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Kristin Idaszak | Longreads | October 22, 2026 | 3,741 words (13 minutes)
The city of the dead is the obverse of the society of the living, or rather than the obverse, it is its image, its intemporal image. For the dead have gone through the moment of change, and their monuments are the visible sign of the permanence of their city.
—Philippe Ariès, Western Attitudes Toward Death
Shortly after I graduated from college, my best friend sent me a postcard from the Sedlec Ossuary, a Catholic chapel formally named the Cemetery Church of All Saints in Kutná Hora, a town about an hour east of Prague. The postcard depicted the chapel’s interior: a chandelier of bones flanked by two towers of skulls. On the back she wrote, “The chandelier alone contains all the bones in the human body. Thanks to the plague, we have this work of totally weird art!”
Immediately I started planning my own trip to Kutná Hora—a place made prosperous by silver mining but famous for its bone church—and arrived with the zeal of a pilgrim. Today the town has 20,000 residents, but in its 14th-century heyday it boasted almost four times as many souls. The late Middle Ages was a tough time to be alive, between the Black Death, various crusades and holy wars, and famine—not to mention the labor conditions of silver mining. Kutná Hora was also a popular place to die, and all the villagers wanted to spend eternity at the medieval Sedlec Abbey. After one of the crusades, an abbot had brought back a handful of soil, supposedly from Golgotha, and strewn it on the abbey grounds. Burial in that soil was believed to grant quicker access to heaven, which led to an overcrowded cemetery. The solution? Build a subterranean chapel to house the remains. And then a half-blind monk, in the wake of a terrible plague, exhumed the victims and used them to redecorate.
An ossuary is any repository for human remains, but it’s also the term for a holy site that serves this function. Another name for this kind of church is charnel house, which to me evokes the image of an abattoir. Death historian Philippe Ariès connects the term to the French idiom une vieille carne, translated as an old nag or a tough piece of meat. It’s apropos: These buildings enshrine human remains as décor in macabre, otherworldly, electrifying memento mori.
Forty-thousand bodies’ worth of bones. Probably more. My brain buckled at the magnitude.
Four months later, I found myself in the Czech Republic. A coat of arms made out of bones greeted me when I arrived at the bone church. Upon closer inspection, the heraldry included a skeletal bird, its slender beak playfully pecking out a long-disintegrated eye from an empty socket. As I descended the stygian steps from the ticket kiosk, I took in the pyramid of bones that guarded the four corners of the room.
The chapel seemed to exist in a perpetual gloaming, the air hushed and cool. The sheer presence of so many human remains disoriented me; they surrounded me on every side. Forty-thousand bodies’ worth of bones. Probably more. My brain buckled at the magnitude. The remains took on an animated quality—not in a Halloween-y, top hat–wearing, dancing skeleton sense; nor in an eerie, horror movie sense; but in the sense that each one radiated a life force.
I loved it. I loved being surrounded by skeletons and weird art and death.
Death and the afterlife fascinated me. I devoured stories of women who visited the underworld and returned—Alcestis, Eurydice, Persephone—and philosophers and poets who broached the subject—Nietzsche, Camus, Dante. Thanatos, my favorite philosophy professor called it. The death drive. But I had no sense of the fragility of my own body. My knees did not yet make those alarming soft pops; the permanent ache had not settled into my shoulder; my heart wouldn’t sputter erratically in my chest for another decade. The allure was intellectual and emotional, certainly not embodied. Like climate change or menopause, I understood mortality conceptually, but it didn’t feel real.
I’d like to tell you that my visit to the Sedlec Ossuary changed everything, that after my trip I appreciated life’s transitory nature. Or that it gave me a premonition of what lay in store for me, my own brushes with death that were to come.
It did not.
While I was underground, I felt temporarily transported and transformed—or at least, I had a flicker of understanding: I sauntered into the chapel with the hubristic notion of a young artist that my words would become immortal. The bones confronted me with the truth. My legacy would be deposits of calcium and protein and collagen. My art wouldn’t endure, but these nameless victims of plague and famine and war—they did. It humbled me.
But I left the ossuary’s insights with the dead. In my early 20s, I didn’t need the bone church to convince me to suck the marrow out of each day. I went to grad school, became a playwright, got married, traveled to all seven continents. Somewhere in there, I relegated the bone chapel to memory.
In the summer of 2020, I got sick with a life-threatening cardiac arrhythmia called ventricular tachycardia. I had so many episodes of VT I lost count, and any one of them could have ended in cardiac arrest. These events were indescribably painful and frightening. They enervated me, sapping me of my strength, vitality—eventually my will to persevere. My life became very small.
Mortality was no longer an abstraction: I was scared of what would happen to me when I died. Of how much it hurt. Of the nothingness of bones.
In the years that followed my initial descent into illness, I rarely left home. At the time I lived in a two-bedroom apartment, a third-floor walk-up. Climbing the stairs could, unpredictably, trigger a cardiac event, and so unless I had to leave for work, I spent most of the time in my living room. I can close my eyes now and return to that place. I’d painted the walls a shade of cornflower blue I grew to loathe. The television tottered precariously on an ancient table. Cherry-stained bookcases lined the wall. The top of the bookcase displayed a golden Japanese fan with a cloud tree painted on it. Next to it stood a penguin pitcher I bought on my honeymoon in Tierra del Fuego. Three vintage-style travel posters advertised Antarctic destinations: Beagle Channel, Lemaire Channel, Paradise Harbor.
That room was the real ossuary.
One of my favorite Greek tragedies is Euripides’ Alcestis, in which the eponymous heroine journeys to Hades in her dying husband’s stead. The god Apollo tricks the Fates so that her husband, the king, can live if he can find someone to take his place in the underworld. There’s an exchange I think about a lot: “Possible to say she is both alive and dead,” her servant reports, and the chorus leader, understandably confused, asks, “How could someone die and keep on living?” This is how I felt—alive but dead. Already in Hades. I’d escaped my fate, like the king, but my true self, the intrepid, curious, wonderstruck version of me? She was in the underworld with Alcestis.
The play takes a strange turn when Heracles arrives amid his twelve labors. During a supremely awkward evening of drunken revelry at the palace, he figures out what’s going on and hustles to the graveyard to wrestle death and bring Alcestis back.
I didn’t have a demigod to save me. But I didn’t want to be lost and gone.
The allure was intellectual and emotional, certainly not embodied. Like climate change or menopause, I understood mortality conceptually, but it didn’t feel real.
Sitting in my apartment day after day, surrounded by artifacts from the world I used to inhabit, was slowly killing me. I was afraid of things that had caused my VT, which meant I was afraid to go to the grocery store. I was afraid of taking a yoga class. I was afraid to simply be outside if it was really hot out. Finally I reached a breaking point. I could drop dead in the peanut butter aisle, or I could drop dead seeing the world. Staying at home wouldn’t save me. The threat resided inside my own chest.
