of his movement had become one of the defining features of the campaign of 1066. His army had already demonstrated its ability to move rapidly, but the march from the north to Sussex placed enormous physical demands upon men who had just fought a major battle. Some soldiers had been killed or wounded at Stamford Bridge, while others may have remained behind or dispersed. Harold nevertheless believed that confronting William quickly offered the best opportunity to prevent the Normans from consolidating their position.

The English army eventually reached the area around Hastings in October. Harold established his position on a ridge now known as Senlac Hill, overlooking the surrounding landscape. William, meanwhile, prepared his army for battle. The two forces represented different military traditions, although the distinction between them should not be exaggerated. The English army was not simply a mass of infantry facing an entirely different Norman force. Both armies contained experienced warriors, and both relied upon combinations of weapons and tactics that had developed throughout western Europe.

The English strength lay particularly in its infantry and the defensive formation known as the shield wall. Closely packed warriors stood shoulder to shoulder, locking shields together and presenting a formidable barrier to an attacking force. Behind the front ranks were additional soldiers who could reinforce weakened sections of the line. The English army also included experienced housecarls, heavily armed professional warriors whose equipment and discipline made them particularly formidable opponents.

William's army possessed a different combination of strengths. Norman infantry could attack the English line directly, while archers could harass the defenders from a distance. Most importantly, William possessed a substantial cavalry force. The Normans could therefore combine missile fire, infantry attacks and mounted assaults in a coordinated effort to break the English formation. The battle would become a contest between Harold's ability to maintain the integrity of his defensive position and William's ability to find a way through it.

On the morning of the 14th of October, the Norman army advanced towards the English position. William's forces were arranged with archers, infantry and cavalry forming the principal components of his army. The English remained on the ridge, protected by their shield wall. The initial Norman attacks met fierce resistance. Arrows were fired towards the English position, infantry advanced up the slope and cavalry attempted to find weaknesses in the English line. Yet the English formation proved extremely difficult to penetrate.

The terrain itself favored Harold. The English were positioned on higher ground, forcing Norman soldiers to advance uphill against a disciplined defensive formation. Every step towards the summit increased the difficulty of the attack. For hours, the English shield wall absorbed repeated assaults. The Normans could attack, retreat and regroup, but the English line continued to hold.

At this point, the battle began to develop into something far more complicated than a simple frontal assault. The Normans suffered setbacks on portions of the battlefield, and at one stage some of William's soldiers fled downhill. The sight of retreating Normans apparently encouraged English warriors to leave the protection of the shield wall and pursue them. This became one of the most famous episodes associated with Hastings.

Later accounts describe these movements as deliberate Norman feigned retreats, in which troops pretended to flee in order to lure English soldiers away from the defensive formation before turning upon them. Whether every such movement was deliberately planned remains uncertain, and the surviving sources were written after the battle. Nevertheless, there is strong evidence that Norman forces were able to exploit moments when English soldiers abandoned the protection of the ridge. Once separated from the main formation, pursuing English troops could become vulnerable to Norman cavalry.

The fighting continued for much of the day. The English shield wall repeatedly resisted the Norman attacks, while the Normans adapted their tactics and continued searching for weaknesses. The battle was becoming a contest of endurance. William could draw upon forces that had crossed the Channel specifically for the campaign, while Harold's army had already endured the extraordinary events of the preceding weeks. Yet despite exhaustion and mounting casualties, the English continued to resist.

The traditional image of Hastings often portrays the battle as a straightforward Norman victory achieved through cavalry and archery. The reality was considerably more complicated. The Norman army did not simply overwhelm the English from the beginning. The English held their position for hours and inflicted serious losses upon their opponents. The battle was a prolonged struggle in which tactical decisions, terrain, leadership, fatigue and chance all mattered.

As the day progressed, however, the English position gradually deteriorated. Harold's army had suffered heavy casualties, and maintaining a coherent shield wall became increasingly difficult. The death of senior warriors weakened the command structure, while gaps could appear in the defensive formation. William also remained personally active in directing the battle, helping to maintain Norman morale at moments when the fighting threatened to turn against him.

Then came the event that transformed the battle. Harold Godwinson was killed.

The exact circumstances of Harold's death remain uncertain. The famous story that he was struck in the eye by an arrow appears in the Bayeux Tapestry, although the identification of the figure has been debated. Other traditions claim that Harold was subsequently cut down by Norman warriors. It is possible that several later accounts combined different traditions surrounding his death. What is certain is that Harold died on the battlefield, and his death removed the central figure around whom English resistance had been organized.

The consequences were devastating. The English army did not immediately vanish, but the death of the king shattered the political and military structure upon which continued resistance depended. Some English soldiers continued fighting, particularly among the remaining housecarls, but large-scale organized resistance began to collapse. Norman forces were finally able to break through the English position, and by the end of the day William had achieved the victory for which he had crossed the Channel.

