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The United States and Latin America: a turbulent history
Greg Grandin tells the centuries-long story of the United States of America's interventions across Latin America - from independence to the War on Drugs
Has the United States always seen Latin America as its ‘backyard’? And when did influence tip into intervention? In this episode, Danny Bird is joined by Yale University's Greg Grandin to explore the long, turbulent history of US–Latin American relations, from westward expansion and early regime change to gunboat diplomacy, corporate empires and the Cold War. Don't miss our new podcast series History Behind the Headlines: Briefing, in which we task expert historians with bringing you the history you need to make sense of the headlines – in five minutes or less.
Garry J Shaw explores the history of the world's most mysterious manuscripts
What do exploding bats and amphibious galleons have in common? They're both fascinating features of some of the world's most mysterious manuscripts, as revealed by journalist and author Garry J Shaw in his book, Cryptic. From Hildegard of Bingen’s secret language to the hoaxes of Renaissance Spain, and from John Dee’s angelic communications to the peculiar Voynich Manuscript, Shaw unravels the allure and enigma of texts shrouded in secrecy.
History’s 8 biggest land deals: how the US more than doubled in size – and why it agreed to leave Greenland alone
From the Louisiana Purchase to the sale of Manhattan Island, Piers Mucklejohn explores eight moments in history when vast swathes of land changed hands for money
The Alaska Purchase (1867) When the US banked an unexpectedly amazing bargain from Russia In 1867, the Russian empire made the US an offer that it could hardly refuse. Still reeling from crushing defeat in the Crimean War in 1856 and fearing that the British might seize Alaska to extend their power in the Pacific, it was desperate to offload that territory. At the end of March, less than a month after Russian envoy Eduard de Stoeckl began negotiations with US secretary of state William Seward, the sale was made. Seward’s expansionist desire to extend US territory, especially in the Pacific, spurred him on to negotiate all night. The transfer of Alaska was agreed at 4am on 30 March – 586,000 square miles sold for just 2 cents per acre, a total of $7.2m (equivalent to around $155m today). Contrary to popular belief, the purchase was generally supported by the public, though scornful commentary in some newspapers heaped criticism on “Seward’s Folly”. “We simply obtain by the treaty the nominal possession of impassable deserts of snow,” the New York Daily Tribune complained of the territory, much of which lies within the Arctic Circle. “We may make a treaty with Russia but we can not make a treaty with the North Wind, or the Snow King.” Beneath the snow, though, gold was discovered in the 1890s. There was oil, too – all in all, a hidden treasure trove of natural resources. The Alaska Purchase proved to be one of history’s most serendipitous land deals. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/01/2Danish-West-Indies-purchase-61b4fd3-e1769012728283.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A black and white photograph of a group of five men standing around a long, rectangular table" title="The purchase of the Danish West Indies is completed in 1917 with the transfer of payment. The US deemed these Caribbean islands vital to its natural security in the face of German U-boat threats" /> The US purchases the Danish West Indies (1917) This Caribbean deal took 50 years to finalise – and involved the US leaving Greenland to Denmark Before the US Virgin Islands took that name, they were owned by Denmark, which governed them from 4,500 miles away across the Atlantic – more than four times farther than the US. The Caribbean island of Saint Thomas was claimed in 1672 by the Danish West India-Guinea Company, which annexed Saint John in 1718, then bought Saint Croix from France in 1733. They were all taken over by the Danish crown two decades later. In the aftermath of the American Civil War, President Andrew Johnson came close to securing two of the islands, aiming to establish a refuelling and repair station for the US navy and bolster American dominance in the region. When the treaty was put before the US senate in 1868, though, it was never voted on. Read more | “The motors of the wagon train”: meet the forgotten women who upended gender norms to win the Wild West Come the First World War, the strategic importance of the islands to US national security was thrust into the spotlight. There were fears that Germany might use the Danish West Indies as a base from which to launch U-boats. Washington believed that possessing these islands was necessary to secure the Caribbean and protect the newly opened Panama Canal. And Secretary of state Robert Lansing made it clear to Denmark that the US might seize the islands by force. So in 1917, Denmark ceded the three islands to the US for $25m in gold (equivalent to around $630m today). Notably, as part of the treaty, the US declared that it would “not object to the Danish Government extending their political and economic interests to the whole of Greenland”. Four years later, Denmark formally declared their sovereignty over it. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/01/1Louisiana-Purchase-2GettyImages-3089766-d52cabc-e1769013870763.