I formulated a drastic plan to return to the land of the living. I took time off teaching and planned a sabbatical to travel and write. I couldn’t hide in my house if I rented it to someone else, if I jetted to the other side of the world. Instead of crossing the River Styx I ferried myself across the Pacific Ocean, and then the Atlantic. The final stop on my sabbatical was leading a study abroad in the Czech Republic, to attend an international scenography and performance festival. The ossuary didn’t really fit into the rest of the itinerary, but I wanted to give my students the experience I’d had all those years ago.
Though contemporary visitors can experience ossuaries as disturbing or revolting, they didn’t start out that way. In The Empire of Death: A Cultural History of Ossuaries and Charnel Houses, Paul Koudounaris traces their proliferation in Europe during the 13th century as a storage solution to the medieval Christian problem of where to keep the dead safe for their resurrection. There were more bodies than places to put them. Death preoccupied the medieval imagination. After the Bubonic plague, medieval artists began portraying its grotesque physicality: images of rotting corpses, poetic descriptions of worm fodder. You get the sense they would’ve painted the stench if they could. Is it any wonder that these decomposed cadavers eventually became the artistic medium itself?
Dozens of bone chapels sprang up across Europe by the 17th century, in a confluence of theology and aesthetics that seems morbidly inevitable. During the Counter-Reformation, Catholicism leaned into opulent and lavish Baroque art. It also leaned into corporal mortification, the kind that now shows up in mass-market thrillers as a fetishization of pain and suffering.
The appetite for gaudy-verging-on-gauche bone art swelled when the Romantics arrived on the scene in the 19th century. Gothic literature supplanted the medieval Ars Moriendi; a secular touchstone of this cultural moment is Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Today, the Sedlec Ossuary has benefitted—or suffered from—the kitschification of gothic art, popping up in surprising places like The Young and the Restless and the “uninvolving and cliché-ridden” vampire B movie Blood and Chocolate.
Romanticism also marked the rise of a phenomenon now known as “dark tourism,” which refers to the practice of visiting sites associated with disaster, war, atrocity. Malcolm Foley and J. John Lennon coined the term in 1996, in reference to tourism spawned by John F. Kennedy’s assassination. Scholars often point to concentration camps and Chernobyl as the field’s quintessential sites. Yet it’s a concept as old as tourism itself, dating back to Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, in which a group of pilgrims travel to the site of Thomas Becket’s murder. During the Grand Tours of the Romantic era, visits to places like the Paris catacombs (an underground labyrinth containing the bones of some six million people) and Pompeii (mass grave by way of volcano) came into vogue as a way to cultivate the Sublime.
It can’t be an accident that this coincided with the proliferation of ossuaries. I have to believe not everyone went to charnel houses for the sake of holy contemplation. Prurience is not an invention of the digital age, even if we have elevated it to new heights (or denigrated it to new social media-inflected nadirs). I imagine gentlewomen in whalebone corsets and dilettantish young men titillating their companions with stories of the macabre.
The contemporary case for dark tourism—sometimes called thanatourism—is that it refutes any attempt to forget or whitewash history. It’s one of the few ways we can meaningfully encounter death and atrocity. Before I got sick, I went to Auschwitz as well as Hiroshima. The power of these sites is undeniable. They serve as monuments to some of modern history’s darkest moments and have been carefully transformed into vehicles for education, reflection, and solemn commemoration. I went because it felt important to bear witness to the horrific crimes against humanity that occurred there. But I’ve also participated in dark tourism less consciously, and perhaps you have, too. I’ve seen an Ai Weiwei art installation at Alcatraz, toured the Colosseum where murder was a matinée, peeked into the bakeries and brothels of Pompeii, strolled through Greyfriars Kirkyard in Edinburgh. I skipped Hell’s Museum, which a friend recommended in Singapore, and wish I’d skipped a ghost tour of Savannah, Georgia—what made it haunting was the way the city’s bloody history of enslavement and oppression was repurposed as entertainment for partiers carrying to-go cups of watered-down vodka.
The counterargument is self-evident: It leaves these sensitive sites vulnerable to exploitation. The suffering of one group commodified as a cocktail party anecdote for another. The exit through the gift shop.
This is how I felt—alive but dead. Already in Hades. I’d escaped my fate, like the king, but my true self, the intrepid, curious, wonderstruck version of me? She was in the underworld with Alcestis.
It would be a neat narrative if the newest wave of dark tourism had gained traction after the pandemic, when there was a momentary reintegration of death in our day-to-day. In actuality, it flourished before COVID spread, before ambulances drove through empty city streets and bodies piled up in overcrowded mortuaries, before corpses were stashed in refrigerated trucks in New York City because the morgues were beyond capacity. And now, when those months and years have receded like a bad dream and no lessons were learned, it’s hard to attribute a newfound reverence for mortality to this renewed appetite for dark tourism.
I never thought about what I was doing as morbid. I gravitated to many of these attractions unconsciously, often because I wanted to understand history—and history is littered with corpses. But I think back uneasily to the casual way these sites were slotted into my itineraries. I remember the okonomiyaki place I went to after the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum, the hole-in-the-wall with the cheerfully ursine line cook, but not how I possibly could’ve been hungry.
The impetus for this flavor of tourism isn’t monolithic. Some dark tourists are processing their personal or ancestral experiences, some are genuinely curious, some don’t even realize they’re doing it, and some are rubberneckers. Regardless of motivation, one effect of present-day dark tourism under global capitalism is the Disneyfication of death.
The first months of my sabbatical were rocky. Fear dogged me through the streets of Sydney, Mumbai, Athens. A few weeks before I went back to the Czech Republic to lead my study abroad, I went to another bone chapel, in a small town east of Lisbon called Évora. Visitors flock to Évora for its prehistoric megaliths and Roman temple to Diana, but I’d driven across Portugal to see the charnel house. My GPS misled me through the hot, dusty town, and I circled around the temple and its remaining Corinthian columns—which seemed dropped into the town square like an abandoned film set—until I found the Capela dos Ossos.
The 17th-century Capela has more bling than Sedlec, from azulejo tiles to ceiling frescoes, with skulls where cherubs might usually repose. (Other charnel houses put the Capela to shame in their ostentation, such as the skeletons at the German Basilica of Waldsassen wearing jewel-encrusted gold costumes, which were originally posed with chalices with dried blood at their feet.) The chapel is crammed, floor to illustrious ceiling, with bones stacked horizontally, so only the knobs show. Lined with osteological columns, the architecture echoes the ruined temple to the pagan goddess in the town beyond. Before you even enter there’s a Dantean inscription: Nos ossos que aqui estamos pelos vossos esperamos.
We bones that are here await yours.
I found the inscription strangely comforting as I entered the inner chamber. The first interpretive sign explained the function of a bone chapel as a memento mori: “It is expected to serve as a consolation to some and news to others.”
Lucky them, I thought.