The Battle of Hastings was therefore much more than a clash between two armies. It was the decisive military encounter in a succession crisis that had already transformed England. Harold had defeated one invasion at Stamford Bridge, only to find himself confronted by another army from across the Channel. His decision to march south and fight William so quickly has been debated ever since, but the consequences of the battle are undeniable. Harold was dead, his army was defeated, and the most powerful military obstacle between William and the English crown had been removed.

Yet Hastings did not make William king of England in an instant. Winning the battle was one thing; securing the kingdom was another. Large parts of England remained outside William's direct control, and the political elite had not simply disappeared with Harold. English resistance continued, and alternative candidates for the throne emerged. William therefore faced a new phase of the campaign in which military victory had to be converted into political authority.

The significance of Hastings ultimately lies in the fact that it changed the direction of English history. Had Harold defeated William, the Norman claim to the English throne might have collapsed, and the political and cultural development of England could have followed a dramatically different path. Instead, William's victory opened the way for the Norman Conquest, bringing a new ruling dynasty, new aristocratic families and profound changes to England's institutions, military organization, landholding patterns and culture.

The battle also reveals why 1066 cannot be understood as a single isolated event. Stamford Bridge and Hastings were intimately connected. Harold's extraordinary victory against Harald Hardrada demonstrated the strength of the English army, but it also left Harold with little time to recover before confronting William. The two battles therefore became the dramatic turning points of the same campaign: first Harold destroyed one invasion in the north, and then, only weeks later, his own kingdom was transformed by defeat in the south.

By sunset on the 14th of October 1066, William had won the battle, but England had not yet submitted. Harold Godwinson was dead, the English army had been defeated and the Norman duke stood closer than ever to the crown he claimed. Yet the conquest was only beginning. William had won Hastings; now he had to win England.

 

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The very title, “Football War,” is misleading. This is not a story about rivalry between football clubs and their fans. It was a brief conflict fought between El Salvador and Honduras in July 1969, and it was only tangentially connected to the sport itself. The name comes from its timing: the fighting broke out just weeks after the two countries had played a bitterly contested series of qualifying matches for the 1970 World Cup. It is also known as the 100-Hour War.

Steve Prout explains.

A map of El Salvador and Honduras showing the territories seized by El Salvador at the height of the conflict. Source: Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International license, JuanJose1969, available here.

The Background

Football was not the cause of the war; if anything, it was the spark that lit the powder keg. The war grew out of tensions over the mass migration of Salvadorans into neighboring Honduras. El Salvador was experiencing numerous internal problems, chief among them a discontented, impoverished peasant population and deep inequalities in the distribution of land. El Salvador was overpopulated, the people suffered high unemployment rates, and much of the country’s peasant population was landless. By the 1960s, only 5% of farms occupied 70% of its land. At the same time, there were unresolved frontier disputes between El Salvador and Honduras.

Unsurprisingly, desperation and resentment grew within El Salvador. The peasants’ lot was made worse by the rapid expansion of cotton plantations, which took even more scarce farmland away. These peasants now looked beyond their borders to neighboring Honduras, which was five times larger and had jobs available, although much of that employment was low-paid work.

Over several decades, around three hundred thousand migrants from El Salvador crossed into Honduras. Many of them found low-paid work on banana plantations or with employers that offered similar terms and conditions. By 1969, these migrants accounted for more than 10% of the total population of Honduras. This became a troubling statistic when Hondurans found themselves competing for land and jobs against a huge influx of newcomers.

Meanwhile, Honduras already had its own problems around land distribution and ownership. The arrival of migrants from El Salvador made an existing problem even worse. Land availability was not eased by the dominance of large foreign companies such as the US-owned United Fruit Company, which held around 10% of Honduran land. However, the focus remained on the arrivals from El Salvador. Honduran farmers and ranchers pressured the government to protect their rights from the Salvadoran newcomers. In 1969, the Honduran government turned to an agrarian reform law, passed in 1962 and fully enforced from 1967, which enabled it to seize land held by Salvadoran settlers and redistribute it to native-born Hondurans. Mass expulsions followed, and violence erupted. All it took was a series of football matches to ignite this toxic mix of contention and hatred into something bigger.

 

FIFA World Cup and the outbreak of hostilities

In June 1969, the two countries met in a qualifying playoff for the 1970 World Cup. The first match, played on June 8 in the Honduran capital, Tegucigalpa, was won 1–0 by Honduras, and Salvadoran fans reportedly set fire to the stadium in protest. The two sides faced each other again on June 15, this time in San Salvador. El Salvador won 3–0, but the match was marred by violence as Salvadoran fans besieged the Honduran team’s hotel and attacked Honduran supporters, with several reported deaths. Anti-Salvadoran riots then broke out across Honduras, and, by El Salvador’s count, around 12,000 Salvadorans fled the country. With one win each, the teams met for a deciding match in Mexico City on June 27, which El Salvador won 3–2 after extra time. The day before, El Salvador had severed diplomatic relations with Honduras. What should have been a matter for the police had become an urgent matter for the military.