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A black and white illustration showing three men, two standing and one sat around a square table, looking at a large map" title="US envoys James Monroe and Robert R Livingston negotiate the 1803 purchase of the Louisiana Territory from France with Charles Maurice de Talleyrand. With France desperate for funds, the Americans were able to broker a bargain price (Image by Getty Images)" /> The Louisiana Purchase (1803) The deal that nearly doubled the size of the United States When the US bought the territory of Louisiana from France in 1803, acquiring some 828,000 square miles of land, the fledgling nation almost doubled in size overnight. President Thomas Jefferson had tasked fellow Founding Fathers Robert R Livingston and James Monroe – himself later president – with convincing French leader Napoleon Bonaparte to part peacefully with New Orleans, a major port on the Mississippi River, which was surrounded by that territory. French control of Louisiana from 1801 threatened access to New Orleans, which had become so crucial to US commerce as it expanded westwards, and the presence of French troops risked the outbreak of hostilities between the two nations. The rising tension sparked talk of war and secession among the president’s enemies in the opposition Federalist Party. It was, Jefferson related to a French ally, “the embryo of a tornado which will burst on the countries on both sides of the Atlantic”. But tensions dissipated quickly once Monroe arrived in Paris for negotiations in 1803. Napoleon instructed his ministers to sell the entirety of Louisiana for $15m – equivalent to around $430m today. Why so easy? The French leader desperately needed money to fund impending wars in Europe. Losing control of Saint-Domingue (now Haiti) to revolution by enslaved people, he was convinced to abandon his hopes in the New World. At about $18 per square mile, the US acquired that vast swathe of land for much less than its market value. Westward expansion across the continent soon surged as successive missions, most famously the Lewis and Clark Expedition of 1804–06, set out to chart the new territory. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/01/4Manhattan-PurchaseGettyImages-57068421-6dbb88d-e1769013946556.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A black and white drawing of a large group of Native Americans sitting around, facing a white man in a hat and cape, having a conversation over a box of goods" title="Peter Minuit, director-general of the Dutch colony of New Netherland, offers Native American Lenape people trinkets and clothes in 1626, negotiating the sale of what became known as Manhattan Island (Image by Getty Images)" /> The ‘sale’ of Manhattan Island (1626) New York’s earliest real estate deal – and its most misunderstood Today, New York City is notorious for extravagantly expensive property prices. So it’s ironic that, back in 1626, the 23-square-mile island known today as Manhattan was reputedly bought from Native American inhabitants by European settlers for beads and trinkets worth just a few dollars. After English explorer Henry Hudson, sailing under the flag of the Dutch Republic, came across what’s now called Manhattan Island in 1609, his employers set their sights on owning it. Manhattan lies on one of the world’s largest natural harbours. With easy access to the Atlantic Ocean and a large population of beavers, it seemed the perfect site for a permanent settlement from which Dutch merchants could cash in on the booming and lucrative North American fur trade. Read more | What was the global impact of the Napoleonic Wars? A few years later, the colony of New Netherland was established on North America’s eastern seaboard. By 1624, Dutch people were living in the lower part of Manhattan Island, establishing a settlement called New Amsterdam. To deter the British or French from making a claim to the land, in 1626 the colony’s director-general, Peter Minuit, officially purchased it from the Lenape people for a reported 60 guilders (the equivalent of $24). Despite the popular tale – that the island was sold for a small stash of trinkets – no official deed of the transfer is known to survive. Modern historians think that the Native Americans involved received clothing, weapons and metal tools from the colonists. They may also have assumed that the exchange was only temporary, or that it would allow joint use of the land. Those Dutch colonists didn’t hold onto Manhattan Island for long. In 1664, English forces captured New Amsterdam in a bloodless takeover, and gave the city a fresh name: New York. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/01/5RupertsLandMetis-peopleMixedbloodFurtrader1870-d7ac9f8-e1769014157808.jpg" width="317" height="413" alt="A photograph of a man in a furry black coat and a large black hat" title="A Métis fur trader – a man of mixed European and Indigenous ancestry – pictured in 1870. Many Métis and First Nations people rebelled when their Red River Colony was sold to the expanding dominion of Canada that year" /> Sale of Rupert’s Land (1869) The gigantic Canadian land grab that sparked conflict with Indigenous inhabitants One of history’s biggest land deals wasn’t between two sovereign nations but between a fur-trading company and the newly confederated country of Canada. The royal charter granted to the Hudson’s Bay Company by King Charles II of England in 1670 gave it a monopoly over Rupert’s Land, a vast territory spanning 1.5m square miles of North America. By the 19th century, the HBC was also the de facto administrator of the neighbouring North-Western Territory, which was only a little smaller. And when Canada – initially comprising Ontario, Quebec, Nova Scotia and New Brunswick – determined to expand westward in 1868, these lands stood in the way. So in 1870, the British government permitted the transfer of Rupert’s Land and the North-Western Territory to Canada at a cost of £300,000 (equivalent to around £45m today). But in Rupert’s Land, some 12,000 people living in the Red River Colony – most of them First Nations or Métis, of mixed European and Indigenous ancestry – were shocked to learn that, without any warning or consultation, their home was set to become Canadian territory. Many of them mobilised under the 24-year-old Métis leader Louis Riel, and drove away land surveyors sent by the Canadian government. These rebels then blocked the new lieutenant-governor, William McDougall, at the border, hoping to get assurances that their language, culture and land ownership would be protected. They later declared a provisional government presided over by Riel. Though the uprising was ultimately quelled, the rebels scored a political victory. Their colony joined Canada as the Province of Manitoba – having shown the authorities just how energetically local people might respond to land transfers. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/01/6AdamsOnis-Treaty--87c75ee-e1769014357899.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A large map, with yellow, green and pink colouring, with the words Treaty of Spain in the bottom left corner" title="A map shows the territory of Florida sold to the US by Spain in 1819. Conflict with native Seminole people in the region continued for nearly four decades. (Image by Albert Bushnell Hart, LL.D., The American Nation Vol. 14 (New York, NY: Harper and Brothers, 1906) - University of South Florida)" /> The Adams–Onís Treaty (1819) The deal that brought Florida into the US Floridians can thank this treaty, named after US secretary of state John Quincy Adams – a man with decidedly expansionist political leanings – and Spanish ambassador Luis de Onís, for their star on the American flag. With this agreement, inked in Washington, DC in 1819, the US acquired from the Spanish territory spanning some 60,000 square miles in the south-east of the continent. (Florida became a state in 1845.) In exchange, the US agreed to assume liability for $5 million worth of damage done by American citizens against Spain. It also renounced its claim to Texas, settling the western borders of the US, which had until then been vague and contentious. The US had already taken control of parts of Florida during a series of military clashes with the Seminole, a Native American people who regularly crossed the border to raid settlements in the neighbouring US state of Georgia. These US incursions hadn’t been made with the intention of capturing land, only to suppress that Indigenous people, whose willingness to welcome escaped enslaved people also irritated the US. Adams described Spanish Florida as “serving no other earthly purpose than as a post of annoyance” to the US. The acquisition of Florida, made effective in 1821, was only the beginning of US conflict with the Seminole, however. The heavily outnumbered Native Americans, who employed guerilla tactics, gave up fighting only in 1858. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/01/7Danish-Gold-CoastGettyImages-113631823-4378893-e1769014782870.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="An engraving showing a group of buildings, with a large flag with a cross on it standing in the middle of the buildings" title="Fort Christiansborg on the Danish Gold Coast, as it was in 1760. Now called Osu Castle, this bastion was first built in 1661 and used to hold enslaved people, but was sold to Britain in 1850 (Image by Getty Images)" /> Purchase of the Danish Gold Coast (1850) When Denmark ceded defunct slave-trading forts to Britain In March 1850, the UK bought the last forts and settlements in west Africa held by Denmark for £10,000 (equivalent to around £1.2m today). Denmark had annexed the area from the Swedish in early 1663, and the Danish Gold Coast occupied about 4,000 square miles in what’s now part of Ghana. That coastline came to be dotted with forts, most of them built in the 18th century. Read more | These three unsuspecting inventions won the American Wild West – but did they destroy it too? Known as ‘slave forts’, these bastions were commercial hubs used to hold enslaved people before they were loaded onto ships and transported away from Africa. After Denmark became the first nation in Europe to abolish that brutal trade in 1792 – though in practice, its abolition only came into effect from 1803 – the Gold Coast became increasingly unprofitable. Attempts to establish cotton, sugar and coffee plantations foundered, and all but one of the forts were abandoned in 1817. So why did Britain, which had abolished slavery in its own empire in 1834, choose to buy the colony and its forts in 1850? Partly, to expand its own influence in west Africa at the expense of France and Belgium, but also to tackle the illegal trade in enslaved people that persisted in the region. Between 1820 and 1870, British Royal Navy patrols seized more than 1,500 slave ships, freeing the 150,000 people held captive on board. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/01/8Gadsden-Purchase-GettyImages-484802529-b9ccc39-e1769014876920.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A painting showing three men overlooking a rocky landscape, with horses. The one closest to us is pointing towards the left" title="Surveyors map Mexican territory in what’s now Arizona and Mexico – land that will be transferred to the US with the Gadsden Purchase of 1853 (Image by Getty Images)" /> The Gadsden Purchase (1853) The deal that made a southern US railroad possible After nearly two years of conflict, in 1848 Mexico was forced to admit defeat and recognise US sovereignty over Texas, which that northern neighbour had annexed a year before the fighting began. It also ceded huge swathes of territory – totalling 529,000 square miles – across California, New Mexico, Utah and six other present-day states. But if Mexico thought that the US appetite for expansion had been sated, it was sorely mistaken. The US still didn’t possess the territory it needed to construct a southern transcontinental railroad route – it needed a little more in Arizona and New Mexico. Charged with obtaining land required, former army officer and railroad executive James Gadsden signed a first draft of the Treaty of Mesilla with the Mexican president in December 1853. Mexico was in financially dire straits and, some historians think, may have feared that refusing to sell up would have prompted the US to invade. By the next year, the US had acquired about 30,000 square miles of land for $10m (equivalent to around $380m today). Construction of the Southern Pacific Railroad began the following decade, though it was only completed in 1883. Piers Mucklejohn is a freelance journalist
Uncontacted peoples: why do nearly 200 groups choose to live outside 'civilisation'?