I appreciated the aesthetics of the Capela dos Ossos, but it lacked the Hadean quality that engendered my near-mystic experience at the Sedlec Ossuary. Afterward, I continued on my sabbatical still mistrustful of my body, still afraid to move through the world.
Finally I reached a breaking point. I could drop dead in the peanut butter aisle, or I could drop dead seeing the world. Staying at home wouldn’t save me. The threat resided inside my own chest.
But when I got to Prague, something shifted. It didn’t happen all at once. I didn’t walk into the bone chapel and have an epiphany. A logjam loosened in my psyche. Shepherding a group of young adults in a foreign country, I couldn’t hide in the hotel or confine myself to strictly prescribed routes and routines. For many of them it was their first trip overseas, and overwhelmed, they looked to me for guidance.
At 7 a.m. one morning, 20 students piled onto a bus to Kutná Hora. On the drive, I strove to impart my love of bone churches: Ossuaries aren’t morbid (okay, well, they are, but they’re not only morbid); they highlight the brevity of our lives to help us live more intentionally. But in a kind of punk rock way. Carpe fucking diem. The students were curious but respectful. Some found it moving, others creepy.
When we arrived, the bone chapel was different than I remembered. Tentatively, I descended into the brightly lit space below. In the open area of the chapel, monitors now played a video of renovators handling the bones. The video explained a restoration project to shore up the building’s structural integrity and preserve the skeletons. The foundation is unstable and has started sinking since it was built sometime in the 14th century. In the Baroque period the Czech-Italian architect Jan Blažej Santini-Aichel redesigned the ossuary as it exists today, and it wasn’t until the 1860s that a carpenter named František Rint created the bone art, including the famous chandelier and the Schwarzenberg coat of arms that reproduced the heraldry of the local aristocrats.
That wasn’t the origin story I’d learned years ago, about the monk and the plague—was the monk even real? The crepuscular lighting and gloom were gone. Where was the ambience? How could you commune with the dead like this?
Behind me, another busload of tourists arrived, and another, and another. Tourists overran the chapel, their guides speaking into little microphones in various languages while they snapped photo after photo. At the entrance, the lone employee said in English, no photos allowed. Everybody ignored her.
Snap.
Desensitized, they gawked without seeing.
Snap.
No photos, repeated the ticket taker.
Snap.
The scores of tour groups weren’t part of my memory.
The contemporary case for dark tourism—sometimes called thanatourism—is that it refutes any attempt to forget or whitewash history. It’s one of the few ways we can meaningfully encounter death and atrocity.
Through a side door I climbed the stairs into an outdoor cemetery. The videos of the restorers kept replaying in my mind. It’s one thing to envision an apocryphal monk constructing pyramids of bones, it’s another to watch footage of archaeologists cleaning them and then putting them back in the pile. One of my students was minoring in archaeology and, as we strolled through the cemetery, she told me that ethical and legal restrictions governed archaeologists’ handling of human remains. It was obvious once she said it, but I hadn’t thought about it. The videos had close-ups of hands in nitrile gloves cleaning the dirt off the bones. Afterward, the bones were soaked in lime solution, which is also how Rint first prepared them in the 1860s. His chlorinated lime solution is the reason the Sedlec Ossuary’s decorations have remained relatively white over the years, while bones in other ossuaries have browned with age. The archaeologists also have the benefit of video mapping to help them rebuild the pyramids once the bones are cleaned and restored.
It must take incredible dedication for these archaeologists to put themselves in this proximity with death. To sustain that intimacy day after day—I know the cost.
I resented the crowd of tourists I’d left thronging the chapel. More than that, I felt a sense of superiority. Now that I was ready for the ossuary to transform me, I’d found an atmosphere that was more carnivalesque than sacred.
But as I meandered among the headstones in the fresh air, it occurred to me: Did I really think that none of those tourists had ever lost a parent or child or partner, ever grieved, ever had a near-death experience of their own? Did I really think my proximity to death, my awareness of its phalanges drumming on my shoulder, had given me some privileged access to the charnel house’s true meaning? To the contrary, after I got sick, I guarded my life like a dragon hoarding a treasure pile in a dark cave, and it moldered away, unspent. Those bones had more vivacity than I did.
For the medieval peasants whose skeletons limned the walls, death was a prolonged nap until everyone woke up during the rapture. There was a fluidity between death and the afterlife. These days it seems so much more final. (Per Ariès, once it was tame and now it is wild.) Much has been made of the deathbed’s move in modern society from the home to the hospital: out of sight, out of mind. Ossuaries thrust mortality squarely in your line of vision. They ask that you regard death as a transition, not a terminus. Not something to guard against hyper-vigilantly, but a natural part of a cosmic continuum.
It was time to live again.
Going back to the Sedlec Ossuary was not some purifying rite. It was an ordinary day. The tourists streamed past me, discussing where they were going for lunch. The students had moved on, browsing for trinkets at the shop across the street. I recoiled at the kitschy skull mugs and shot glasses, but when I got home, I wished I had a memento mori to put next to the penguin.
After Heracles brings Alcestis back from the underworld, she’s silent for the remainder of the play. Still sacred to the god of the dead, she cannot speak until three days have gone by, Heracles explains. I think there might be other reasons she stays silent. Maybe she preferred it down there. Maybe she left some irretrievable part of herself behind. Maybe she found the light above a little too harsh, the music too loud, the colors too saturated; found herself attracted to dusk, to intertidal zones, lintels, liminal spaces. Or maybe she has nothing left to say.
When I got home, I went through my old photos. I couldn’t figure out if my memories of Sedlec were real until I found a photo of myself, painfully young, standing in the semi-dark underneath the chandelier, its bones glowing white—either from the camera flash or an out-of-frame light source. I look half-happy, half-haunted, like I’m about to say something, but I can’t remember what.
Kristin Idaszak is an internationally produced and award-winning playwright and essayist whose recent work explores the intersection of ecology and chronic illness. She is a 3Arts Awardee, two-time Playwrights’ Center Jerome Fellow, and the former Shank Playwriting Fellow at the Goodman Theatre. She received the Kennedy Center ACTF Paula Vogel Playwriting Award and the Jean Kennedy Smith Playwriting Award. Her essays appear in The American Scholar, Fourth Genre, HowlRound, and elsewhere.
A friend was recently startled to find a Soviet-style hammer and sickle prominently displayed at a farmers market just a block from a monument to those who sacrificed their lives fighting totalitarianism. It's particularly jarring for immigrants from former communist countries to see these hateful symbols cheerfully displayed alongside fresh greens, organic honey and homemade pies.
When my friend engaged the affable twentysomething about her advocacy for communism in America, the conversation quickly became absurd. "Don't you know about the Gulag, the torture chambers, the Tiananmen Square massacre, the murder of 100 million men, women and children?" to which she replied, "I'm not sure what you're talking aboutâ¦"
The young woman then parried, "All I know is that America has a shameful past and we should try to atone for the crimes of capitalism."
