Mary Beard: "The classics are a profoundly revolutionary subject"

MadridThe British Mary Beard (Much Wenlock, 1955) has popularized the history of Ancient Rome through television, books, and lectures worldwide, and her works have been translated into over 35 languages. At 71, this emerita professor from Cambridge remains tireless and optimistic. She has just published Classics without filters (Edicions 62 / Crítica; with Catalan translation by Joan Solé), which she dedicates to the curator who, when she was little, opened a display case at the British Museum to show her a fossilized bread. In the book she talks about her career, but also about how both sides have used the Roman past. Among other things, she argues why the far-right is mistaken and what the statues admired by supremacists hide.

When she started teaching at Cambridge, practically 90% of her colleagues were men. In her book she comments that at the time she felt a bit like an unconvincing actress. Over time she has proven that she has found her own voice. Does she still feel like an intruder?

— Partly yes. Certainly, it was annoying to be the only woman among so many men, but they were very respectful. Being an outsider can be tough, but at the same time it is liberating. The main lesson was to realize that I didn't have to imitate men. I was extremely tenacious; I stood my ground and decided that they would not despise me, and that I would do things on my own terms. Many women have been left out and that is sad. Fortunately, the world has changed.

Furthermore, it broke many other schemes. Sometimes, the academic world throws up its hands at those who disseminate history to large audiences.

— I am sure that behind my back some colleagues and former colleagues have criticized me harshly for doing television, but to my face they have always been very kind. Even academics want knowledge to reach everyone. What I am most proud of is having managed – despite the difficulty – to speak to a broad audience in accessible language, without technicalities or jargon, but without simplifying. I never saw a dividing line between what I said in the media and what I taught at the university. In fact, I detest the idea of ​​telling the general public a different story from the one told in classrooms.

Not long ago the historian Carlo Ginzburg died Carlo Ginzburg. He was like a detective who looked for clues from the past where no one else looked. In his book he also reflects this desire to get closer to the intimacy of the people who lived 2,000 years ago. To what extent is this possible?

— Carlo Ginzburg was a huge influence on me. He taught us that when we thought there was no evidence on a subject, it was actually because we weren't looking in the right place. The answer has to be a "yes and no." Can we truly come to understand these people? The historian always navigates between these two poles: the feeling that they are strange beings and, at the same time, very close. Herein lies the appeal of history. If they were exactly like us in thought but in different clothes, they would be of no interest. If they were completely alien Martians, neither, because it would be impossible to understand them.

It has always been said that it is very difficult to find the voice of women in antiquity. Is it due to a lack of sources or to the fact that it has not been searched enough until recently?

— To both things. It is entirely true that until recently there had not been enough research. In my student days, the history of women was not written about because it was taken for granted that there was no documentation. The problem is that we were not looking in the right places. It is true that almost no texts written by women from antiquity have been preserved, but the great change came when we understood that gender relations are absolutely central to the debates of the ancient world. Euripides' tragedies are written by a man, but they are incomprehensible if we do not take into account that the very female nature and men's perplexity towards women defined how they saw themselves. The objective is not only to find a text written by a woman, but also to see how our understanding of 5th-century Athens changes when we introduce the female factor. Many Athenian tragedies, such as Antigone or Medea, focus on female roles. Knowing that they are written by men, we must ask ourselves: were there women in the audience? What difference does it make to the interpretation of Medea if the audience was exclusively male or mixed? Or if we remember that all the female characters were played by men in disguise? The fundamental change has been to use the presence, absence, and representation of women as a key to unlock new dimensions of the ancient world that we previously ignored. In Rome, for example, we find a lot of information through inscriptions on tombstones. Undoubtedly, it was a misogynistic society that exploited and discriminated against women, but, as happens in all systems of exploitation, the exploiters lived obsessed with the group they dominated.

The book also talks about the use of symbols, such as that of Medusa, and their strong patriarchal burden.

— They have an immense patriarchal burden. When I was writing about women and power, I was struck to see that practically all political women in modern history have been caricatured or represented as Medusa. In Trump's campaign against Hillary Clinton, I was very surprised by some promotional images where Trump was seen in the role of Perseus, holding Clinton's severed head as if she were Medusa. The most relevant, and terrible, thing is that these products were consumed by citizens who had no idea of the mythological story of Perseus. This shows that the image, regardless of the original narrative, has become the perfect encapsulation of a misogynistic discourse. That is why I find it very positive that recently many novelists have subverted these misogynistic myths to tell the story from the perspective of characters like Circe or Medusa.

He spoke of Trump and, certainly, the far-right has exploited the Roman past. Is there a way to combat this manipulation?