"These are the last humans who have stayed outside 'civilisation'", writes Michael Wood
A new report by Survival International, Uncontacted Peoples: At the Edge of Survival, is the latest accounting of the human story – and it is a historical document of unparalleled power. It reveals that at least 196 groups in the world are still uncontacted, most of them gravely threatened by logging, mining and drilling for oil. These are the last human beings who have stayed outside ‘civilisation’ since the violence of the West reached across the globe after 1492. The report cast my mind back 25 years to when we made a series of four films telling the story of the Spanish conquest of the Americas. Cortés, Pizarro, Orellana, Cabeza de Vaca: these were men who experienced some of the most incredible adventures in human history. We tracked them on the ground, following in their footsteps over the Andes, up Inca trails to lost cities, and rafting down the Amazon. The third film was especially powerful in its implications for the here and now, as well as the events of the 16th century. It told the story of the expedition led out of Quito in 1541 by Gonzalo Pizarro (younger half-brother of Francisco, who spearheaded the conquest of the Inca empire). Its goal was to find the fabled El Dorado – ‘the Golden Man’ – a mythical city of gold believed to exist somewhere in the jungles beyond the Andes. The city was, in fact, unfindable – because it never existed. In trackless terrain, the expedition ran into disaster: soaked by incessant rains, running out of food, the men were reduced to eating their horses and cooking their boot leather. Francisco Orellana pushed onward in a home-made boat to scout what lay ahead, but such was the speed of the river that he couldn’t make his way back to the rest of the men. Read more | “Indigenous Americans who travelled across the Atlantic were horrified by inequalities in European society” After untold sufferings, the survivors of the main army made it back to Quito nearly a year and a half later. Meanwhile, after many adventures, Orellana sailed eastward, navigating the entire length of the Amazon. He was the first European to see the interior of Amazonia at a time when the middle reaches of the river supported huge settlements. Then, from the mouth of the great river, he sailed back north to Trinidad, completing one of the most astounding stories of human endurance. On our journey, a parallel narrative unfolded. Down the main course of the Amazon, everyone told us that the water levels were fast receding. Climate researchers had just announced that, at the rate of climate change then observed, the Amazon forest would start to transform into savannah in 2042 – coincidentally, the 500th anniversary of the Orellana expedition. If that happened, the climate cycle would be broken, the weight of history literally tipping the balance. Along the route, we heard stories of indigenous peoples in the depths of the forest. In the river town of Coca in Ecuador, a man told us how, as a youngster, he had lived with the Waorani tribe before he moved to the town and learned Spanish. He told of the struggles of those who chose to stay out of the modern world. One group steadfastly refused all contact; another had killed US missionaries who had not respected their wishes to be left alone. For them, he said, the price of receiving the white man’s god was degradation, alcoholism, and the loss of their own language, culture and identity. Read more | Did Aztec civilisation really ‘collapse’? The reality isn’t as simple as you might think The Survival International report features the story of one such people, the Mashco Piro in the Madre de Dios region of Peru – perhaps the single largest remaining uncontacted group. Not long after our journeys for the Conquistadors films, haunted by the beauty and tragedy of Peru, I went back with my family. We stayed in the Manu region with local people who lived off the forests and drew sustenance from the river. Beyond them was a checkpoint and a protected region extending 100 miles to the Madre de Dios river where outsiders may not go – and where the Survival report shows the Mashco Piro still live. So I read the report, with its haunting photos, feeling a sense of profound sadness. The holocaust of indigenous peoples is almost complete. The pattern is the same across the world over the past 500 years: the taking of the land, the extermination of native people and the plundering of the environment, fuelled by white supremacy, evangelical religion, western diseases and sheer greed. And now, five centuries on from the conquest of the Americas, across the entire planet only a few thousand of our ancient brothers and sisters hang on – people who simply do not wish to be contacted. What does that say about us? This column was first published in the Christmas 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
From Churchill to Vietnam: protests that changed the world
With the police about to be given broader powers to tackle disruptive events, the right to protest is in the spotlight. Timothy Garton Ash and Katrina Navickas join Danny Bird to discuss the history of popular demonstrations
Danny Bird: What is a protest? What distinguishes it from a riot or a revolution? Katrina Navickas: A protest is often defined by law, making it a fluid and changeable term. In England and Wales, its meaning has evolved over time. The earliest legal definition dates to the 1714 Riot Act, which distinguished a riot from other forms of protest. The modern idea of a demonstration emerged in the 19th century alongside the rise of democratic movements. Protest came to mean people gathering publicly to make collective claims – a reflection of the growing concept of ‘the people’ and their role in politics. However, what counts as a protest still depends on context: the country, the circumstances and the legal boundaries of what is permitted in public spaces. Timothy Garton Ash: Historically, revolution was associated with violence, but modern protest is defined by nonviolent action. Think of Gandhi in India, the Civil Rights movement in the US, or People Power in the Philippines [in 1986, resulting in the overthrow of the Marcos regime]. The revolutionary events of 1989 in eastern Europe were particularly notable because they brought together nonviolence and revolution for the first time. In essence, protest is about people power – collective, peaceful demonstration as a means of change. What makes a protest ultimately successful? Is it timing, tactics, leadership or something peculiar to a moment in history? TGA: In the book I co-edited with Adam Roberts, Civil Resistance and Power Politics (OUP, 2009), we examined 18 cases over a century, from Gandhi to the more recent ‘colour revolutions’ in former Soviet and Yugoslav republics. One point is clear: protest alone is never enough. It requires favourable internal and external conditions to succeed. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/01/WHA0173278webready-6200492-e1767782763339.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A black and white photograph of a large crowd of people, standing together in white robes" title="Mahātmā Gandhi – shown on a peace march in 1947 during the partition of India – used nonviolent resistance to campaign for Indian independence and the end of British rule (Image by Topfoto)" /> For example, the 1989 revolutions succeeded where many Arab Spring protests did not because their surrounding circumstances were vastly different. Successful movements also have a clear strategy and they’re not merely expressions of anger or moral outrage. Effective protest involves understanding how to influence and divide those in power. Read more | The violent history of student protest KN: I often refer to the idea of critical mass, which is the point a movement gains enough public support to create real momentum. That usually depends on an ideological or belief shift, as well as favourable conditions. Successful protests often arise when the state is weakened – for instance, after wars or during major economic crises – creating opportunities to mobilise support. At such times, the forces of law and order may also be less capable of suppressing dissent. Even the strongest movement needs both structural openings and a sense among people that success is possible. Why does protest continue to make societies uneasy even in countries that pride themselves on free expression? KN: In Britain’s case, particularly in England and Wales, there was no statutory right to assembly or free speech until the Human Rights Act of 1998. Until then, the right to protest was effectively permissive rather than guaranteed. Throughout the 20th century, much of the legislation was designed to manage the far right and other regressive forces, which created tensions around freedom of speech and assembly. A key example came in 1936, with debates over whether Oswald Mosley’s British Union of Fascists should be allowed to march. Questions arose over who could prevent such meetings, particularly those held in private venues, and whether police had the authority to intervene based on what was said. These tensions persist today: the balance between protecting free expression and preventing disorder remains delicate. TGA: Even in the freest societies, freedom is never unlimited. The freedoms of speech and assembly are constrained; if they were not, we would encounter philosopher Karl Popper’s paradox of tolerance, where unlimited tolerance can ultimately destroy tolerance itself by empowering the enemies of democracy. In authoritarian regimes, the issue is simpler: governments fear protest because it allows people to speak and find their voice. The pivotal moment is breaking that barrier of fear. For instance, in autumn 1989 in Leipzig, two friends attended a demonstration against the East German regime. As they walked, more people joined at each street corner… 10, 12, 200, then 1,000. This ‘cascade effect’ demonstrates how critical mass can overcome fear, a prospect that terrifies authoritarian rulers: consider Romanian president Nicolae Ceaușescu’s facial expression when he realised that the crowd was openly booing him on 21 December 1989. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/01/GettyImages-2220408825webready-194c494-e1767783458422.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A photograph showing a group of people leaning over a large number of lit candles on the floor" title="A candlelit mass protest in Leipzig in November 1989. The Monday Demonstrations, as these nonviolent gatherings were known, played a crucial role in ending the rule of communism in East Germany (Image by Getty Images)" /> How fair is it to say Britain’s history is one of evolution rather than revolution? KN: I often blame the Victorians for the myth of steady, moderate progress. The story of peaceful reform in Britain ignored harsh realities faced elsewhere. For a long time, for instance, Ireland was treated as a testing ground for extreme policing, public order measures and restrictions on constitutional rights. Even within Britain itself, progress was rarely smooth. TGA: Protest always involves risk – putting your body in situations where you might be attacked or, in extreme cases, killed. Sometimes, violence from the state backfires, galvanising wider support. The Tolpuddle Martyrs and, in Ireland, the Bloody Sunday massacres both illustrate this. How has protest been legislated and policed throughout history? KN: In Britain, general public order legislation arrived relatively late. Historically, most laws targeted specific political or social movements rather than applying broadly. In the 19th century, measures focused on the Chartists, trade unions or suffragettes. Even in the 20th century, legislation was often aimed at particular crises: the 1936 laws addressed fascist and communist unrest in the East End of London, while measures in 1986 targeted striking miners or football hooligans. Recent legislation, including that of 2022–23, is broader in scope, but it still arises in reaction to specific groups dominating public attention – for example environmental and black rights movements. This reactive approach represents a continuity throughout British history. TGA: Authoritarian governments can invent almost any justification to suppress protest. In democracies, the situation depends on whether constitutional protections exist. In the US, the First Amendment protects free speech; in Germany, experience with two dictatorships has led to clear constitutional guarantees of assembly. The UK has no written constitution. Over the past 30 years, piecemeal legislation, often