"Iâm not sure about the specifics â¦" She then went on to deliver a short address on how communism will deliver a high standard of living by redistributing the obscene wealth of the rich.
When pressed about the historical record, either of communismâs brutality or specifics about so-called American imperialism, the young womanâs friendly smile never faltered. She really couldn't name any of the crimes of capitalism.
Calling for the overthrow of the system that allows for a peaceful Saturday at a farmer's market made the entire conversation seem absurd.
Conversations like this one, between average Americans and self-styled communists and socialists, break down due to differences of content and perspective.
When it comes to perspective, many of the 62% of young Americans, aged 18-29, that think that socialism or communism is a good idea have been educated with a simplistic neo-Marxist lens: U.S. history is a story of oppressor versus oppressed (i.e., patriarchy, race, religious bigotry). The Marxist model can be found in everything from "The 1619 Project" to the platform of the Democratic Socialists of America. Neo-Marxist critical theories attack the perspectives once widely held by most Americans regarding the American Dream and Americaâs exceptional service to humanity.
The part of these conversations that's the most flummoxing, however, is not ideological. It is the part of the conversation that is about content: cold, hard facts. Anti-communists of all stripes typically point to the overwhelming evidence of the past and present crimes of communism. At 100 million men, women and children murdered, one would think that the evidence âprovesâ that this is not just an inefficient system, but a diabolical one.
We have survivor testimony, government records, and some photographic evidence of the concentration camps (e.g., Soviet Gulag, China's Laogai), torture, extermination of minorities, deportations and forced starvation. The violence continues in todayâs communist and communist-legacy regimes, from Belarus to Cuba and Eritrea to North Korea.
The young person at the farmers market will blankly stare when you recite the crimes of communism. She has no point of reference. The crimes of communism are largely unknown; they are untaught and unchallenged in todayâs university and high school settings. She has never heard of these things and she is not sure they are believable. Indeed, she will counter, these atrocities have likely been exaggerated and were undoubtedly justified self-defensive measures against capitalist imperialism.
When one does not feel (perspective) that the evidence of communism's crimes demands a verdict, and even disregards that there is evidence of wrongdoing (content), one is living in a different reality than that of most Americans born in the twentieth century. What is to be done?
First, we need to work hard to return all of the institutions of our civic life â media, schools, houses of worship, the business sector, K-12 and higher ed and especially the family â to the basics. That is where we educate the rising generation with the facts and values of what we are for and what we are against. We adhere to the principles found in the Declaration of Independence, representative government, free-market economics, personal and local responsibility and democratic institutions.
Second, we need to transmit the facts: the personal stories and larger historical narratives of communismâs crimes and Americaâs valiant, sacrificial efforts at self-defense and global freedom: the Berlin Airlift, the creation of NATO and the United Nations, the defense of Koreans, Vietnamese and many other oppressed peoples, Cold War victory and post-Cold War friendship (i.e., Eastern Europe) and Americaâs stunning philanthropic giving.
Accurate content and right perspective should also reinforce what we are against: all ideologies and regimes that are anti-human, anti-freedom and anti-family. Communism in any form is a political fantasy rooted in envy and a political program rooted in brutality. We need to make it clear to the rising generation of citizens that communism in any form has not been good for others and will not be good for them.
How does one talk to a communist? Our best hope lies in inoculating our young against communism at the very youngest age with right perspective and accurate content.
On the morning of March 23, 1849, a wooden box was loaded onto a wagon in Richmond, Virginia. It was an ordinary-looking package, roughly three feet long and two feet wide, with air holes bored into its sides. Inside, folded into a cramped space with barely enough room to move, was a man who had decided to risk everything for freedom.
His name was Henry Brown. He was enslaved, and he had devised a plan so extraordinary that it would eventually earn him the nickname by which history remembers him: Henry “Box” Brown.
The Resurrection of Henry Box Brown at Philadelphia, a lithograph by Samuel Rowse (published in 1850).
Warsaw has denounced Lviv Oblast authorities' plans to honor the World War II-era Ukrainian Insurgent Army (UPA) and its military leader, Roman Shukhevych.
The move signals a fresh rift in the already strained Kyiv-Warsaw ties just days after President Volodymyr Zelensky said the relations had finally improved.
Britain's history has been trashed by ideologues with an agenda, undermining the nation’s patriotism and cohesion. It's time to tell a better story about Britain, say Nigel Biggar and Robert Tombs.
A trove of ancient coins has been unearthed at a construction site in Germany — after remaining hidden for more than 2,000 years.
The discovery, made at Singer Berg in the central German state of Thuringia, was announced recently by the Thuringian State Office for Monument Preservation and Archaeology (TLDA).
In a translated news release, officials said excavation director Ronny Krause discovered the coins while archaeologists were investigating a former sports field ahead of the construction of a new fire station.
Archaeologists conducted follow-up excavations at the site in August 2026 — and confirmed that the 11 coins dated back to the first century B.C.
The hoard represented the largest known Celtic coin hoard from that period ever found in Thuringia.
The 11 coins, dating back to the first century B.C., were identified as a type of ancient Celtic currency known as Prague-type quinarii.
"Until now, only about 80 examples of these quinarii had been identified throughout Thuringia, underscoring the significance of the Singen hoard," the translated statement said.
"The mint responsible for producing the coins is believed to have been located in the Gotha region, to the northwest."
The Celts were groups of ancient people who lived across much of Europe during the Iron Age, with Celtic languages and traditions surviving today in places such as Ireland, Scotland and Wales.
The coins were originally buried together in a container made of organic material that has since decomposed, archaeologists believe. The coins were found scattered across an area measuring roughly 19 feet by 5 feet — likely a result of plowing.
Officials described the discovery as a "closed find," suggesting that all the coins originally buried together were recovered.
While just 11 coins may seem like a modest haul to some, archaeologists consider the discovery a treasure trove of information about the ancient world.
"Through the ongoing mapping of discoveries from the same period and cultural background, researchers can draw conclusions about ancient trade routes and production centers," the translated statement added.
"The Singen treasure hoard has significantly expanded our existing knowledge in this area."
Archaeologists also found an ancient Roman coin and a medieval glass bead — as well as a knife fragment, another silver coin and a Prussian uniform button from the 19th or 20th century.
Officials also emphasized the broader significance of the discovery and the importance of proper archaeological practices.
"This once again demonstrates the importance of preserving the archaeological context of discoveries, in contrast to isolated metal finds recovered, for example, through improper or illegal metal detecting without documentation of their original locations," the statement concluded.
In Finland, a metal detectorist recently uncovered a massive Viking Age silver hoard containing an estimated 4,000 coins, along with jewelry and other artifacts.
