The Hero of Latin American Freedom: Manuela Sáenz

Dear Manuela Sáenz,

I’m writing to you from a world that still says your name a little too quietly.

You were many things. Revolutionary, strategist, lover, exile. But history, for a long time, tried to compress you into a footnote beside Simón Bolívar. That feels… insufficient.

So this is an attempt to speak to you directly. Not as a symbol, not as a scandal, not even as an afterthought. But as a person who lived loudly in a time when women were expected to remain silent.

You weren’t supposed to become who you became.

That much is clear.

You were born into a world that had already decided your limits. Illegitimate and inconvenient. A woman in a society that measured worth through obedience and reputation. The kind of world that teaches you embroidery and etiquette, just in case you get any ideas about having a voice.

And yet, somehow, you did just that.

You slipped through expectations like they were badly tied knots. You learnt, listened, and questioned. You didn’t just observe history. You became it.

I keep thinking about you in Lima as someone building networks, passing information, persuading an entire battalion to switch sides. That’s not rebellion for the sake of it. That’s precision. That’s intent.

You weren’t just in the independence movement; you were shaping it.

And still, they tried to keep you out.

You wrote, frustrated, about being denied the right to fight alongside the army. About how you and the women beside you, your Jonathas and Nathan, felt the same fire, the same urgency, the same claim to freedom.

“We are Creoles and mulattos, to whom the freedom of this land belongs.”

That line lingers. It doesn’t ask for permission. It doesn’t soften itself. It just… states the truth.

And then there’s your love story. Or at least, that’s how it’s often framed, as if that’s the most interesting thing about you.

But even that, you refused to play by the rules.

You loved Simón Bolívar openly, unapologetically, without reshaping yourself to fit what society accepted. When your husband demanded your return, you didn’t respond with guilt or compromise. You responded with clarity.

“Do you believe me less honourable because he is my lover and not my husband?”

There’s something almost modern about that question. The way it cuts through expectation and lands somewhere much more honest.

But what stays with me most is the night you saved his life.

The September Night.

You saw the danger coming before anyone else wanted to believe it. You warned him. He dismissed it. And when the moment arrived, when the palace doors were forced open, when violence flooded the room, you didn’t hesitate.

You woke him. You argued with him. You made him leave.

And then you stayed.

Sword in hand. Alone.

Buying time.

It’s such a quiet kind of bravery, isn’t it? Not loud. Not performative. Just necessary.

And yet, even after everything—the battles, the strategies, the risks—you were still too much for the world you helped create.

So they exiled you.

Not because you failed, but because you didn’t fit.

I imagine you in Paita sometimes. The distance. The quiet. The shift from influencing nations to translating letters for passing ships, making sweets, and surviving in the margins of the story you helped write.

It doesn’t feel like an ending that matches the life you lived.

But maybe that’s the point.

Maybe the world didn’t know what to do with you once it no longer needed your defiance.

And maybe, in some ways, it still doesn’t.

Writing to you feels a bit like correcting a silence.

Not completely—history is stubborn—but enough to notice the gap you left behind. You remind me that influence doesn’t always come with recognition, and that being essential doesn’t guarantee being remembered.

But also—this matters—you lived anyway.

Fully, defiantly, without waiting for approval.

And maybe that’s the part that carries forward most clearly.

So perhaps the real question isn’t why history forgot you.

It’s how many others it’s still trying to.

“I have no choice but to do my will, which is stronger than me.”

Manuela Sáenz. Source.

Sources

open.edu/openlearn/history-the-arts/world-changing-women-manuela-saenz

bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/w3csyp5c

artsandculture.google.com/asset/photograph-of-manuela-saenz-eugenio-courret/lAG7VRe7P5xdXw?hl=en

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manuela_S%C3%A1enz

rejectedprincesses.com/princesses/manuela-saenz

facebook.com/DailyDoseofHistory/posts/the-life-of-manuela-s%C3%A1enz-was-to-put-it-mildly-unconventional-a-celebrated-hero-/1168236882069054/

jstor.org/stable/10.7560/718296

britannica.com/biography/Manuela-Saenz

thecollector.com/biography-manuela-saenz/

latinolife.co.uk/articles/manuelita-saenz-harlot-americas

What do you think of Manuela Sáenz, reader?

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The Empress Who Walked with Armies: Julia Domna

The room was supposed to be safe.

Silk curtains. Marble floors. The quiet illusion of control.

And yet, in that moment, everything collapsed.

Caracalla stood over his brother, breathing hard, the violence still echoing in the walls. Geta, dead or dying, had fallen not on a battlefield, not in some grand imperial clash, but in their mother’s private chamber. In her arms.

And there she was: Julia Domna.