poorly drafted and confusing, has slowly restricted protest. How do the spaces in which protest occurs help to shape it? KN: All protest is, at its core, a claim to public space. Demonstrations are associated with squares, streets and civic areas – town halls, county halls and other symbolic sites. Protesters assert their presence as ‘the public’ within these spaces, often choosing locations of national significance such as Trafalgar Square, built between the 1820s and 1840s and long regarded as Britain’s foremost public space. Throughout history, protesters have deliberately occupied symbolic sites to challenge authority or reshape public narratives. In London, battles over access to Hyde Park were especially significant. Although political gatherings were banned there because it was a royal park, the Reform League’s demonstrations of the 1860s, in which supporters tore down fences to enter, forced change. Speaker’s Corner emerged from this as a legal compromise established by the 1872 Parks Regulation Act, designating a specific area where people could speak freely without permission. Even modern tactics, such as ‘locking on’, have historical roots: suffragettes chained themselves to the gates of Downing Street to demand visibility and access. From the 18th century to the present day, controlling the geography of protest has remained central to how the state manages dissent. Read more | Female activism: 10 remarkable protests from around the world TGA: Protests are also a form of political theatre, and public squares are their grand stages. Consider Tiananmen Square, the focal point of the Chinese protests in 1989. Or Wenceslas Square in Prague during the Velvet Revolution that same year, where 300,000 people gathered under the direction of Václav Havel – an actual dramatist turned leader – shaking their keys in unison to create an unforgettable sound. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/01/GettyImages-2186457134webready-3fb663a-e1767783864589.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A photograph showing very large crowds, holding up orange flags outside a large stone building with many windows and arches" title="Supporters of the opposition presidential candidate Viktor Yushchenko rally at the Maidan Nezalezhnosti in Kyiv in November 2004, after the election run-off was thought to be rigged against him (Image by Getty Images)" /> Similarly, Ukraine’s great protests have centred on the Maidan, Kyiv’s central square, during the Orange Revolution of 2004–05 and again in the Revolution of Dignity in 2014–15, when it became known as the Euromaidan. In each case, the physical setting of the central square of the capital has been vital to the drama and symbolism of protest. The suffragettes, who used violent tactics, are often lauded for having been on the ‘right side’ of history. What does this say about the way historical protests are perceived by posterity? KN: Groups such as the East London Federation of Suffragettes carried out more spectacular actions when moderate, peaceful wings were failing to make progress. This tactical shift in the early 1900s was also highly media-savvy. The suffragettes understood early mass media, staging stunts designed to capture newspaper front pages. Other actions targeted politicians or property: Winston Churchill, post boxes, shops. Because the suffragettes ultimately succeeded, their militancy is incorporated into the national narrative as justified. Movements using similar tactics that fail rarely achieve such recognition; the losers are often excluded from stories of national progress. History can move backwards as well as forwards, but there is a tendency to view the British story as progressive, where ‘winners’ are celebrated and ‘losers’ forgotten. This explains why suffragette militancy is accepted, while comparable violence – for example, during Irish campaigns for independence – is not seen as necessary. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/01/GettyImages-591947902webready-78185f2-e1767783995489.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A black and white photograph of a woman shouting amongst a crowd. A man dressed in a dark suit and hat stands next to her" title="Sylvia Pankhurst addresses a meeting of suffragettes in July 1913. The group made smart use of the mass media (Image by Getty Images)" /> TGA: So-called ‘freedom fighters’ who take up arms for independence are often celebrated as heroes if they succeed. History tends to memorialise those who eventually win, often decades after the events. An example is Oxford’s Martyrs’ Memorial, commemorating Protestant bishops who paid the ultimate price during the reign of ‘Bloody’ Mary and were celebrated only once their cause prevailed. In Czechoslovakia, the brave student Jan Palach set himself on fire in 1969 to protest the Soviet invasion. Today, Jan Palach Square commemorates his sacrifice – a recognition that would not have been possible if the country had remained under Soviet control. There is a particular category of hero here: the martyr, someone who literally gives their life for a cause. Such figures occupy a special place in these narratives, because their extraordinary courage and ultimate sacrifice have universal resonance. How important has social class been in the history of protest? KN: When asked about the most successful protests or campaigns, examples often include the abolition of slavery and the repeal of the Corn Laws in the 19th century. These movements were largely led by well-connected, relatively wealthy men and women who could exert influence in parliament. Their campaigns were single-issue, respectable, and financially supported, which allowed them to achieve legislative change. By contrast, working-class movements faced a far longer struggle to have their voices heard. Strict class hierarchies and limited resources made it harder to fund campaigns, influence policymakers, or sustain pressure. Yet, despite these constraints, working-class activists often achieved remarkable results with far fewer means than their wealthier counterparts, making their accomplishments all the more significant. TGA: Some protest movements are class-based, with the labour movement being the clearest example. However, protests tend to succeed most when they cross class boundaries and unite different