Friends were surprised when I described Darwin as the only major scientist who was unequivocally an atheist, given that he considered himself an agnostic. I confess that I tend to erase this label in my memory, because the formal distinction presumed by it—to wit, the idea that an agnostic does not know whether God exists, while an atheist knows that God does not—does not correspond to reality. I am not aware of a single prominent atheist who claims to be able to prove the non-existence of the divine. Even Dawkins, the most stereotypical atheist in the media, does not suggest that this is possible. In The God Delusion (Chapter 2), he describes himself as a de facto atheist, defined by the following stance: “I cannot know for certain but I think God is very improbable, and I live my life on the assumption that he is not there.” Thus, if we apply the traditional distinction, the world’s most famous atheist is not an atheist, but an agnostic.
Bertrand Russell held a similar position, as illustrated by his famous “celestial teapot” analogy. Can we prove that there is a teapot orbiting the planet? No. But we have no reason to believe that such a teapot exists. God is like that teapot: while it is impossible to prove that he does not exist, it is not reasonable to believe that he does. For this reason, Russell considered himself an agnostic in theory and an atheist in practice.
Darwin
If the term “agnostic” serves any purpose, it is to describe individuals who truly live in a state of doubt regarding the existence of God. Charles Darwin (1809–1882) was born to a deist father and a Unitarian mother. Deism entails the rejection of all institutionalized religion and the assertion that God exists, but takes no interest in humanity. As an 18th-century Englishman, Darwin’s father most likely believed in the Great Architect of Newton and the Freemasons. Unitarianism is a new flavor of Arianism, as it denies the divinity of Jesus, viewing him instead as a great moral reformer—comparable to Socrates. Unitarians took control of Harvard in the 19th century, and Newton was, in fact, a secret Arian. We might say, then, that Darwin did not grow up in a strictly Christian home; yet, he seriously considered becoming an Anglican priest and married a devout Christian woman. Undoubtedly, Darwin experienced crises of faith, which rendered him an agnostic, in the sense that the term describes a psychological state.
As far as we know, the first time he described himself as an agnostic was in 1879, at the age of 70, in a private letter to John Fordyce. According to some accounts, in 1881 he told a group of freethinkers that he had not abandoned Christianity until he was forty (which would have been in 1849). Did he abandon Christianity, adopt his father’s beliefs, and then eventually abandon those as well? I do not know the answer, but it is a vital question for Darwin’s scientific trajectory, since, by today’s labels, Newton would be a creationist or an intelligent design advocate.
The most illuminating account is found in his autobiography, written between 1876 and 1881 for his family. I quote James Moore from “Myth 16: That Evolution Destroyed Darwin’s Faith in Christianity—until He Reconverted on His Deathbed”: “Unwilling to give up Christianity, he had tried to ‘invent evidence’ to confirm the Gospels, which prolonged his indecision. Just as his clerical career had died a slow ‘natural death,’ so his faith withered gradually. But there was no turning back once the deathblow struck. His dithering crystallized into a moral conviction so strict that he could not see how anyone—even [his wife] Emma—‘ought to wish Christianity to be true.’ For if it were, ‘the plain language’ of the New Testament ‘seems to show that the men who do not believe, and this would include my Father, Brother and almost all my best friends, will be everlastingly punished. And this is a damnable doctrine.’ In later years, the residual theism evident in the Origin of Species became worn down, and now with ‘no assured and ever present belief in the existence of a personal God or of a future existence with retribution and reward,’ Darwin felt he must be ‘content to remain an Agnostic.’” Darwin’s father, a pivotal figure in his crisis of faith, died in 1848, a year before Darwin himself turned forty.
Darwin did not die in a state of indecision; he died firmly convinced that Christianity was immoral because it would condemn his loved ones to hell. If the term “agnosticism” applies here, it denotes a state of unknowing that follows the rejection of God as understood within the Abrahamic religions. Darwin knows that the Bible is wrong and that its God does not exist. But as for what God actually is, or what the truth may be—that, he does not know. Certainly, determining Darwin’s final state of mind is not enough to uncover the impact that his shifting religious convictions had on his thinking, given that the writing of On the Origin of Species (1859) spanned two decades.
The origin of the term “agnosticism”
No less than thirty years passed between the onset of Darwin’s disbelief and his first self-identification as an agnostic. A simple reason why he did not use this term earlier is that it had not yet been invented. It is rarely mentioned, but “agnosticism” is a term with a specific inventor and date of origin: in 1869, when Darwin was already 60 years old, Thomas Henry Huxley (known as “Darwin’s Bulldog,” and grandfather to both Aldous, the writer who advocated for opening the mind through drugs, and Julian, the eugenicist who founded the WWF and served as the first head of UNESCO) coined the term during a meeting of the Metaphysical Society, a somewhat secretive group open only to invited members. Darwin was not a member. The aforementioned Bertrand Russell had a deist relative who was a member: Lord Arthur Russell, nephew of Earl John Russell (Bertrand’s grandfather). Arthur Balfour, of the Balfour Declaration, was also a member. I could not have been there because I had not yet been born, but the Encyclopædia Britannica states that the term was coined under these circumstances, so I take believe it.
A public definition of agnosticism by the grandpa Huxley was first presented to the public in 1889, in the magazine Popular Science (or Pop Science), which still exists today. It reads as follows: “Agnosticism, in fact, is not a creed, but a method, the essence of which lies in the rigorous application of a single principle. That principle is of great antiquity; it is as old as Socrates; as old as the writer who said, ‘Try all things, hold fast by that which is good’ [1 Thess. 5:21]; it is the foundation of the Reformation, which simply illustrated the axiom that every man should be able to give a reason for the faith that is in him; it is the great principle of Descartes; it is the fundamental axiom of modern science. Positively the principle may be expressed: In matters of the intellect, follow your reason as far as it will take you, without regard to any other consideration. And negatively: In matters of the intellect, do not pretend that conclusions are certain which are not demonstrated or demonstrable. That I take to be the agnostic faith, which if a man keep whole and undefiled, he shall not be ashamed to look the universe in the face, whatever the future may have in store for him.”
Based on this definition, there is no obvious connection to a stance regarding the question of divine existence; however, the text as a whole implies a negative position: throughout, Huxley distinguishes himself from Comte, and agnosticism from the Comtian “Religion of Humanity.” He finds it necessary to differentiate himself because they share a disbelief in an Abrahamic God, an adherence to scientism, and a triumphalism akin to the “End of History.” The differences are that Comte and the positivists were mediocre scientists who created a church with a structure inspired by Catholicism, whereas the 19th-century English agnostics were brilliant and had no intention of founding a church.
It is worth noting the Unitarian flavor of this rhetoric, which seeks to trace a rationalist and contrarian lineage—beginning with Socrates, running through the Bible, and reaching its pinnacle in the present day—stripped of any supernatural elements. Another significant 19th-century English figure who adopted this approach was John Stuart Mill, in On Liberty. His wife and collaborator was a Unitarian.
And, of course, we see here an opposition—perhaps historically unprecedented—between possessing a scientific spirit and believing in God. We can say that Darwin’s Bulldog, during Darwin’s lifetime, ostracized Deism from science, since Evolution was presented as a refutation the Newtonian Architect’s existence.