Empress of Rome. Adviser to emperors. Mother of the Camp.

Witness.

It’s one of those moments history doesn’t quite know what to do with. Too intimate. Too brutal. Too human. An empire built on conquest, and yet its fate pivoted on a family argument that escalated beyond repair.

But here’s the thing: this wasn’t the story of a woman undone by tragedy. It was the story of a woman who had already helped build the stage on which it played out.

Because long before the blood hit the marble, Julia Domna had been shaping Rome itself.

To understand Julia Domna, you have to leave Rome for a moment and travel east. To Emesa, a wealthy and culturally vibrant city in Roman Syria.

This wasn’t the edge of civilisation. It was a crossroads. Greek philosophy, Roman politics, and local religious traditions all collided here, often over dinner.

Julia was born into privilege, but not the Roman kind. Her father, Julius Bassianus, was the high priest of the sun god Elagabal, a position that came with influence, wealth, and just enough mystique to make Rome nervous.

She grew up multilingual, likely fluent in Greek and Aramaic, and possibly in Latin as well. In other words, she was already more globally minded than many of the men who would later try to outmanoeuvre her.

But Rome wasn’t exactly designed for women like Julia Domna. Power there was public, male, and aggressively competitive. Women, especially foreign-born women, were expected to remain in the background, influencing quietly, if at all.

Julia did not get that memo.

Instead, she stepped into a world where emperors were assassinated with alarming regularity, loyalty was negotiable, and survival required more than just a famous husband.

It required a strategy.

The story goes that Septimius Severus didn’t just marry Julia Domna for love; he married her because of a horoscope.

Somewhere in Syria, he heard of a woman destined to marry a king. Being an ambitious Roman general with excellent timing, he thought: that’ll do nicely.

They married in 187 CE. Within a few years, Severus wasn’t just a governor. He was the emperor.

Coincidence? Possibly.

Good judgement? Almost certainly.

From the beginning, Julia was more than a political accessory. When Severus marched on Rome and seized power, she didn’t stay behind. She travelled with him, through military campaigns, across provinces, into the uncertain mechanics of empire-building.

In 195 CE, she was given the title Mater Castrorum: ‘Mother of the Camp.’ Not a ceremonial flourish, but a recognition of her presence among the legions, her influence, and her ability to command respect in spaces where women simply weren’t expected to exist.

But power invites opposition.

Enter Fulvius Plautianus, a man who treated political intrigue less like a duty and more like a hobby. He spread rumours about Julia, accused her of infidelity, and even tortured noblewomen to manufacture evidence against her.

In Rome, that sort of thing could end a career. Or a life.

Julia’s response? She pivoted.

Around 200 CE, she built something far more enduring than political alliances: an intellectual circle. Philosophers, writers, and thinkers gathered around her, including Philostratus, who later credited her with inspiring his works.

It wasn’t escapism. It was a strategy.

If power could be unstable, culture could be controlled.

She debated philosophy, commissioned texts, and supported scholars, effectively turning the imperial court into a centre of learning. In a world obsessed with conquest, she invested in ideas.

Meanwhile, back in the family…

Her sons, Caracalla and Geta, had developed a relationship best described as ‘historically catastrophic.’ Their rivalry escalated from tension to outright hatred, culminating in Geta’s murder in Julia’s own chambers.

It’s difficult to imagine the emotional toll. But what’s remarkable is this: Julia didn’t disappear.

Under Caracalla, she remained a central figure in governance. Her name appeared on official correspondence. She administered the empire during his absences. In a system that barely acknowledged female authority, she made herself indispensable.

Even as the empire fractured around her, Julia Domna endured.

Until, finally, she couldn’t.

In 217 CE, after Caracalla’s assassination, she faced a world she could no longer influence. Already ill, possibly with cancer, she chose to end her life.

It was a quiet ending for someone who had lived at the centre of everything.

Julia Domna didn’t rule Rome in the traditional sense.

She didn’t lead armies into battle (though she was there). She didn’t sit on the throne alone (though she came close to its power). Instead, she operated in the spaces history often overlooks. The advisory roles, the intellectual salons, the administrative decisions that keep empires functioning.

And yet, for more than twenty years, two emperors relied on her.

That alone reshapes how we think about power.

Her legacy isn’t just political, it’s cultural. By fostering philosophy, supporting writers, and engaging in intellectual life as an equal, she helped preserve ideas that outlasted the empire itself.

She also challenges a familiar narrative: that influence must be loud to be real.

Today, her story resonates in quieter ways. In leadership that doesn’t fit traditional moulds. In people navigating systems not designed for them and reshaping those systems anyway.

And perhaps most importantly, in the reminder that resilience isn’t always about winning.