parts of society, because rulers often employ a divide-and-rule strategy. A striking example is the Solidarity movement in Poland during the 1980s. This decade-long mass popular movement succeeded precisely because it united intelligentsia, workers and peasants. KN: This also marks a key difference in 20th century protests. In Britain and Ireland prior to the 1960s, movements were largely class-based, with the labour movement being the strongest. But protests then increasingly took the form of amorphous social movements, not tied to traditional party or trade union structures. These movements sought to connect local struggles with global causes such as environmental campaigns, the anti-Vietnam War movement, peace initiatives and anti-nuclear activism. They were typically more cross-class, framed as part of a wider global struggle rather than a narrow class-based conflict. TGA: One additional factor we haven’t discussed is age. There are striking examples of generational protest movements such as the one that swept across Europe in 1968, including Britain. Climate change activism has emerged as another. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/01/GettyImages-591947902webready-78185f2-e1767783995489.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A black and white photograph of a woman shouting amongst a crowd. A man dressed in a dark suit and hat stands next to her" title="Sylvia Pankhurst addresses a meeting of suffragettes in July 1913. The group made smart use of the mass media (Image by Getty Images)" /> What can today’s protesters learn from their predecessors? KN: That raises a central question: how do you organise against repressive regimes? One key factor is achieving a critical mass – breaking out of silos of class or generation and creating a large, united group capable of overcoming fear. This remains a core goal of any successful protest movement. TGA: It is vital to learn from history. For example, the Hungarian Revolution of 1956 was violently suppressed, and the Czechoslovak attempt to leave the Warsaw Pact in 1968 was met with Soviet invasion. By 1980–81, activists in Poland were far more cautious, learning from these experiences. There are several key lessons. First, maintain nonviolence. As the Polish dissident Adam Michnik warned: “Those who start by storming the Bastille may end up building their own Bastilles.” Nonviolence achieves more enduring results. Read more | Boston Tea Party: your guide to the protest that ignited a revolution Second, achieve a critical mass. Cascade effects and political theatre are essential, especially in the age of social media. A flash mob may appear impactful but, without sustained engagement, it disappears as quickly as it appeared. Third, develop a strategy. Clearly identify what you aim to change and how protest can effect that change. Non-violent movements succeed by targeting potential defectors within existing power structures – those who may be persuaded to switch allegiance. Protest has a promising future, but its lessons are best understood by studying the past. Timothy Garton Ash is Isaiah Berlin professorial fellow and professor of European studies at St Antony’s College, University of Oxford. His latest book is Homelands: A Personal History of Europe (Bodley Head, 2023) Katrina Navickas is professor of history at the University of Hertfordshire. Her books include Contested Commons: A History of Protest and Public Space in England (Reaktion, 2025) This article was first published in the Christmas 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
In 1756, a young Englishwoman was taken hostage by Barbary pirates. This is her story
Taken hostage by a Barbary ship’s captain in the 18th century, a young Englishwoman found herself fighting for her freedom in Marrakech. Adam Nichols introduces a brave captive who later wrote a book about her dramatic experiences
The Barbary corsair ship appeared suddenly on the horizon, bristling with cannon. Its decks swarming with armed men, it sliced through the waves at a clip that its quarry – the British merchant ship Ann – could not match. At that time, in the mid-18th century, such pirate attacks were violent, bloody affairs; if the Ann’s captain tried to resist, he would be risking the lives of his crew, his passengers and himself, and would likely see his ship sunk. He surrendered. The corsair captain swaggered aboard the British vessel without firing a shot, and surveyed his captives. He was one of the infamous Sallee Rovers operating out of Salé, on the Atlantic coast of Morocco, who sold any Europeans they captured into slavery. The captain ordered the Ann’s four passengers to be taken to his ship, along with the crew, who were chained up in the hold. One of the passengers was a young Englishwoman named Elizabeth Marsh, barely 21 years old. It is because of her that we know these details. She later published an account of her experiences: The Female Captive: A Narrative of Facts Which Happened in Barbary in the Year 1756, Written by Herself. The corsair attack occurred in August 1756, a few months after the beginning of the Seven Years’ War. Marsh’s father, an administrator for the Royal Navy, had moved his family from their home in Menorca to Gibraltar, which he considered safer. To further protect his daughter, he then booked her a berth on the Ann, which set sail for England in late July. Read more | Liquor, loot and death on the high seas: 5 things you (probably) didn't know about the history of pirates Marsh’s family aspired to be “respectable people”, and she had received a genteel education. The future planned for her was typical of young women of her position and era: to marry a well-to-do man and bear his children. Now, torn from that sheltered life, she faced a very different fate. As a young, attractive European woman, Marsh would have been a highly sought-after commodity in north African slave markets – one that any Moroccan sultan would be very interested in acquiring for his harem. The corsair captain kept Marsh isolated – not for her comfort but to keep her safe and unmolested. One of the other passengers, an English merchant named James Crisp, had been tasked by Marsh’s father with looking after her; he convinced the corsairs that he was her brother, so they permitted him to stay by her side. African captivity After a week