A Matter of Terminology
Ultimately, Thomas Huxley was what we would today call an atheist—as was likely Darwin, given that he chose the term coined by his friend to describe his own position. Curiously, even Comte did not call himself an atheist. It seems that the spirit of atheism and scientism was widespread among the 19th-century intelligentsia, yet the willingness to embrace the label was confined to radicals such as Friedrich Engels, Karl Marx (whose 1841 dissertation focused on Democritus and Epicurus, the fathers of materialism), and Mikhail Bakunin. In that era, the distinction between the terms “atheist” and “agnostic” likely amounted to little more than one’s willingness to shock society. Neither the French positivists nor the English evolutionists sought to shock; the communists and anarchists, however, did.
Over time, by the 21st century, being an atheist no longer shocks anyone; in more intellectual circles, it is the norm. Hence the tendency to discard the term “agnostic,” or to reserve it exclusively for those who are in a state of genuine doubt. Another semantic issue concerns what we mean by “God.” Some people say things like, “For me, God is energy”—which leads one to wonder: does it make sense to claim that God is the very same thing that makes my electric fan spin and subsequently shows up on my utility bill? In the United States, one of the few Western nations where declaring oneself an atheist can still cause a stir, it is common for people to label themselves “spiritual, but not religious.” Such individuals often gravitate toward esoteric practices—crystals, horoscopes, Zen meditation, gurus who are as ugly as they are hungry for sex, and so on—without committing to any specific religion. This is likely a legacy of deism; after all, Freemasonry played a significant role in the nation’s founding and is rooted in deism. It is no coincidence that this 21st-century deism can, much like its Renaissance precedents, the libertins, become blurred with atheism. Sam Harris himself, for instance, is an atheist who embraces New Age ideas.
It is a historical irony, then, that one of the coiners of the term “psychedelia” (Greek for “revelation of the mind”) happens to be the grandson of the man who coined the term “agnosticism.” It seems that a segment of humanity cannot relinquish the pursuit of ecstatic experiences and revelations, even after abandoning the notion of divine transcendence—leading them, instead, to seek such experiences within the material realm. The distinction between a “sober” atheist and a New Age atheist appears to be more a matter of temperament than of philosophy—much like the distinction between an atheist and an agnostic in the 19th century.
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A diferença entre um ateu sóbrio e um ateu New Age parece ser mais uma questão de temperamento do que de filosofia, assim como a diferença entre ateu e agnóstico no século XIX.
Amigos estranharam a minha qualificação de Darwin como único grande cientista inequivocamente ateu, pois ele se considerava agnóstico. Eu confesso que tendo a apagar esse rótulo da minha cabeça, porque a distinção formal entre ateísmo e agnosticismo presumida por ele – a saber, que o agnóstico não sabe se Deus existe, enquanto o ateu sabe que Deus não existe – não tem correspondência na realidade, pois não tenho notícias de um único ateu famoso que pretenda provar a inexistência divina. Nem Dawkins, o ateu mais caricato da mídia, diz que isso é possível. Em Deus, um delírio, cap. 2, ele se consideram um ateu de facto, definido pelo mote: “Eu não tenho como saber com certeza, mas acho que Deus é muito improvável, e vivo segundo a premissa de que ele não existe.” Assim, se levarmos em conta a distinção tradicional, o ateu mais famoso do mundo não é ateu, mas agnóstico.
Outra figura com postura similar é a de Bertrand Russell, com sua famosa analogia do bule voador. Podemos provar que não há um bule em órbita dando voltas ao redor do planeta? Não. Mas não temos nenhum motivo para acreditar que tal bule exista. Deus é como esse bule: não dá para provar que ele não existe, mas não é razoável acreditar que exista. Por isso, Russell se considerava agnóstico na teoria e ateu na prática.
Darwin
Se o termo “agnóstico” tem serventia, é para descrever as pessoas que de fato vivem em estado de dúvida quanto à existência de Deus. Charles Darwin (1809 – 1882) era filho de pai deísta e de uma unitarista. O deísmo consiste em negar toda religião institucionalizada e afirmar que Deus existe, porém não se importa com a humanidade. Sendo um inglês do século XVIII, o pai de Darwin muito provavelmente acreditava no Grande Arquiteto de Newton e dos maçons. O unitarismo é um novo sabor do arianismo, pois nega a divindade de Jesus e tem-no como um grande reformador moral, equiparável a Sócrates. Os unitaristas tomaram Harvard no século XIX, e Newton era secretamente arianista. Podemos então dizer que Darwin não teve um lar propriamente cristão; ainda assim, ele pensou muito em ser pastor anglicano e se casou com uma cristã fervorosa. Sem dúvida, Darwin passou por crises de fé, o que fez dele um agnóstico nesse sentido que descreve o estado psicológico.
Até onde se sabe, primeira vez em que ele se descreve como agnóstico é em 1879, aos 70 anos, numa carta privada a John Fordyce. Segundo relatos, em 1881 ele afirmou a um grupo de livres pensadores que nunca abandonou o cristianismo até os quarenta anos de idade (o que seria o ano de 1849). Teria ele abandonado o cristianismo e adotado as crenças do pai e depois abandonado até mesmo ela? Não conheço a resposta, mas é uma questão vital para a trajetória científica de Darwin, pois pelos rótulos de hoje Newton seria um criacionista ou defensor do design inteligente pelos rótulos de hoje.
O depoimento mais iluminador é o da sua autobiografia, redigida entre 1876 e 1881 para a sua família. Cito James Moore em “Mito 16: Que a evolução destruiu a fé de Darwin – até que ele se converteu novamente no leito de morte”: “Não disposto a abrir mão do cristianismo, ele havia tentado ‘inventar evidências’ para confirmar os Evangelhos, o que prolongou sua indecisão. Assim como sua carreira como ministro religioso havia sofrido uma lenta ‘morte natural’, sua fé também foi mirrando gradualmente. Mas não houve retorno após o golpe de morte. Sua hesitação se cristalizou em uma convicção moral tão forte que ele não via como alguém – nem mesmo [a esposa] Emma – ‘pudesse desejar que o cristianismo fosse verdade’. Pois se fosse, ‘a linguagem pura e simples’ do Novo Testamento ‘parece mostrar que os homens que não creem, e isto incluiria meu pai, irmão e quase todos os meus amigos, serão punidos por toda a eternidade. E esta é uma doutrina maldita.’ Em anos posteriores o teísmo original evidente em As Origem das Espécies se desgastou, e agora, ‘sem crença segura e persistente na existência de um Deus pessoal ou na existência futura como retribuição e prêmio’, Darwin sentia que deveria ‘se contentar em permanecer agnóstico’.” O pai de Darwin, marco para a crise de fé, morreu em 1848, um ano antes dos quarenta anos.
