Was Alexander the Great Greek or Macedonian?
Alexander III of Macedonia, commonly known as Alexander the Great (356–323 BCE), is one of the most renowned figures of Classical Antiquity, alongside Julius Caesar. He is best remembered for establishing an extensive empire that stretched from Greece to India and for initiating the Hellenistic period, a time characterized by the widespread dissemination of Greek culture across the Middle East, Central Asia, and South Asia.
Born in Pella, the ancient capital of Macedonia, Alexander was the son of King Philip II of Macedon and Queen Olympias, who belonged to the Greek tribe of the Molossoi. His heritage has sparked significant debate regarding his identity. While many recognize him as Greco-Macedonian, fierce nationalistic claims from Greece and North Macedonia assert his ties to their respective identities. Additionally, some ultra-nationalists in Albania make pseudo-historical arguments suggesting that he was Illyrian. This complex discourse reflects the enduring legacy and significance of Alexander the Great in historical and cultural contexts.
The Heated Debate
Alexander the Great, a monumental figure in history, was a king of Macedonia whose influence and legacy shaped the ancient world. He spoke a dialect of Greek and received a world-class education from the philosopher Aristotle, which equipped him with the knowledge and skills that would aid in expanding Hellenic culture across the vast territories he conquered — stretching from Greece to modern-day India. His identity, therefore, represents a unique blend of his Macedonian political roots and the rich cultural heritage of the Greek world.
In contemporary discussions, a heated debate arises concerning whether Alexander should be classified as “Greek” or “Macedonian.” This contention often stems from the anachronistic application of modern national borders and ethnic identities to a historical period when such strict classifications were virtually nonexistent.
In Greece, Alexander is revered as an irrefutable symbol of Hellenism. His lineage is traced back to the illustrious Greek aristocracy, and his education was steeped in Greek philosophy. Furthermore, he was a fervent devotee of the Olympian gods and actively promoted the use of the Greek language and customs throughout his empire — from Egypt to the far reaches of India. This perception has fortified his status as a cultural icon in modern Greece.
Conversely, the country that was once known as the Republic of Macedonia has claimed Alexander as a foundational figure central to its national identity and pride. This appropriation has led to intense disputes, highlighted by grandiose statues erected in Skopje, which further fueled tensions until the 2019 Prespa Agreement, which officially addressed the contentious naming conventions between Greece and North Macedonia.
Historians clarify that the modern Slavic population of North Macedonia cannot be considered direct descendants of Alexander’s ancient subjects. This is primarily due to the fact that Slavic groups migrated into the Balkan region approximately a millennium after the demise of Alexander.
Just as the debate seemed to encompass all perspectives, an unexpected twist occurred when Albanian ultra-nationalists entered the conversation, presenting a passionate, alternative narrative that asserts Alexander the Great’s ethnicity as Albanian. Despite mainstream global historians overwhelmingly dismissing this as fringe pseudo-history, the idea persists within Balkan online forums, nationalist literature, and cultural discussions.
The foundation of this claim rests on Alexander’s mother, Olympias, who hailed from the Molossians — a tribe located in Epirus. The ancient region of Epirus sprawled across what is now northwestern Greece and parts of modern-day southern Albania. Nationalists argue that the ancient Epirotes bore close ties to the Illyrians, widely regarded as the linguistic and ethnic ancestors of contemporary Albanians, asserting thus that Alexander was at least partially Albanian by blood.
However, the consensus among archaeologists and historians — further substantiated by ancient inscriptions such as the Dodona Tablets — establishes that the Epirotes were Greek speakers who worshipped the Olympian gods. Though intermarriage with Illyrian communities occurred, they largely belonged to the Hellenic identity culturally and linguistically.
Albanian nationalist narratives often resort to imaginative and romanticized methods of interpreting the Albanian language, known as folk linguistics, to support their claims. For example, they propose that Alexander’s name can be traced back to the Albanian phrase “Le s’ka ndër,” which they interpret as “born like a dream” or “born to have no equal.” Similarly, they link Emathia, the ancient designation for the Macedonian region, to the Albanian phrase “E madhe,” meaning “The Great.”
Linguists, however, collectively regard the name “Alexander” as distinctly Greek (Alexandros), combining the words “alexein” (to defend) and “aner” (man), resulting in the meaning “Defender of Men.” Albanian linguistic parallels are seen as mere coincidental phonetic similarities.