— Yes, absolutely. The far-right has used the classical world to legitimize its slogans and its imaginary for centuries: Mussolini and the British Empire did it, and current white supremacists do it. But we must not forget that the left has also resorted to classical imagery. The French Revolution did. Sometimes there is a false impression that antiquity is the exclusive patrimony of the right, but Karl Marx wrote his doctoral thesis on Greek philosophy. The way to respond is with historical rigor. For example, when the right uses the immaculate whiteness of marble statues as a symbol of white supremacy, we must remind them that originally those statues were painted in colors. And when Soviet propaganda or abolitionists turned the rebel Spartacus into a hero of the fight against slavery, we must clarify that we have no evidence that he was an abolitionist; he simply did not want to be a slave himself, which is not the same as leading a movement to abolish the institution. The classical world offers us a space to debate politics, culture, and freedom, and it is logical that everyone makes different use of it. I am not right-wing, but the past belongs to everyone and everyone has the right to resort to it.

It is also mentioned that our current view of Rome is greatly conditioned by the urbanistic decisions that Mussolini made. Should we live with it or should we change it?

— It is a reality that we can no longer alter. Mussolini excavated and rebuilt the Rome we visit today. What we must do is understand that archaeology is not alien to politics: what is chosen to be excavated and how it is restored always responds to an ideology. In the center of Rome, you can visit the Mausoleum of Augustus, flanked by a square of clearly fascist architecture; it is a fascinating place, but at the same time it is an ancient monument and a legacy of the dictatorship. We must learn to look at the past from this dual perspective.

In this sense, the book defends the need to have one's own opinion, even though expressing it has cost you some controversies on social media. Can history not be separated from ethics?

— Exactly, it's impossible. On social media, I'm often criticized for applying my own morality or politics to history, but that's precisely what this discipline is about. Think about gladiator fights and bloody arenas: on the one hand, the historian must explain what that spectacle meant to the Romans and how they could attend it without necessarily being sadists; on the other hand, it's impossible not to condemn it morally. History poses inevitable ethical dilemmas.

It says it helps us confront our own demons.

— Yes, classics help us confront our own demons. By analyzing the past, we are reflecting on ourselves and how we will be seen in the future. It reminds us of our own fragility: surely in 300 years people will wonder how we could do certain things nowadays. History is a dialogue between us and those who preceded us, and our voice must be heard. Edward Gibbon's work on the fall of the Roman Empire is the best example: it is one of the most ideological books ever written.

There is a paradox: our society continues to be fascinated by Rome, which inspires all sorts of films, books, video games, or political propaganda, but, on the other hand, classical studies and humanities are in decline. Why are we so attracted to this civilization?

— For Westerners, the Romans are still part of the landscape. These cultures have been constantly reinterpreted and excavated, to the point of becoming part of our political language and popular culture. It is part of our cultural DNA. However, we should be concerned if we think it is the only valid reference point. It would be impossible to understand the history of Spain without the influence of Islam, for example. As I say in the book, there has not been a single day since 19 BC when someone, somewhere in the world, has not been reading the Aeneid.. It is rooted in culture, and it is magnificent to play with it and look for new meanings. Regarding the decline of Latin, we should not fall into the mythical nostalgia of thinking that everyone knew it before. Latin was dominated by a minority of rich, white boys. Rather than lamenting out of nostalgia, we must be alert to the generalized attack on the humanities by governments, who consider them a mere dispensable complement. The idea has spread that mathematics, physics, or computer science are the only essential areas for modern society. But the humanities are equally essential: a mature and responsible political debate is unviable without them. A functional democracy cannot exist if the ability to debate and question oneself is lost.

The book highlights that classics teach us to read difficult things and offer a safe space for debate. Perhaps it is this critical capacity that bothers those in power?

— From a cynical perspective, one could say that it is convenient to cut back on humanities because they form more critical, uncomfortable citizens with the ability to argue. Surely some people think this, but I don't believe it is the main reason for the cuts in Europe; the problem is the perception that they are not useful. As a colleague of mine said years ago, classics, as well as Kantian philosophy, teach you to confront complex texts. This is the great contribution of the humanities. One only needs to look at social networks to see how political debate degrades when it is oversimplified: absurd, visceral, and superficial positions are obtained.

How does your progressive and revolutionary spirit combine with the study of a subject as traditional as the classics?

— When I was a teenager I was very interested in the Black Power movement of the sixties and I didn't see how that revolutionary impulse could connect with the study of antiquity. I wish someone had explained to me then that the classics are, in fact, a profoundly revolutionary subject.