Sometimes, it’s about standing in a world that keeps shifting beneath your feet.

Julia Domna lived in a world that expected her to be silent, and instead, she became essential.

She advised emperors, outlasted rivals, nurtured ideas, and stood at the centre of one of history’s most volatile families. Not untouched by tragedy, but never defined by it either.

It’s tempting to ask what she could have done differently. But perhaps the better question is this:

How do you hold power in a world that doesn’t quite believe you should have it?

And, more quietly, what kind of legacy do you leave when you do?

Did You Know?

  • Julia Domna was one of the few Roman empresses to travel regularly with military campaigns.
  • She was given the title Mother of the Camp—a rare honour.
  • Her intellectual circle may have helped shape pagan responses to early Christianity.
  • Both she and her sister, Julia Maesa, were later deified.
  • Roughly 20% of her known influence comes not from official records, but from the writings of the philosophers she supported.

Julia Domna. Source.

Sources

yorkmuseumstrust.org.uk/blog/julia-domna-by-ellie-carrier/

medium.com/cliophilia/romes-philosopher-empress-julia-domna-fd8213d0ee65

syriawise.com/julia-domna-roman-empress-from-syria/

wikipedia.org/wiki/Julia_Domna

diotima-doctafemina.org/translations/anthologies/womens-life-in-greece-and-rome-selections/vi-public-life/180-the-family-of-julia-domna/

brewminate.com/julia-domna-a-captivating-ancient-roman-empress-from-syria/

harvardartmuseums.org/collections/object/312252

britannica.com/biography/Julia-Domna

ebsco.com/research-starters/history/julia-domna

thecollector.com/julia-domna-empress-ancient-rome-wife-septimius-severus/

Which historical figure do you think deserves a second look, reader?

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The Woman Who Carried More Than Memory: Paliadzo Captanian

Paliadzo Captanian was many things: a teacher, a mother, a survivor, a writer. Born in 1883 in Merzifon, she endured the horrors of the Armenian Genocide, walking through the Syrian desert while pregnant, losing her husband, and somehow still carrying life forward. Both literally and figuratively. I’m writing to her because her story doesn’t sit quietly in history. It lingers. It asks questions. It demands to be remembered, not just for what was lost, but for what she chose to build afterwards.

Dear Paliadzo,

I don’t quite know how to begin a letter to someone who walked through a desert carrying grief, fear, and a child all at once. It feels almost inadequate to use words, the very tools you wielded so bravely, when your life reads like something beyond language.

You were a teacher once. That detail lingers. Before everything fractured, before the marches and the losses, you built your world on knowledge, guiding others, shaping futures. And then history, that cruel, abrupt, and indifferent thing, interrupted.

You were forced to walk. Pregnant. Through the Syrian desert. I try to picture it, but I suspect imagination fails here. There are distances that maps can measure, and then there are distances the human spirit travels. Those are far harder to quantify. You named your son Tzavag. Sorrow. Pain. A name that doesn’t hide from reality but holds it, honours it, even.

“I carried him through loss, but he was also proof I was still here.”

I don’t know if you ever truly said those words, as others have reported, but they feel like they belong to you.

What strikes me most is not just that you survived, but that you documented. In 1919, when the world was still rearranging itself after war and devastation, you wrote your memoir. Not years later, not softened by time, but close enough that the dust of it all hadn’t settled. That takes a different kind of courage, the kind that says: this happened, and I will not let it be forgotten.

Your words would go on to influence Raphael Lemkin, helping shape the very concept of genocide itself. It’s strange, isn’t it? That something born from such suffering could help the world name and understand its own worst instincts.

And then, somehow, your life continued.

You reunite with your sons. You move to America. You sew draperies for Franklin D. Roosevelt. There’s something quietly extraordinary about that. Your hands, which endured so much, created something as ordinary and domestic as curtains, albeit in a president’s home.

And then there’s the detail that feels almost surreal: you teach a recipe. Armenian pilaf. Simple, comforting, rooted in culture. That recipe travels, evolves, and eventually becomes Rice-A-Roni.

It’s almost absurd in its contrast, isn’t it? That a life marked by such profound loss also leaves behind something as everyday as a boxed meal on a supermarket shelf.

But maybe that’s the point.

We survive in the things we pass on.

Not just in memoirs or history books, but in recipes, in habits, in the quiet continuations of culture. In the small, almost invisible ways, life insists on going forward.

I wonder if you ever thought about that. If you ever considered that your story would ripple outward, not just through history, but through kitchens, conversations, and lives you would never meet.

You endured what no one should. And yet, you still created. You still taught. You still left something behind that wasn’t just about survival, but about living.