at sea, the corsairs reached Salé. There, the British party was housed in a dilapidated building for several uncomfortable and uncertain days. Their situation was complicated. In 1750, England and Morocco had concluded a treaty of mutual cooperation, and were trading partners, with Morocco supplying beef to the British garrison in Gibraltar. However, the Moroccans found the treaty unsatisfactory, and had also been incensed by what they considered to be the disrespectful actions of a British emissary who had attended an audience with the sultan while wearing muddy boots. Marsh and her companions were, technically, hostages rather than outright captives. But the British feared that Sidi Mohammed ben Abdallah, the Moroccan sultan’s son and heir, might live up to his reputation and take an amorous interest in Elizabeth Marsh. And that is what happened. Marsh and her companions were taken to Marrakech, Sidi Mohammed’s home city – a journey of some 300 miles across rough, mountainous country. On the way, Marsh and Crisp received some advice from a friendly slave: they should now claim to be husband and wife. Sidi Mohammed was in his forties. His father was aging and sick, and Sidi Mohammed would soon inherit the sultanate. For all his power, though, he could not force Marsh into his harem. The Qur’an’s Chapter 4, Verse 24 decrees: “Forbidden to you are women already married, except those whom your right hand possesses” – that last clause being a euphemism for slaves. Marsh was not a slave so, if she and Crisp successfully maintained the fiction of their marriage, Sidi Mohammed could not take her for his harem. Before the acting sultan In Marrakech, Marsh was housed with the other English captives in a house in the town, hostages in the ongoing negotiations between the Moroccans and the English. She was quickly brought before Sidi Mohammed, though, alone and still dishevelled from her long journey. He grilled her about her marriage, observing that married English women customarily wore wedding rings – which she did not. Marsh declared that she had taken off her ring for safety during her voyage. He was not convinced, but he allowed her to depart and rejoin the other captives. At their next meeting, Sidi Mohammed – dressed in a pink satin vest with diamond buttons – presented Marsh with “a great collection of rarities” and told her that, as she recounted it, “he did not doubt of my preferring, in time, his palace to the confined way of life I was then in… and that the curiosities I had seen should be my property”. Marsh declined this offer. Sidi Mohammed, used to having his own way, was not pleased. But then something unexpected occurred. A woman who was in the room started talking to Marsh, using a phrase in Arabic and making encouraging gestures for her to repeat it, which Marsh did. “Too late,” she wrote, “I discovered that I had renounced (completely innocently) the Christian religion by saying in Morisco: ‘There is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is His prophet’.” Read more | Barbary pirates: the Muslim corsairs and their role in the slave trade Marsh was now in real trouble, having unintentionally recited the Shahadah – and thus converted to Islam. According to Qur’anic law, this automatically invalidated her Christian marriage to Crisp, making her fair game for Sidi Mohammed. The Prince, as Marsh refers to him, then resorted to threats. Here is her account: “Throwing off the mask he had hitherto worn, he cruelly informed me that I had renounced the Christian faith and turned Mohometan [Muslim], and that a capital punishment – namely burning at the stake – was, by their laws, inflicted upon all who recanted from... their religion. “The shock of this pronouncement was severe...I assured the Prince that, if I was an apostate, it entirely proceeded from my being tricked, and not from my own inclination, and that if my death would give him any satisfaction, I no longer desired to avoid that last and final remedy to all my misfortunes, for to go on living under the terms he proposed would only add to my misery. “The Prince seemed greatly perplexed by my resolute declaration, and, though he continued his importunities, yet it was now more with the air of a supplicant than that of a sovereign.” Marsh’s language does not really do justice to the drama of the situation. Sidi Mohammed, the second most powerful man in Morocco, threatened to have her burned at the stake if she refused to join his harem. Alone and defenceless, Marsh faced him down and dared him to do it. Baffled by such unexpected and indominable resistance, Sidi Mohammed capitulated and let her rejoin the other captives. Read more | Shipwrecked: the 18th-century looters who endured five months of hell Release and return The political tensions between Britain and Morocco were eventually resolved – in part by the arrival of a British warship – and Marsh and her companions, along with the Ann’s crew, were allowed to depart. Marsh returned to England, where she married James Crisp. However, Crisp went bankrupt and fled to India to try to revive his fortunes, leaving Marsh behind with two small children. Without any means of support, she went to live at her parents’ home in Chatham, Kent. Desperate for money, she resorted to writing a memoir of her captivity in Morocco. Marsh eventually joined her husband in India, where she travelled widely. She died there of breast cancer at the age of 50, surviving a mastectomy without anaesthetic but then succumbing to the disease. Her memoir, The Female Captive, is the first full-length Barbary corsair captivity narrative written by a woman in English. The book enjoyed some notoriety when it was first published but was never a bestseller, and only a single copy is known to survive. If that copy had disappeared, we would likely never know Elizabeth Marsh’s remarkable story. Marsh was not famous. She played no role in world events. Hers was a private life. Yet the courage she showed during her Moroccan ordeal is an example of how ordinary people can do extraordinary things. Adam Nichols is a historian and writer. His latest book is Corsairs and Captives: Narratives from the Age of the Barbary Pirates (Pen & Sword, 2024), featuring Marsh’s full account This article was first published in the Christmas 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine