Classics Reading Group — "The Pearl" (In Syriac)

Shortly after Dr. Zainaldin's lecture, I also sat in a discussion with the Classics Reading Group. We examined a poem, originally written in Syriac, titled "The Pearl." Written by Ephrem the Syrian (the dashing fellow shown below), it extolls a pearl, held in the hands of the narrator.

Why a pearl? Well, per Dr. Scott Johnson, Matthew 13:45-46 gives us the answer: "Again, the Kingdom of Heaven is like a merchant in search of fine pearls who, on finding one pearl of great value, went and sold all that he had and bought it." (ESV)

Apparently this "pearl" metaphor became popular in theological texts following the Biblical era. Furthermore, nature and scripture were seen to be the "two lyres" by which the Creator could truly be revealed. It was not enough to solely perform scriptural exegesis; one needed to seek God's influence in the physical world to fully appreciate him.

I was unfamiliar with the language of Syriac prior to the lecture, but the language forms the third largest corpus of in the Roman Empire, behind Greek and Roman. Syriac is a Semitic language (a cousin to Hebrew and Arabic) and its usage peaked ~7th century. 

I was especially interested to learn about Ephrem because of his involvement with the city of Edessa—a key facet of the Second Crusade. I'd be fascinated to look into whether the crusaders, upon capturing, losing, and subsequently re-assaulting Edessa, understood the significance of Syriac. By and large, the crusaders were xenophobic and uneducated; it's unlikely that they would have been able to parse Syriac. Thus, did they seek to purge Edessa of theological texts in Syriac, even if the texts in question (unbeknownst to them) espoused Christian principles?

Fun to be able to draw parallels to the things I study.

 

"Warfare is a Great Affair of the State" Lecture

Earlier today, I had the privilege of attending a talk with Dr. James Zainaldin, a guest lecture at Harvard University. Zainaldin, a specialist of ancient Roman-Chinese relations and philosophies, discussed the role that military hegemonies play in shaping our philosophical understanding of warfare. 

 

Zainaldin's hegemony of choice was, understandably, Rome, highlighted by two case studies: The treatises of Onasander and Frontinus.

Onasander and Frontinus were dissimilar lads. Onasander appears to have been a philosopher himself, writing expositions on the art of generalship from a layman's perspective. He was based outside of the empire, writing in Greek, and offered an outside-looking-in vantage point. Onasander's style was abstract and cerebral. He gave flexible, one-size-fits-all advice: Things like It's better to have more soldiers than to have fewer soldiers and Try to hit him before he hits you.* Onasander's advice was like a tool in a toolkit; an effective general would memorize a repertoire of "tools" and deploy them when necessary.

Frontinus, by contrast, wrote with clinical specificity. A powerful Roman consul himself, Frontinus infused his treatises with his own familiarity with Roman military deeds. In the year 84 AD, he might write, consul X performed Y maneuver and routed the forces of Z. Audiences here must unpack the wisdom of former generals for themselves. What made these maneuvers successful? What lessons were to be learned?

Of course, Frontinus was also motivated by his loyalty to portray Rome's military in a favorable light. In a recent reading of a USMC dossier about counterinsurgency in Iraq, I noticed that Major General Glynn (the author) referenced specific examples in U.S. military history that he felt should be replicated, much in the style of Frontinus. Is it reaching too far to say that we adopt a "Frontinian" approach to the art of war because are living "inside the empire"? The United States is undeniably the military titan of the contemporary world, much as Rome dominated its own era. I would be interested to see if contemporary treatises in non-U.S. nations are more akin to Onasander's style.

*Not verbatim Onasander.

Phi Alpha Theta State Conference

Due to the lack of International Events last semester, I'm doing a few extra this semester to catch myself up.

Yesterday I had the opportunity to present the findings from my capstone research at the annual Phi Alpha Theta history conference. Though the organization is based in the U.S., my lecture material was decidedly international. Plus, events are hard to come by in pandemic times. Thusly, I thought I'd give a summation of what I presented—it's cool stuff.

My research looks at Viking witchcraft and drug use—already a sexy branch of academics. Viking witchcraft, or sei∂r, as it's known, was practiced for a variety of reasons in medieval Scandinavia. Practitioners might transform into whales to travel long distances by ocean, predict coming crop yields or military outcomes, petition a god(s) for success in a business venture, etc. One saga except even tells of a battalion of "battle mages" who are deployed to curse the enemy infantry. Upon casting their spell, their opponents are rendered blind and are dispatched with ease.