Writing to you feels like standing at the edge of something vast: history, grief, resilience. And realising how little and how much one life can hold at once. What I learn from you isn’t just about endurance, but about continuation. That even after unimaginable loss, there are still stories to tell, skills to share, lives to rebuild. Not perfectly. Not easily. But meaningfully.

And perhaps that’s the quiet lesson you leave behind: survival is not the end of the story, it’s the beginning of what comes next.

The Captanian family in New York in 1921: Pailadzo, Gilbert, Aram and Herant. Source.

Sources

newspapers.com/article/the-daily-register-obituary-for-pailadzo/53557546/

wikipedia.org/wiki/Pailadzou_Captanian

wikiwand.com/en/Pailadzou_Captanian

wikipedia.org/wiki/Category:Armenian_people_in_the_Ottoman_Empire

aberdeennjlife.blogspot.com/2011/05/history-aram-captanian-receives-bronze.html

louisville-institute.org/our-impact/awards/pastoral-study-project/9727/

facebook.com/100083257998807/videos/middle-eastern-rice-/1752894432186300/

rejectedprincesses.com/princesses/pailadzo-captanian

armeniapedia.org/wiki/Pailadzo_Captanian

grokipedia.com/page/pailadzou_captanian

What do you make of Paliadzo Captanian’s story, reader?

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The Last Hasmonean Princess: Mariamne

This is one of history’s most unsettling royal stories.

The execution of a queen. one who may have been as dangerous in potential as in reality.

Mariamne I, a Hasmonean princess of Judea, lived in a rather different world from ours. Back then, alliances were forged young. Loyalties were a fragile thing. And power rarely tolerated rivals, especially those with legitimate claims.

Married to Herod the Great, Mariamne stood at the intersection of love, politics and fear.

Many people believe she had to die. But did she?

Mariamne was born around 54 BC into a family already divided by politics and ambition. Her grandfathers, Aristobulus II and Hyrcanus II, invited Roman involvement in Judea through their rivalry, setting the stage for the region’s transformation under Roman influence.

The Romans executed her father. After this, Mariamne aligned with her mother’s side of the family. This was the side a bit ‘cosier’ with the Romans. But bloodlines also mattered. And hers made her dangerous.

At the age of just 12, she was betrothed to 33-year-old Herod. He was a rising political figure backed by Rome. By 17, she was queen. But, obviously, this wasn’t a romantic union.

It was one of force and brutality.

At least at first.

Their marriage was strategy. Herod gained legitimacy by marrying into the prestigious Hasmonean line, while Mariamne became tied to a man whose power depended on Roman favour.

For a decade, their marriage held and produced five children, their first when she was 18. Among them, heirs to the fabled throne. But beneath the surface, tensions simmered.

Mariamne was not a passive figure.

Historical accounts suggest she understood her own claim to power and, at times, acted on it. On at least two occasions when Herod left Judea under pressure, Mariamne and her mother attempted to secure influence over the army and political structures.

And this was no small feat.

In a court already wary of the Hasmonean legacy, Marimne represented more than a queen. She was a potential ruler. An alternative.

Meanwhile, Herod was busy bumping off any perceived threats from her family. He had her brother, Aristobulus III, executed. And soon after, her grandfather, too. Later, even her mother would not be spared.

Mariamne lived in a court where survival required not just loyalty, but invisibility.

And she was neither invisible nor easily controlled.

It led to her downfall.

There are many legends surrounding Mariamne’s death. Historian Flavius Josephus, drawing on sources including Herod’s court historian, described accusations of infidelity or even attempted poisoning.

Herod’s sister, Salome, was a key figure in turning suspicion against Mariamne.

But the charges themselves remain unclear. And perhaps that’s the point.

More revealing than the lies perpetuated against her was the pattern they formed.

Herod systemically removed members of the Hasmonean line. Mariamne’s execution in 27 BC was not an isolated act of jealousy or betrayal, but part of a broader political strategy. She was not his wife, nor was she ever.

She was, to him, a symbol of a rival dynasty and nothing more.

Symbols in unstable regimes, unfortunately, are a dangerous thing.

Some accounts paint Herod as deeply in love with Mariamne, so much so that after her death, he was consumed by grief. Owing to their age gap, it’s highly unlikely he felt anything toward her. He used her and garnished political storytelling to get his way.

What is clear is that love, if it ever existed, did not outweigh fear.

And he had her executed.

Some love, eh?

And with that, he had erased another piece of the Hasmonean legacy.

It’s easy to say that Mariamne’s story feels distant. Set in ancient courts, shaped by dynasties and empires. But its themes are strikingly familiar.