Darwin não morreu indeciso; ele morreu decidido de que o cristianismo era imoral porque mandaria seus entes queridos para o inferno. Se o termo “agnosticismo” se aplica, é para estabelecer um estado de ignorância após a negação de Deus tal como as religiões abraâmicas o reconhecem. Darwin sabe que a Bíblia está errada e que seu Deus não existe. Mas o que é Deus ou qual a verdade, ele não sabe.
Por certo, o descobrir o estado final de Darwin não é suficiente para descobrir o impacto de suas cambiantes convicções religiosas sobre seu pensamento, já que a redação de A origem das espécies (1859) durou duas décadas.
A origem do termo “agnosticismo”
Entre o início da descrença de Darwin e sua primeira autodeclaração como agnóstico, passaram-se nada menos que trinta anos. Uma razão simples para ele não ter usado esse termo cedo é que ele não tinha sido inventado. Pouco se menciona isso, mas “agnosticismo” é um termo com inventor e data de nascimento: em 1869, quando Darwin tinha já 60 anos, Thomas Henry Huxley (vulgo “Buldogue de Darwin”, avô de Aldous, o escritor apologista de abertura da mente via drogas, e de Julian, o eugenista fundador do WWF e primeiro UNESCO), inventou o termo numa reunião da Sociedade Metafísica, uma sociedade algo secreta da qual só participavam membros convidados. Darwin não era membro. O supracitado Bertrand Russell tinha um parente deísta que era membro: Lord Arthur Russell, sobrinho do Conde John Russell, avô de Bertrand. Arthur Balfour, da Declaração Balfour, também era membro. Eu não podia estar lá porque eu não era nascida, mas a Enciclopédia Britânica diz que a invenção ocorreu em tais circunstâncias, então eu acredito.
Uma definição pública do agnosticismo pelo vovô Huxley foi oferecida ao público pela primeira vez em 1889, na revista Popular Science (ou Pop Science), que existe até hoje. Ei-la: “O agnosticismo, de fato, não é um credo, mas um método, cuja essência reside na rigorosa aplicação de um único princípio. Esse princípio é de grande antiguidade; é tão velho quanto Sócrates; tão velho quanto o escritor que disse ‘Examinai tudo, retende o que é bom’ [1 Tess. 5,21]; é a fundação da Reforma, que simplesmente ilustrou o axioma de que a todo homem deveria ser dada uma razão para a fé que está nele; é o grande princípio de Descartes; é o axioma fundamental da ciência moderna. Positivamente, o princípio pode ser expresso assim: Em questões intelectuais, siga a razão até onde ela lhe levar, sem se preocupar com nenhuma outra consideração. E negativamente, assim: Em questões intelectuais, não ter a pretensão de que as conclusões que não são demonstradas ou demonstráveis são certas. Isto eu tenho por fé agnóstica, que, se o homem mantiver íntegra e incorrupta, não há de se envergonhar em olhar o universo face a face, independente do que o futuro lhe reserve.”
Por essa definição, não há nenhuma relação óbvia com uma postura perante à questão da existência divina, mas o conjunto do texto deixa implícita da negativa: de cabo a rabo, Huxley diferenciar a si próprio de Comte, e o agnosticismo da Religião da Humanidade comteana. Ele precisa se diferenciar porque são iguais a descrença em um Deus abrâmico, o cientificismo e o triunfalismo à la Fim da História. As diferenças, que Comte e os positivistas eram cientistas medíocres e criaram uma igreja de estrutura inspirada no catolicismo, ao passo que os agnósticos ingleses do XIX eram brilhantes e não tinham nenhuma intenção de fundar uma igreja.
Cabe apontar o sabor unitarista da retórica, que visa a traçar uma linhagem racionalista e contestadora que surge em Sócrates, atravessa a Bíblia e chega ao seu pináculo na atualidade, destituída de sobrenaturalidade. Outra figura importante do XIX inglês que a adotava era John Stuart Mill, em Sobre a liberdade. A esposa e colaboradora dele era unitarista.
E, é claro, vemos aí a oposição – talvez, sem precedentes históricos – entre ter espírito científico e crer em Deus. Podemos dizer que o Buldogue de Darwin, durante a vida de Darwin, ostracizou o deísmo da ciência, já que a Evolução era apresentada como refutação da existência do Arquiteto newtoniano.
Questão de termos
No frigir dos ovos, Thomas Huxley era o que hoje entendemos por ateu – e provavelmente também Darwin, já que ele escolheu o termo criado pelo amigo para designar a própria posição. O engraçado é que nem mesmo Comte se dizia ateu. Ao que parece, o espírito do ateísmo e do cientificismo eram generalizados na intelectualidade do XIX, mas a disposição a assumir o rótulo se limitava a radicais como Friedrich Engels, Karl Marx (cuja dissertação, de 1841, foi sobre Demócrito e Epicuro, pais do materialismo) e Mikhail Bakunin. Provavelmente, a diferença entre os termos “ateu” e “agnóstico” naquela época se limitava à disposição de chocar a sociedade. Nem os positivistas franceses, nem os evolucionistas ingleses, queriam chocar. Já os comunistas e anarquistas queriam.
Com o tempo, no XXI, ser ateu não choca mais ninguém; nos círculos mais estudados, é a norma. Daí a disposição a enterrar o termo “agnóstico”, ou reservá-lo às pessoas que estejam num real estado de dúvida.
Outra questão semântica é o que entendemos por Deus. Há quem diga coisas como “para mim, Deus é energia” – daí a gente se pergunta se faz sentido dizer que Deus é isso que faz o meu ventilador girar e depois aparece na conta de luz. Nos Estados Unidos, um dos poucos países ocidentais no qual ainda é possível chocar dizendo-se ateu, é comum as pessoas se rotularem como “spiritual, but not religious” (espiritual, mas não religiosa), e tipicamente essas pessoas vão atrás de esoterismos – cristais, horóscopo, meditação zen, gurus tão feios quanto tarados etc. – sem aderir a nenhuma religião particular. Isso só pode ser herança do deísmo, até porque a maçonaria tem uma grande importância na formação do país e é deísta. Não à toa, esse deísmo do século XXI pode se confundir com o ateísmo, como os seus predecessores renascentistas, os libertinos. Sam Harris mesmo é um ateu adepto do New Age.
Agora, não deixa de ser uma ironia histórica que um dos inventores do termo “psicodelia” (do grego, “revelação mental”) seja neto do inventor do termo “agnosticismo”. Parece que uma parcela da humanidade não desiste de experiências extáticas e de revelações mesmo quando abandona a transcendência divina e, assim passa a procurá-la na matéria. A diferença entre um ateu sóbrio e um ateu New Age parece ser mais uma questão de temperamento do que de filosofia, assim como a diferença entre ateu e agnóstico no século XIX.
What began as peaceful demonstrations over school conditions culminated in nationwide cost-of-living protests and, subsequently, riots.
French Prime Minister Sébastien Lecornu said Tuesday that curfews imposed on Monday contributed to a calm night, though more protests are planned, according to Reuters.