Nationalists frequently invoke the name of Albania’s greatest medieval military hero, Gjergj Kastrioti, famously known as Skanderbeg, to bolster their claims. However, “Skanderbeg” is not a remnant of an ancient lineage but rather a title devised by his Ottoman adversaries — similar to how Daenerys Targaryen acquired her title Khaleesi from the Dothraki. Over time, this title became so legendary that it evolved into what most know him as today.
Captured as a hostage by the Ottomans, Gjergj was forced to convert to Islam and was trained in their elite military academy. His military prowess evoked memories of Alexander the Great for Ottoman commanders, who began referring to him as Iskander Bey, which translates to “Lord Alexander.” The name “Iskander” represents one of the Eastern variations of “Alexander,” while “Bey” is a title of military nobility.
When he defected and returned to Albania to lead the Christian resistance against Ottoman rule, his story was romanticized in Western European writings, eventually leading to the simplified and iconic name, Skanderbeg.
Ironically, both “Skanderbeg” and “Khaleesi” do not belong to the native languages or cultures of the figures they describe. Daenerys hails from Westeros, where Valyrian is spoken, whereas Gjergj is fundamentally an Albanian name that derives from George. Both individuals were labeled with titles by foreign cultures — the Dothraki and the Ottoman Turks.
This situation brings us back to the ultra-nationalists, who utilize the name “Skanderbeg” to assert that Alexander the Great was of Albanian descent. This argument is steeped in irony, as the very name they cite as proof is rooted in an Ottoman Turkish title, illustrating the complex interweaving of history, identity, and nationalism in the Balkans.
The direct genetic link between the Macedonian royal family and the Illyrians can be traced to Kynane, rather than Alexander the Great. Kynane was born to Philip II of Macedon and Audata, an Illyrian princess who is believed to have been the daughter or granddaughter of King Bardylis of the Dardanians, an Illyrian kingdom. This lineage means that Kynane was 50% Illyrian, earning her the designation of a genuine “Illyro-Macedonian” princess, which Alexander did not possess.
Kynane’s upbringing was distinct from that of traditional Macedonian or Greek women of her era. While the women of the Macedonian royal court typically engaged in managing political affairs, Audata raised Kynane in accordance with strict Illyrian martial traditions. From an early age, Kynane was trained in skills such as hunting, riding, tracking, and hand-to-hand combat, preparing her for active participation on the battlefield.
In a notable historical event, Kynane fought against Illyrian forces while aligned with the Macedonians. One remarkable moment included her engaging in single combat with an Illyrian queen named Caeria, whom she ultimately defeated, leading to the rout of the opposing army.
Following the death of Alexander in 323 BC in Babylon, his male generals began the process of dividing his empire. However, Kynane sought to assert her influence and refused to be marginalized. She took the initiative to raise her own army and navigate through hostile territories, compelling Alexander’s generals to marry her daughter, Adea-Eurydice, to the newly established puppet king, Philip III Arrhidaios. This assertion of power illustrates Kynane’s significant role in the political landscape of the time.
The Secrets Behind Him
Examining both the Alexander Romance and Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh uncovers a rich and intricate tapestry of identity that transcends contemporary political discourse, revealing a literary tradition that has evolved over centuries. In the face of a conqueror’s overwhelming power, ancient and medieval cultures demonstrated remarkable ingenuity: they reimagined his very essence, integrating him into their own mythological narratives as a means of justifying his conquests.
The Alexander Romance, compiled around the 3rd century CE, emerged as one of the most extensively read fictional biographies in history. To assuage the historical pride of a conquered Egypt, this text audaciously fabricates Alexander’s lineage. Instead of being the biological son of Philip II, it proclaims that the last native Pharaoh of Egypt, Nectanebo (Nakhthorheb) II, employed sorcery to escape to Macedonia. Once there, he cleverly disguised himself as the Egyptian god Amun and, through this divine ruse, seduced and impregnated Queen Olympias.
In this captivating retelling, Alexander is metamorphosed from a foreign Greco-Macedonian invader into the rightful heir of Egypt, a liberator destined to reclaim his ancestral homeland from Persian domination.