She lived in a world where women could hold influence, but that influence was a threat. Legitimacy was both an asset and a liability. Perception, rumour, accusation, and suspicion were just as powerful as the truth.

What stands out is how little clarity history offers about her ‘guilt’. The charges against her remain vague, filtered through biased sources and political narratives. It raises a question that still resonates to this day:

How often are powerful people, especially women, judged not for what they did, but for what they might do?

Mariamne’s life also reflects the cost of being close to power. She was not an outsider. She was at the centre. And yet such a position made her expendable.

Today, her story invites us to look beyond the official versions of events. To question who gets to tell the story, and whose voice is lost along the way.

Further Reading

‘Mariamne Leaving the Seat of Herod’ by John William Waterhouse. Source.

Sources

longreads.com/2019/12/17/queens-of-infamy-mariamne-i/

facebook.com/thechurchofengland/posts/mariamne-had-not-been-given-any-choice-about-becoming-the-wife-of-king-herod-aft/1009462001216804/

thetorah.com/article/mariamme-the-last-hasmonean-princess

britannica.com/biography/Mariamne-wife-of-Herod-I

factinate.com/people/queen-mariamne-facts

wikipedia.org/wiki/Mariamne_I

jewishvirtuallibrary.org/mariamne-2

wikipedia.org/wiki/Mariamne

org/encyclopedia/article/mariamme-i-hasmonean

chabad.org/library/article_cdo/aid/112064/jewish/Mariamne.htm

Mariamne’s story doesn’t offer easy answers. Was she a tragic victim, a political player, or something in between? What do you think, reader? Executed for what she did, or for what she represented?

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The Mother of Kings: Sigrid the Haughty

History remembers many kings of the Viking Age, but the women who moved within those worlds, sometimes shaping events with just as much force as the kings, often fade into the background.

Among them stands one particularly formidable figure: Sigrid the Haughty.

Quite a name. Quite a legend. But what of her story is myth and what is history?

Sigrid appears in Norse sagas and medieval chronicles as a queen whose life connected the courts of Poland, Sweden, Denmark, and England during the turbulent 10th and early 11th centuries.

Many described her as beautiful, intelligent, and fiercely independent, entirely unwilling to tolerate foolish men.

Her story includes royal marriages, political influence across multiple kingdoms, and one of the most memorable methods ever used to reject unwanted suitors.

Meet the queen who ruled kingdoms, advised kings, and earnt her nickname in a blaze of fire and glory…

Sigrid the Haughty (c. 960–after 1013).

Born sometime between 960 and 972 in Gniezno, the early capital of Poland, Sigrid was likely the daughter of Mieszko I of Poland and Dobrawa of Bohemia, and the sister of Bolesław I the Brave, Poland’s first crowned king.

She grew up during a transformative era as Poland shifted from pagan traditions toward Christianity, a cultural crossroads that may have shaped her famously independent spirit.

According to medieval chronicles and Norse sagas, Sigrid’s first marriage was to Eric the Victorious (God, these names are brilliant), King of Sweden. Their son, Olof Skötkonung, would later become Sweden’s first Christian king.

After Eric’s death, Sigrid’s ‘great beauty and royal status’ attracted numerous marriage proposals. As you’d expect.

One of those suitors, Harald Grenske, reportedly met a spectacularly fiery rejection. Saga tradition claims that, after hosting a feast for Harald and other persistent suitors, Sigrid locked them inside a hall and burnt it to the ground.

She declared that such an act would discourage any more men from bothering her.

Blimey.

From that moment on, she became known as ‘Sigrid the Haughty.’

I think it’s a bit better than ‘Sigrid the Arsonist’, but not quite as good as ‘Sigrid the Man Killer’…

Sigrid later married Sweyn Forkbeard (Good lord), King of Denmark. Through that marriage, she became the mother of two future rulers: Cnut the Great, who would later rule England, Denmark, and Norway, and Harald II of Denmark.

Her children would go on to shape the political map of northern Europe.

Though her marriage to Sweyn ended in exile, Sigrid returned to her brother’s court in Poland and remained an influential political adviser.

When her sons rose to power, she once again stepped onto the stage of European politics, reportedly joining Cnut in England after his conquest in 1016.

Yet despite her prominence, historians still debate many parts of her life.

Some Scandinavian scholars have questioned whether Sigrid was indeed a single historical figure, or a composite of several women, though Polish and English sources suggest she was real.

Even her burial place remains unknown, although many suspect it’s somewhere in Scandinavia or England.

I mean, it narrows things down a bit, I guess…

“Queen Sigrid the Haughty sat proud and aloft.”

– Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Closing Thoughts.

Whether legend embellished her story or not, Sigrid the Haughty embodies the powerful women who moved through the world of Viking Age politics.