So how do drugs factor in? Well, the usage of intoxicants as a means of supplementing shamanism is widespread throughout history (i.e., peyote, ayahuasca, etc.). If we choose to interpret Viking shamanism through the same lens of drug use, we are afforded interesting insights. By reading through the Icelandic Sagas, we can list each occurrence of sei∂r. Then, we can detail the symptoms that practitioners commonly experienced (e.g., fleeing of flight, hallucinations, etc.). By comparing these symptoms to the symptoms of geographically-available intoxicants, we can form a shortlist of likely candidates that the Vikings were consuming:

So what? The Vikings knew how to have a good time. Well, yes, but attributing Viking sorcery to extended drug use gives us another insight: It helps to explain the motif of a "third gender of sorcerers" that emerges alongside the practice of sei∂r.

Sei∂r was solidly the domain of women. Men who practiced the art—or were suspected of practicing the art—were viciously stigmatized. They were branded "ergi," a term which carried connotations of uselessness and passive homosexuality. Indeed, seid-men became their own social class; not quite men, not quite women. There was a liminal space between the gender binary which they occupied.

Obviously, gender in a social construct. But, could there be a sex-based hormonal cause behind this gender-based societal perception? I'm thrilled that you asked.

Here are few charts that document the effects of drug use on the body's hormones:

Note the highlighted items. These are the same categories of intoxicants that are outlined in the chart of likely drugs. Across the board, male sexual performance plummets. Anorgasmia and erectile dysfunction plague drug users, testosterone drops, luteinizing hormone increases and causes testicular damage, and prolactin surges may have caused male lactation.

With these pieces, we can start to paint a picture of this third gender. A young male sorcerer starts practicing sei∂r. Maybe for the money. Maybe for the chicks. Regardless, he consumes intoxicants and hallucinogens regularly as he performs the rituals. Because of this, his hormones go awry; his endocrine system is haywire, and he begins to develop effeminate features (e.g., gynecomastia, higher pitched voice, etc.). Word gets around of his drug-induced sexual impotence, which may have been interpreted as disinterest. Either way, he's no longer viewed the same way by his male peers, who value the traditional warrior ethos.

Ultimately, we're left with a chick-egg scenario. Did connotations of male sorcerers get reinforced by the coincidental repercussions of drug use? Did the observed effects of male drug use during sorcery affect their perception?

Hard to say, but the drug-based theory for Viking gender roles in witchcraft seems plausible.

"Race, Massacre, and Historical Memory" Lecture

Due to the lack of International Events last semester, I'm doing a few extra this semester to catch myself up.

On the docket this week was Dr. Salvadó's talk, "Race, Massacre, and Historical Memory." While the discussion focused on Guatemala, I found numerous parallels that tie in to El Salvador, a country which I'm studying in-depth in my Latin American Refugees course with Dr. Hines.

One of the memoirs we read this semester was Roberto Lovato's Unforgetting. The title alone suggests how harmonious the messages of the book and lecture are—this motif of "undoing" and "remembering" pervades nearly every Latin American revolution that I've studied so far.

Far example, the Salvadoran amnesty laws, only recently declared unconstitutional helped provide legal solace for the perpetrators of the human rights violations of the '80s-'90s. In an attempt to "heal" the nation, human rights violations are swept under the rug. Don't ask, don't tell. A series of American journalists traveled to El Salvador (like the forensic scientists of Salvadó's lecture) to document the crises, but few were able to do so. Thus, egregious massacres like that of El Mozote have flown under the public radar, buried by soil and time, unmentioned by those in power.

The idea of unforgetting is important because it emphasizes the conscious choice that many have made to let these violations slip through the cracks. Only recently (as of January 2020) are members of the Atlacatl Battalion in El Salvador speaking out against their supervisors. Even now, they testify anonymously, for fear of lethal retaliation. El Salvador, like Guatemala, is determined to remain forgetful.

This is why scholars like Salvadó are vital—they help (literally and figuratively) dust off the memories of those who have fallen victim to brutal repression throughout Latin America. To uncover the bones of those who perished is to name them, to acknowledge them, to honor their experiences.