Likewise, the Shahnameh, or The Book of Kings, created around 1000 CE, stands as a monumental emblem of Iranian literature. For the Persians, Alexander — referred to as Sikandar or Iskandar — was historically perceived as a ruthless destroyer, notorious for his fiery assault on the majestic city of Persepolis. However, Ferdowsi reinterprets this legacy, skillfully enmeshing Alexander into the very fabric of the Iranian royal lineage.
In the Shahnameh, the narrative unfolds with the Persian King of Kings, Darab (Darius II), who marries Nahid, the beautiful daughter of the King of Rûm, representing the Greco-Roman world. However, the tale takes a poignant turn when Darab, disenchanted by Nahid’s breath, casts her aside, sending her back to her homeland while she bears a secret: she is pregnant with Sikandar. Raised as a prince in Rûm, Sikandar grows unaware of his Persian roots.
When he ultimately invades Persia and confronts his half-brother, Dara (Darius III), the conflict transcends a mere foreign invasion. Instead, it unfolds as a deeply personal civil war. In a heart-wrenching moment, as Dara succumbs to his wounds in Sikandar’s embrace, he bequeaths the Persian crown to him. Thus, Alexander is not just a conqueror; he is envisioned as a legitimate, divinely ordained Shah of Persia, blending the threads of conquest and kinship into a single, majestic narrative.
In Surah al-Kahf (18:83–98) of the Quran, a significant figure known as Dhul-Qarnayn is introduced, whose name translates to “The Possessor of Two Horns.” This characterization has led to extensive discussions among classical Muslim scholars and contemporary secular historians who draw notable parallels between Dhul-Qarnayn and the legendary figure of Alexander the Great. These connections are compelling and have fascinated scholars for centuries.
Historically, ancient coins minted after Alexander’s death depict him adorned with the ram horns of Zeus-Ammon, which symbolized his divine authority and status and indicated a conflation of his identity with that of a god. The Quran details Dhul-Qarnayn’s remarkable journeys, first to the furthest western point where the sun sets, and then to the extreme east, echoing Alexander’s legendary campaigns that sought to extend his realm to the known ends of the world.
Dhul-Qarnayn is also described in the Quran as constructing a formidable barrier of iron and copper, designed to contain the apocalyptic tribes of Gog and Magog. This narrative bears a striking resemblance to the Syriac Alexander Legend, a widely circulated Christian text from the 6th century, which recounts how Alexander built an iron gate in the Caucasus mountains to keep out barbarian invaders. Both stories reflect motifs of divine protection and the heroism of a great conqueror.
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Yet, despite these narrative parallels, the moral character of Dhul-Qarnayn is presented in stark contrast to that of the historical Alexander. While the historical Alexander is often portrayed as a polytheist who demanded worship and reverence akin to that of a deity, the Quranic portrayal of Dhul-Qarnayn is that of a devout monotheist. He is depicted as one who humbly submits to the will of Allah, attributes his successes solely to divine providence, and administers his rule with fairness and justice.
Adding another layer to this complex tapestry of historical narratives, the 1st-century Romano-Jewish historian Flavius Josephus offers a dramatic account in his work “Antiquities of the Jews” regarding Alexander’s supposed march on Jerusalem following his conquest of Tyre. According to Josephus, the Jewish High Priest Jaddua had remained steadfast in his loyalty to the Persian King Darius III, refusing to capitulate to Alexander. Enraged by this perceived defiance, Alexander allegedly advanced toward Jerusalem with intentions of punishment.
In a pivotal moment, Jaddua purportedly received divine revelation instructing the Jewish citizens to adorn themselves in white garments, while the priests donned their ceremonial attire to welcome Alexander at the city gates. Upon encountering the high priest wearing a miter inscribed with the name of God, the conquering Alexander bowed in homage, astonishing his generals. He later explained that, in a dream during his early years in Macedonia, he had encountered this same priest, who had foretold of his triumph over Persia.
Josephus continues this narrative by detailing that Alexander was brought into the Temple, where he performed a sacrifice to Yahweh and was shown the Book of Daniel, which contained prophecies of a Greek king who would overthrow the Persian Empire. Ecstatic with this revelation, Alexander granted the Jews relief from taxes every seven years, highlighting a supposed benevolence toward the Jewish people.
However, mainstream historians today largely dismiss this account as a fabrication, noting that Greek historians accompanying Alexander made no references to Jews or Jerusalem during his conquests. Rather, Josephus employed this narrative device purposefully. Written in the aftermath of Rome’s destruction of the Jerusalem Temple in 70 CE, Josephus aimed to convey to his Roman audience that true conquerors — like Alexander — harbored respect for the Jewish God and the Jewish people.
This mythic tradition explains why the name “Alexander” became widely adopted within the Jewish culture, to the point that legends suggest that priests honored this great conqueror by naming every male infant born in Jerusalem that year after him. Over time, Alexander the Great transcended his historical identity; he evolved into a vessel of folklore, embodying themes of valor and divine favor. Consequently, for nations or religions seeking to establish their legitimacy or promote their own narratives, aligning with Alexander’s legend meant more than merely overcoming his military might; it involved co-opting his legacy and presenting him as their most devoted advocate.
The Border Wars
When examining the narratives surrounding ancient empires or cultural zones that now face modern national borders, we often discover a fervent struggle for “ownership” of historical figures and cultural legacies. This phenomenon is particularly evident in the case of Siddhartha Gautama, known as the Buddha, who was born in Lumbini, now situated within the contemporary borders of Nepal. Despite this claim to his birthplace, Siddhartha spent the majority of his life achieving enlightenment, delivering his teachings, and ultimately passing away in what is now India. Nepali nationalists passionately defend Lumbini as the definitive birthplace of the Buddha, even going so far as to feature it on their currency, to safeguard against what they perceive as India’s attempts to “monopolize” Buddhist tourism and heritage. It’s also interesting to note that Siddhartha himself belonged to the Shakya clan, which adds another layer of complexity to the cultural heritage debate.
Another prominent figure caught in the crosshairs of nationalistic claims is Pāṇini, often regarded as the greatest Sanskrit grammarian in history, who lived around the 4th century BC. Pāṇini was born in Shalatula, a region that corresponds to modern-day Pakistan, not far from Lahore. While his birthplace is a matter of contention, his life’s work — the meticulous codification of Sanskrit — serves as a foundational element of the liturgical language of India. Pakistan vigorously claims Pāṇini as an “ancient Pakistani intellectual,” seeking to construct a narrative of a deep pre-Islamic history. Conversely, India asserts ownership due to Pāṇini’s cultural and intellectual contributions being intrinsically linked to the Indic civilization. Ultimately, Pāṇini is more accurately described as Gandharan, a designation reflecting the historical complexities of regional identity before modern national boundaries existed.
The discussions surrounding Jesus Christ also illustrate these competing narratives. Palestinian activists often refer to Jesus as a Palestinian figure, emphasizing the modern implications of such a label. In stark contrast, Israeli and Jewish historians argue that Jesus was an ethnically Judean Jew who lived in Judea and practiced Judaism long before the Romans rebranded the region as “Syria Palaestina.” However, an examination of historical context reveals that Jesus was actually Galilean. This contention over his identity reflects larger struggles over land, culture, and historical narrative.
Many historical figures gain such renown that nations feel compelled to assign contemporary ethnic identities to them, often disregarding the historical realities of their time. A striking example can be found in the debates around Alexander the Great. Albanian ultra-nationalists assert a connection to the legendary general Pyrrhos due to the geographic overlap with modern Albania, while Greece staunchly claims him as a Greek, given that he spoke the language, participated in Greek warfare, and identified himself as part of the Hellenic tradition.
The case of Cleopatra VII offers another fascinating exploration into this phenomenon. A member of the Ptolemaic dynasty, Cleopatra was of Macedonian-Greek descent. Nonetheless, modern Afrocentric narratives often label her as a Black African, while contemporary Egyptians adamantly regard her as a symbol of their historical heritage, resisting external racial categorizations that could distort her legacy.
The poet Jalal al-Din Muhammad, widely known as Rumi, adds yet another layer of complexity. Born in Greater Khorasan, an area corresponding to modern Afghanistan, Rumi wrote his masterful works in Persian and spent the latter part of his life, including his death, in Konya, now part of Turkey. Today, all three nations — Afghanistan, Iran, and Turkey — claim him as their national poet, transforming this universal mystic into a point of bureaucratic contention amid nationalistic aspirations.