She did so with determination and authority. As a daughter of Poland, Queen in Scandinavia, and mother to rulers who shaped northern Europe, her life crossed cultures, religions, and kingdoms.

What remains most striking about her story is not simply her fiery reputation, but her influence. Through her sons and alliances, Sigrid helped connect the courts of Sweden, Denmark, Poland and England during a period when the map of medieval Europe was still being written.

History may have blurred the edges of her story, but the image endures: a queen who refused to be ignored.

Sigrid the Haughty and Olaf Tryggvason by Erik Werenskiold. Source.

Sources

commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Category:Sigrid_the_Haughty

encyclopedia.com/women/encyclopedias-almanacs-transcripts-and-maps/sigrid-haughty-d-1013

arsmagica.fandom.com/wiki/Sigrid_the_Haughty

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sigrid_the_Haughty

vikinganswerlady.com/SigridStorrada.shtml

jorvikthing.com/2023/04/the-saga-of-sigrid-the-haughty/

ancient-origins.net/history-famous-people/sigrid-haughty-queen-consort-four-countries-and-owner-strong-personality-020820

rejectedprincesses.com/princesses/sigrid-the-haughty

medievalherstory.com/2022/01/23/sigrid-the-haughty/

1066.co.nz/Mosaic%2520DVD/whoswho/text/Sigrid_the_Haughty%5B1%5D.htm

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The Teacher Who Went to War: Nieves Fernandez

The story of how Nieves Fernandez became one of the most formidable resistance fighters during the Japanese occupation of the Philippines in World War II.

During World War II, a quiet schoolteacher from the Philippine island of Leyte led a guerrilla force that reportedly killed around 200 occupying soldiers. Armed with little more than a bolo knife and homemade weapons, Nieves Fernandez became one of the most feared resistance leaders in the region.

She was a Filipina schoolteacher from Tacloban on the island of Leyte in the Philippines. When Japanese forces occupied the country during World War II, many Filipinos joined underground resistance movements that fought alongside Allied forces.

Nieves was among the most remarkable of these fighters.

Without formal military training, she organised and led a guerrilla unit of roughly 110 fighters. Using improvised weapons, including homemade shotguns, bolos, and makeshift grenades, her group carried out ambushes against Japanese patrols and defended local communities.

Her leadership earned her the title Captain among fellow guerrillas and the respect of Allied forces operating in the region.

And it’s easy to see why.

The Japanese occupation of the Philippines brought harsh conditions to local communities, including forced confiscation of property, violence, and torture, all used to intimidate civilians.

Witnessing these abuses pushed Nieves from teacher to resistance leader.

She organised a guerrilla force composed mostly of local men and began launching ambushes against Japanese patrols in the forests around Tacloban. Her fighters relied heavily on ingenuity.

One of their signature weapons was the paltik, a homemade shotgun fashioned from metal pipes and filled with gunpowder and scrap materials such as nails.

Despite limited equipment, her unit was a remarkably effective one. Over two and a half years of guerrilla fighting, Nieves and her fighters reportedly killed around 200 occupying soldiers.

Her success proved so disruptive that Japanese forces placed a bounty of 10,000 pesos on her head, a very large sum at the time.

When Allied troops led by Douglas MacArthur returned to Leyte in 1944, Filipino guerrilla fighters like Nieve had already weakened Japanese control across the region.

One of the only surviving photos of Nieves Fernandez shows her calmly demonstrating how to perform a ‘silent kill’ with a traditional Filipino bolo knife to an American soldier.

In the photograph, she stands in simple clothes, barefoot, explaining how to approach a target quietly before striking.

The image perfectly captures the contrast of her story: a schoolteacher who, under extraordinary circumstances, became a highly skilled guerrilla commander.

The story of Nieves Fernandez reminds us that resistance movements are often shaped by ordinary people placed in extraordinary situations.

While figures like Douglas MacArthur dominate many narratives of the Pacific War, local fighters, men and women alike, played a crucial role in resisting occupation and supporting Allied operations.

But there were very few quite like Nieves Fernandez.

A colourised version of the famous photo. Source.

Sources

instagram.com/p/DVpkcPmjUqw/

reddit.com/r/HistoryPorn/comments/xwzdo0/captain_nieves_fernandez_a_filipino_resistance/

southseattleemerald.org/history/2016/03/27/31-days-of-revolutionary-women-27-nieves-fernandez

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nieves_Fernandez

ditosapilipinas.com/national/lifestyle-features/article/09/11/2024/nieves-fernandez-deadliest-teacher-world-war-ii/964

deadliestfiction.fandom.com/wiki/Nieves_Fernandez

pacificatrocities.org/female-guerrillas-600963.html

rarehistoricalphotos.com/captain-nieves-fernandez-1944/

coffeeordie.com/article/filipino-guerrillas

facebook.com/ilovetacloban/posts/nieves-fernandezas-we-mark-the-81st-anniversary-of-the-leyte-landing-on-october-/1251617600332330/

History is full of remarkable figures whose stories rarely make it into textbooks. Have you come across another overlooked resistance fighter or historical figure whose story deserves more attention? Share their name; I’d love to explore more hidden histories.

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The Queen Who Raised a Conqueror: Olympias of Macedon

The story of the formidable life of Olympias, mother of Alexander the Great and a political force in her own right.

Soldiers, nobles and onlookers packed the palace courtyard. And in the centre stood a woman in her late fifties, surrounded by her enemies.

That woman was Olympias, the widow of the king of Macedon and mother of the most famous conqueror the world had ever seen. Now her son lay dead. Her allies scattered. And the generals of his empire, in a fight for power, tore the world apart.

Her captor, Cassander, had promised her safety to persuade her to surrender. No one believed that promise for a second. Least of all her.

He arranged a trial, if indeed one could call it that when the judges were the same men who just besieged you. The verdict was predictable.

Ancient writers describe her execution with theatrical detail: soldiers reluctant to strike, crowds watching, and a queen who refused to beg.

Perhaps the drama was exaggerated. Or perhaps it was exactly as dramatic as it sounds.

But one thing is certain: Olympias had spent her entire life at the centre of power struggles, royal marriages, and dynastic murders. Long before this moment, she had helped place her son on the throne—and in doing so had helped change the course of history.

To understand Olympias, it helps to understand the world she was born into.

She came from Epirus, specifically the kingdom of Molossia in what is now northwestern Greece. Unlike the famous city-state of Athens, Molossia had no democracy and little interest in philosophical debates about civic equality.

But for women, it offered surprising freedoms.

Women in Molossia could own property, act as guardians for their children, pass citizenship to their descendants, and participate more openly in political life. Olympias would carry this sense of agency with her into the Macedonian court, a place where influence mattered more than formal rules.

Ancient sources gave her several names. She was probably born Polyxena, a name drawn from Homeric legend. Later, she may have been called Myrtale, perhaps after a religious initiation. The name history remembers, though—Olympias—likely came later, possibly in celebration of a royal victory.

Her marriage to Philip II of Macedon was not a romantic accident, despite the charming story told by Plutarch centuries later. Royal marriages in the fourth century BCE were diplomatic arrangements, and Philip had several wives already.

Olympias was probably his fourth or fifth.

But in the complicated politics of Macedonian polygamy, status did not depend on the order of marriage.

It depended on one thing: producing an heir.

Olympias did exactly that.

In 356 BCE, Olympias gave birth to a son: Alexander.

Ancient writers quickly turned his birth into legend.

One story claimed that the night before her marriage was consummated, Olympias dreamt a thunderbolt struck her womb and ignited a great fire. Convenient symbolism for a future conqueror who later hinted he might be the son of Zeus himself.

Other stories described Olympias sleeping beside snakes during religious rites devoted to Dionysus. Some writers treated this as evidence of mystical devotion; others implied it was sinister.

It is difficult to separate fact from smear campaign. Accusing powerful women of witchcraft or enchantment has been a popular tactic for thousands of years.

What is clearer is Olympias’s political importance once Alexander grew older. In Macedonian royal families, the mother of the heir could wield enormous influence.

By 340 BCE, Philip trusted his sixteen-year-old son enough to leave him as regent while campaigning abroad. That meant Olympias was now the most important woman at court, and possibly one of its most influential figures.

Then came the wedding that nearly ruined everything.

In 337 BCE, Philip married another woman, Cleopatra Eurydice. During the wedding celebrations, Cleopatra’s relative Attalus reportedly toasted the hope that Philip would now have a ‘legitimate heir.’

Alexander reacted furiously, possibly throwing his wine cup. Philip, drunk, drew his sword against his own son and promptly slipped.

Alexander reportedly mocked him:

“Here is the man who prepares to cross from Europe into Asia, and he cannot even cross from one [chair] to another.”

The incident led Olympias and Alexander to leave the court temporarily. But the split forced Philip to reconcile publicly with his heir.

The following year, events took a darker turn.

At a wedding celebration, one of Philip’s own bodyguards assassinated him: Pausanias. Ancient sources believed that Olympias might have encouraged the murder, since Philip’s death cleared the path for Alexander.

Modern historians, though, remain sceptical. Philip had many enemies, and Pausanias already had personal motives for revenge.