The riots and protests echo many in France's long history of mass demonstrations. From nationwide strikes to student demonstrations, several have brought the country to a standstill, in some cases prompting France's leaders to announce a state of emergency.
Take a look at some of France's biggest and most impactful protests and riots over the past 100 years.
1934 — February 6 riots
War veterans marching with their National Association of War Veterans banderoles at Place de la Concorde, Paris, February, 6th 1934.
Keystone-France/Gamma-Keystone via Getty Images
Veterans and right-wing demonstrators took to the streets following a government corruption scandal. At least 15 people were killed.
The French Prime Minister at the time resigned the following day, stoking fears of a fascist coup.
1936 — Popular Front strikes
A demonstration in Paris in May, 1936.
AFP via Getty Images
Alongside an economic crisis, fears of a fascist coup after the 1934 riots helped unite left-wing parties and trade unions. Mass strikes and factory occupations in May and June 1936 led to major labor reforms, according to France's National Assembly.
1948 — Miners' strike
Striking miner on October 27, 1948.
-/AFP via Getty Images
In 1948, 300,000 French coal miners went on strike to protest economic conditions, per The New York Times. There was a heavy government crackdown, where some striking miners were killed, and another 3,000 were fired, according to AFP.
1961 — Paris Algerian demonstration and massacre
Algerian demonstrators arrested during the peaceful demonstration wait with their hands above their heads in a bus requisitioned by the police, October 17, 1961.
AFP via Getty Images
About 30,000 Algerians peacefully demonstrated against a curfew and in support of Algeria's independence, according to the BBC.
French police brutally cracked down. Historians estimate that at least 120 Algerians were killed, though some estimates put that number closer to 300, Al Jazeera reported.
1968 — May 1968
Students occupy the Sorbonne in Paris, May 14, 1968.
Keystone/Hulton Archive/Getty Images
What started as a student movement demanding university reforms turned into millions of people striking after trade unions joined the uprising.
Between the protests and rioting, the demonstrations brought the nation to a standstill. To restore order, then-president Charles de Gaulle dissolved the National Assembly and called early elections, which his party won in June.
In this year's student protests, many banners referenced "May 1968," Time reported.
1986 — Anti-Devaquet student protests
Students demonstrate in Paris, December 6, 1986.
Michel SETBOUN/Gamma-Rapho via Getty Images
Hundreds of thousands of students protested proposed university reforms they feared would restrict access to higher education.
Three weeks of violent clashes with police left hundreds injured and 22-year-old Malik Oussekine dead, forcing Prime Minister Jacques Chirac to withdraw the reforms, Time reported.
1995 — Strikes against pension reforms
Tram drivers of the RTM group demonstrate during a strike in Marseille, December 28, 1995.
Anne-Christine POUJOULAT / AFP via Getty Images
Between October and December 1995, public-sector workers went on strike against proposed austerity measures and pension reforms, bringing the country to a standstill, per the Global Nonviolent Action Database.
Then-prime minister Alain Juppé withdrew the proposed changes to public-sector pension plans, though other parts of his reform package went ahead.
2005 — French riots
Firefighters battle a warehouse blaze in Aubervilliers, on the outskirts of Paris, November 4, 2005.
Pascal Le Segretain/Getty Images
After two teenagers died while hiding from the police, riots began in Clichy-sous-Bois, a Parisian suburb, which then spread to other cities, the BBC reported at the time.
The government declared a state of emergency as unrest spread. The riots lasted about three weeks, while the state of emergency ended after about two months.
2018 — Gilets Jaunes
A "yellow vest" anti-government demonstrator in front of French riot police during a protest in Bordeaux, December 29, 2018.
MEHDI FEDOUACH/AFP via Getty Images
"Les Gilets Jaunes," or 'the yellow vests' in English, was a 2018 protest movement against a planned increase in fuel taxes that evolved into broader anti-government demonstrations, leading to deaths.
The French Prime Minister, Édouard Philippe, froze the tax hike in December that year and then fully canceled it days later.
2023 — Pension reform protests
Protesters march during a demonstration in Lille, March 23, 2023.
SAMEER AL-DOUMY/AFP via Getty Images
Hundreds of thousands of people protested and went on strike against President Emmanuel Macron’s pension reforms, which raised the retirement age from 62 to 64, according to Le Monde.
Macron's government enacted the reform despite the protests; the retirement age began rising in September 2023 and is scheduled to reach 64 by 2030.
Why do modern architects insist on designing such ugly, soul-crushing buildings, asks Joanna Gray. Because they win awards for doing so. And worst of all is the generic hollow-eyed modern window.
In 19th-century Munich, a woman with no formal banking experience began promising ordinary people extraordinary returns on their savings. Workers, servants, craftsmen and farmers flocked to her door, carrying the money they had spent years accumulating. Some mortgaged their homes or sold their land to take advantage of her generosity. For a time, the money flowed so freely that her business appeared almost invincible.
The woman was Adele Spitzeder, a former actress who became one of the most notorious financial swindlers in 19th-century Germany. Her private banking enterprise, popularly known as the Dachauer Bank, promised returns of as much as 10 per cent a month. But behind the apparent prosperity lay a simple deception: much of the money paid to earlier investors came not from profitable investments, but from the deposits of newcomers.
“As a child, I thought of the burrito as something predictable, filling, and reliable. It would be years before I saw it as a source of political conviction; something that once split my family’s loyalty between their hungry children and a revolutionary cause.” In this essay at Orion, Victoria Blanco writes about her Abuelita, whose family had owned a burrería in downtown Juárez during the Mexican Revolution, and how she worked hard there through childhood, making burritos for Pancho Villa’s troops—an army fighting for a better life for the next generation. “The food we ate was built for movement,” she writes, “the same way we were.” Blanco reflects on the burrito as a symbol resistance, the borderland, and belonging.
I found the unspoken parts of Abuelita’s childhood when I was working in a university archive as a student, examining photographs no one in my family had ever seen. One image stopped me completely: a rooftop terrace at the Paso del Norte hotel, where well-dressed Americans held cocktails and binoculars, watching the war across the river as though it were a form of entertainment. On the other side of that same river—a river with two names, Río Bravo on one bank, Rio Grande on the other—men were falling from gunfire while children went without food so that revolutionaries could have the sustenance they needed to keep fighting. I sat with that photograph for a long time, thinking about my abuelita, a girl somewhere in that city while Americans sipped cocktails and watched her world from a hotel roof.
The richest countries climbed to prosperity by methods they now forbid everyone else to use. Hamilton, List, Carey and Polanyi, four economists explained why those methods work and why abandoning them ends badly. There is a story the world’s wealthiest capitals love to tell about themselves. Prosperity, it goes, is the reward for opening your […]
Named for a Warsaw Ghetto Uprising hero, Kibbutz Yad Mordechai embodies Jewish resistance. From 1948 to Oct 7, 2023, it rebuilds anew, a testament to resilience, hope, and renewal.
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