 

The build-up begins

The main hostilities were preceded by nearly three weeks of mounting tension, border skirmishes, and limited engagements between the two sides. The first officially reported engagement was on July 3, 1969, when Salvadoran anti-aircraft guns fired at a civilian airliner in Honduran airspace. Ground forces then briefly clashed near the border town of El Poy. At the request of the Organization of American States (OAS), the neighboring Central American countries of Nicaragua, Costa Rica, and Guatemala attempted to mediate, but their attempts to restore peace were of little avail.

El Salvador claimed that Honduran forces had crossed into its territory, and accusations were exchanged. On July 12, 1969, Honduras claimed that four Salvadoran soldiers had been killed during a failed incursion into its territory, a claim El Salvador denied. Limited artillery fire on border towns also caused civilian casualties.

 

The “100-Hour War,” or the Football War

On the evening of July 14, 1969, the Football War began in earnest. Salvadoran aircraft attacked Honduran airfields while ground forces simultaneously launched a two-pronged invasion, one thrust aimed at the Sula Valley and the other along the Pan-American Highway toward Tegucigalpa. According to the Salvadoran press, the army advanced some twenty-five miles in a single day.

Honduras retaliated with airstrikes of its own. On July 15, Honduran aircraft bombed Ilopango airport and the oil facilities at Acajutla and Cutuco, destroying one-fifth of El Salvador’s fuel reserves, but Honduran ground forces maintained a defensive position rather than advancing. El Salvador, in the meantime, continued to advance and surrounded the town of Nueva Ocotepeque. After heavy artillery fire, Honduran troops and civilians retreated, and the town fell on July 16 in the war’s only major battle. At this point, both Salvadoran advances stalled because of ammunition shortages and stiffening Honduran resistance. The next day, July 17, saw the last of the significant military engagements, including a dogfight between six aircraft in Honduran airspace (interestingly, both sides were still flying American fighters from the Second World War). That day, Honduran pilot Captain Fernando Soto shot down three Salvadoran aircraft in what are often described as the last dogfights between piston-engined fighters.

Meanwhile, in the background, the OAS was making strenuous efforts to bring about a peace deal. On the night of July 18, a ceasefire was agreed, and it took full effect on July 20. The war had ended, and both sides met at the negotiating table.

 

Outcome of Negotiations

El Salvador continued to occupy Honduran territory after the fighting ceased. Its conditions for withdrawal required Honduras to guarantee the safety of Salvadoran citizens in Honduras, pay reparations, and punish those responsible for attacks on Salvadorans. The talks were only partially successful, because Honduras gave the guarantee but did not pay reparations or punish those responsible. Although not satisfied with the outcome, El Salvador withdrew its occupying forces on August 2, 1969, under the threat of OAS sanctions.

As far as the actual football was concerned, El Salvador went on to beat Haiti and qualify for its first World Cup. At the finals in Mexico in 1970, however, it lost all three of its group matches, against Mexico, Belgium, and the USSR, without scoring a goal. The human cost of the four days of fighting was far greater. El Salvador reported up to seven hundred casualties, including 107 dead, and Honduras officially reported 165 casualties, including 99 dead, though these figures are disputed. Most estimates put the overall death toll at around two thousand or more, most of them Honduran civilians, and tens of thousands of people were displaced.

 

Conclusion

The war was not only one of the briefest wars of the century, but it also passed largely unnoticed by the rest of the world, except for the OAS. Latin American affairs, with some exceptions, usually elude the world’s headlines, as events elsewhere compete for the attention of the international media. Those exceptions include the continuing dispute between Argentina and Britain over the Falklands and US interventions such as those in Panama (1989) and Venezuela (2026).

There are, of course, other reasons why this small conflict escaped the world’s notice. In July 1969, the Apollo 11mission and the moon landing captured the world’s attention. By the time Neil Armstrong took his “giant leap for mankind” on the moon on July 20, the four-day conflict had ended, before most people outside the two warring countries had noticed.

The war still left deep resentment between the two countries for another two decades. There was no formal peace treaty until the General Peace Treaty was signed in Lima on October 30, 1980, under which the two countries agreed to settle their remaining border dispute. When those negotiations failed, the dispute went to the International Court of Justice, which in 1992 awarded Honduras around two-thirds of the disputed land along their border, as well as the island of El Tigre in the Gulf of Fonseca. El Salvador, already the smaller of the two countries, did not formally accept the ruling until 1999, and even then only grudgingly. Even in 2012, the borders and security of the Gulf of Fonseca were still under discussion between the two former warring nations and Nicaragua.

 

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