What we do know is that Alexander became king, and Olympias moved swiftly to protect his claim. Philip’s newest wife and her child were eliminated, a brutal but typical act in the ruthless politics of ancient dynasties.

As Alexander set off on his extraordinary campaigns—conquering Persia, Egypt, and vast stretches of Asia—someone had to keep the homeland stable.

Officially, the regent was Antipater. In practice, Olympias remained a powerful presence. Records show large grain shipments addressed directly to her, suggesting she was functioning as a political authority. Religious patronage and diplomacy also flowed through her networks.

But the relationship between Olympias and Antipater was tense. Their rivalry grew so bitter that Alexander reportedly complained he was trying to conquer the world while the two of them fought through letters.

Then, in 323 BCE, Alexander died suddenly in Babylon.

The empire collapsed into chaos.

Olympias eventually returned to Macedonian politics to defend the rights of her grandson, Alexander IV, the infant son of Roxana.

Her final campaign was a dramatic one. She defeated rival forces led by Adea Eurydice, wife of Alexander’s half-brother Arrhidaeus, and ordered both executed.

But this victory made new enemies—especially Cassander, son of Antipater. When he returned with an army, Olympias found herself surrounded and eventually forced to surrender.

The queen who had once helped shape an empire now faced her own end…

We often remember Olympias as ‘Alexander the Great’s mother.’ But that description misses the complexities and nuances of her life.

She was a political actor in one of the most turbulent periods of ancient history. She navigated royal marriages, court rivalries, regencies, and military struggles in a world where people contested power through brutal means.

The ancient sources, written mostly by men centuries later, often portray her as manipulative, mystical, or dangerous. Yet the same sources acknowledge her determination, intelligence, and influence.

Without Olympias, Alexander’s path to the throne might have looked very different. And without Alexander, the cultural spread known as the Hellenistic Age—the blending of Greek and eastern cultures across vast regions—might never have occurred in the same way.

Her story also highlights something historians increasingly recognise: women in ancient politics were rarely passive figures.

Even when formal authority belonged to men, women like Olympias could shape events through alliances, diplomacy, and sheer force of personality.

She lived in a world that expected dynastic violence and political ruthlessness.

She simply played the game as fiercely as anyone else did.

History remembers Alexander the Great as a conqueror who changed the world.

But behind the legend stood a mother who navigated the dangerous currents of royal power long before he marched across Asia.

Olympias was ambitious, controversial, and deeply embedded in the politics of her age. She protected her son’s throne, fought for her grandson’s survival, and ultimately paid the price for that struggle.

Perhaps the final irony is that her life reads almost like a Greek tragedy, complete with prophecy, ambition, betrayal, and a dramatic end.

The question is: was she the villain of the story, the architect of a dynasty, or simply a survivor in a ruthless world?

Timeline.

  • c. 375 BCE – Born in Molossia (Epirus).
  • 357 BCE – Marries Philip II of Macedon.
  • 356 BCE – Birth of Alexander the Great.
  • 336 BCE – Philip assassinated; Alexander becomes king.
  • 323 BCE – Alexander dies in Babylon.
  • 317 BCE – Olympias returns to Macedonian politics.
  • 316 BCE – Executed after defeat by Cassander.

Did You Know?

  • Ancient writers claimed Olympias kept snakes for religious rituals connected to Dionysus.
  • Her son Alexander sometimes hinted he was the son of Zeus rather than Philip.
  • Olympias was nearly 60 when she led her final political campaign.

Olympias represented in this bas-relief in the imperial Pavlovsk Palace. Source.

Sources

attalus.org/names/o/olympias.html

britannica.com/biography/Olympias

thecollector.com/olympias-mother-alexander-the-great/

wikipedia.org/wiki/Olympias

facebook.com/groups/archeologyandcivilizations/posts/8792222190871227/

ebsco.com/research-starters/history/olympias

womeninantiquity.wordpress.com/2017/04/02/olympias/

nationalgeographic.com/history/history-magazine/article/queen-olympias-ancient-macedonia

herhalfofhistory.com/2024/12/26/14-2-olympias-mother-of-alexander-the-great/

medusaarchive.omeka.net/exhibits/show/biographies/olympias

Stories like that of Olympias remind us that the forces shaping history are rarely simple. If this glimpse into her life intrigued you, share your thoughts: Was Olympias a ruthless political strategist—or a mother defending her dynasty in an unforgiving world?

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See how Serena Williams became one of the all-time greats

See how Serena Williams became one of the all-time greats Serena Williams has announced she will be retiring from tennis after the 2022 US Open. CNN's Christina MacFarlane looks at her journey from teen sensation to being one of the sport's all-time greats. #Serena #Williams #alltime #greats

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