Food and cultural practices often fall victim to similar misunderstandings, with nations conflating the popularity of a dish with its origin. Peruvian nationalists assert that their ancestors invented surfing over 3,000 years ago, citing the Caballito de Totora — reed watercraft utilized by the ancient Mochica civilization to ride waves. While it is true that Peruvians used these vessels for practical fishing purposes, the true cultural, spiritual, and recreational sport of surfing, as we understand it today, was innovated in Hawaii, where dedicated wooden boards known as He’e nalu were created for this purpose.
In a politically charged context, after the Turkish invasion of Cyprus in 1974, Greece engaged in a systematic effort to rebrand “Turkish Coffee” as “Greek Coffee.” This led to ongoing disputes among Greek internet commentators about the rightful ownership of this beloved beverage. It’s essential to recognize that coffee, as both a plant and a prepared drink, originated in Ethiopia’s Kaffa region and was later refined by Sufi saints in modern-day Yemen. The Ottomans, or Turks, played a crucial role in popularizing the technique of boiling finely ground coffee beans in a cezve or ibriki. Hence, both Greeks and Turks are essentially enjoying an Ottoman-style preparation of this East African product.
Furthermore, Bulgaria stakes its claim to yogurt as a national treasure, closely associated with the specific bacteria known as Lactobacillus bulgaricus, which is pivotal in its fermentation process. However, the reality is that fermented milk has been in existence for thousands of years, having been first developed by nomadic Central Asian tribes — ancestors of the Turks and Mongols — who preserved milk in animal skins during their travels. Bulgaria’s role is primarily scientific; a Bulgarian scientist was the first to isolate the bacterial strain responsible for yogurt in 1905.
Overall, history is akin to a river, fluid and ever-changing, while the rigid structure of nationalism attempts to confine it within defined property lines. Ancient cultures did not bear passports, nor did historical recipes benefit from copyright protections. When modern debates erupt over the “ownership” of historical figures or culinary practices, we are often witnessing contemporary political anxieties masquerading as historical discourse.
The intriguing realm of historical artifacts and ancient human remains becomes a battleground where modern political nationalism collides head-on with contemporary scientific understanding. A vivid example of this phenomenon is the Egtved Girl, a gracious figure from around 1390 to 1370 BCE, whose discovery in Denmark in 1921 sparked nearly a century of celebration as the quintessential symbol of Danish prehistory and a crowned emblem of Nordic identity. She embodied the ideal of the “ancient Dane,” until modern science unfolded a narrative that shattered the nationalistic mythos surrounding her existence.
In 2015, a team of scientists undertook the meticulous task of conducting strontium isotope analysis on the Egtved Girl’s teeth, hair, and garments. Strontium acts as a geological GPS, embedding chemical signatures that trace the water and food consumed during someone’s lifetime. The findings were nothing short of revelatory, uprooting her identity from the confines of Danish borders. The analysis indicated that she was, in fact, not born anywhere near Denmark but likely grew up in the verdant Black Forest region of Southern Germany, approximately 500 miles away from her final resting place.
The woolen string skirt and tunic for which she is famous — regarded as iconic representations of Nordic Bronze Age fashion — were crafted from wool shorn from sheep that roamed the fields in present-day Germany. Moreover, her hair revealed a complex narrative: in the last two years of her life, she traveled back and forth between what is now Germany and Denmark multiple times, ultimately passing away in Denmark shortly after her last arrival.
The situation was further complicated by Danish geologists who argued that agricultural fertilizers may have skewed the original strontium data, passionately asserting a local identity for her. However, the prevailing perspective in mainstream international archaeology has evolved to view her as a testament to a highly interconnected, borderless European Bronze Age network rather than as a citizen tethered to a specific territory. The Egtved Girl cannot be pigeonholed as simply Danish nor can she be claimed by Germany; she belongs to a prehistoric world that defies the modern map altogether.
Her story is part of a larger tapestry of archaeological discoveries that challenge the rigid thinking of modern nationalists, as these identities are often geographically and culturally dispersed. Take, for example, Ötzi, also known as the Iceman, who lived between 3275 and 3230 BCE and was discovered right on the Alpine border between Italy and Austria. In a remarkable feat of surveying, researchers established that his body lay precisely 92 meters inside Italian territory, thus granting Italy the legal claim to this ancient mummy.
Today, Ötzi resides in a museum in Bolzano, yet genetic testing has revealed a striking disconnection: he bears no direct ancestral links to the modern alpine populations, with his closest living genetic relatives found in the isolated communities on the island of Sardinia.
Then there’s the case of Kennewick Man, referred to as “The Ancient One,” whose skeleton was unearthed in Washington State in 1996 and dates back to around 6500 BCE. Native American tribes immediately claimed him as an ancestor under federal law, seeking a respectful ritual burial. Yet, initial craniometric studies led scientists to suggest that his skull exhibited features akin to “Caucasoid” traits, similar to those of the indigenous Ainu people of Japan. This sparked fringe theories positing that European or Asian peoples may have inhabited America before Native Americans.
However, the revelation came in 2015 when DNA sequencing conclusively demonstrated that Kennewick Man was closely and directly related to modern Native Americans, specifically the Colville tribe. Following this discovery, he was returned for burial, underscoring the perilous intersection of modern political and racial narratives with the ancient past embodied in 9,000-year-old remains.
This intricate dance of nationalism demands a history that is neat, a story proclaiming, “we have always lived right here, and we invented everything we use.” Yet the tools of science — propelled by DNA analysis and geological insights — reveal a far more complex and entangled ancient world, rich in migration, intermarriage, and long-distance trade. Claiming the Egtved Girl or Ötzi for a modern nation-state is akin to attempting to classify a prehistoric fossil based on the contemporary political party it would endorse, a task as nonsensical as it is impossible.
Modern Maps Cannot Frame the Ancient World
Historical tug-of-war takes us through the ages and leads to a profound realization: history truly belongs to the individuals who experienced it, rather than the contemporary nations that precariously rest atop their resting places. When we peel away the layers of flags, political boundaries, and the contentious discussions that erupt online, we uncover three universal truths regarding human identity and heritage.
It is a grave misconception to impose 21st-century notions of nation-states, passports, and unyielding ethnic identities onto the distant past. In the 4th century BC, there was no cohesive entity known as “Greece,” “North Macedonia,” or “Albania”; instead, there existed a dynamic tapestry of shifting tribal alliances, sprawling empires, and diverse cultural spheres.
Consider Alexander the Great, a remarkable figure emerging from a unique Macedonian-Hellenic blend, while his half-sister Kynane represented a synthesis born from a Macedonian-Illyrian diplomatic relationship. Attempting to confine these prominent figures within a singular modern national framework is akin to trying to download the latest smartphone application onto an ancient stone tablet; the software simply cannot function on such primitive architecture.
The enigmatic Egtved Girl, the glacier-preserved Ötzi, and the ancient Tarim Mummies in China stand as testaments to the capabilities of modern science. Through groundbreaking methods like Ancient DNA (aDNA) analysis and strontium isotope studies, we see that science becomes a formidable adversary to romantic ideals of nationalism. Nationalism often demands that our history presents a tidy, linear narrative of isolation and purity, proclaiming, “We have always existed, and we have always been ourselves.”
However, scientific discoveries reveal that history is anything but tidy; it is a complex, intricate, and captivating web woven from migration, trade, and intermarriage. The ancient world was profoundly interconnected, a reality exemplified by a girl who was interred in Denmark yet grew up in the expanse of the Black Forest or the illustrious Pāṇini, an icon of Indic civilization who resided in present-day Pakistan.
Cultural exchanges are inescapable; whether referring to a remarkable historical figure like Rumi, a revered spiritual figure like Jesus, or cherished inventions such as coffee, yogurt, and surfing, culture defies boundaries and ownership. Human beings possess an inherent trait of adaptability. When a figure or an invention resonates profoundly, neighboring cultures instinctively embrace it, translating and assimilating it into their own rich traditions.
Consider the Ottomans, who honored an Albanian hero by naming him after a Macedonian-Greek king, Skanderbeg, or the Persians, who seamlessly wove Alexander into the very fabric of their royal lineage in the legendary Shahnameh. The Greeks and Turks engage in passionate debates over a coffee style whose origins trace back to Ethiopian cultivation and further development by Yemenis.
Nationalism endeavors to construe history as a property dispute, where the victor claims sole ownership of cultural legitimacy and prestige. Yet, genuine history acts like a reflective surface, revealing that we are all products of a timeless process of blending, borrowing, and migration. The moment we attempt to confine an ancient figure or invention within modern borders, we cease to study history meaningfully and instead drift toward the realm of propaganda.
