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What was the greatest invention in history? 9 experts share their opinions
Our team of historians, broadcasters and authors name the discoveries that have transformed our world over the centuries
Writing Spreading the word – and nationalism Were it not for the invention of writing, I would be offering this answer via megaphone. Writing is nowhere near as old as humanity’s 300,000-year history, but it is old: the first writing system emerged in Mesopotamia around 3200 BC. Separate systems developed in Micronesia in the 1800s BC, Shang Dynasty China around 1300 BC, and in Mesoamerica after 900 BC. Although writing did not supplant oral tradition, it did dramatically extend the reach of communications, and allow groups to write down and diffuse their histories, ideas, lore and laws. The invention and refinement of writing changed the relationship between memory and record, as well as people’s sense of the reachable world. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/05/GettyImages-463913557-d97d4a5-e1778505236897.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A rectangular dark clay tablet carved with multiple rows of early cuneiform signs, including geometric shapes and pictographic symbols." title="An inscribed clay tablet from ancient Mesopotamia, where the first writing emerged around 3200 BC (Image by Getty Images)" /> Complex societies existed before and apart from the development of writing, but writing made societies easier to administer over distance. For better or worse, it allowed the development of bureaucracy. The esteemed political scientist Benedict Anderson saw it as fundamental to how communities understood themselves in place and time. He argued that the emergence of print media in the modern era – writing circulated fast and far – produced a simultaneity of experience that allowed people to see themselves as part of a cohesive community even when they could not encounter everyone in it. In other words, as set out in Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (1983), it allowed for the emergence of nationalism. That has had global consequences. Adriane Lentz-Smith, associate professor of history at Duke University Roman concrete Mixing things up to build bigger and better The Pantheon in Rome should not exist. Or, at least, not in the form we see today. Its perfect concrete dome, spanning 43 metres and pierced by a great oculus ‘eye’, still stands almost two millennia after it was poured, and remains the largest unreinforced concrete dome in the world. Step inside and you confront not only Roman architectural brilliance, but the single most transformative invention in Roman history: Roman concrete. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/05/dreamstime47961230cmyk-6d8637c-e1778505348927.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="The Pantheon’s interior showing its vast coffered dome with a central oculus, tall Corinthian columns, marble walls, and niches containing statues." title="The Pantheon’s dramatic dome was made from Roman concrete. “It was the foundation of an architectural revolution… that continues to astonish us today,” says Jess Venner (Image by Dreamstime)" /> Concrete itself was not a Roman discovery. Nabataean builders were using early forms of it as far back as 6500 BC. But around 300 BC, Roman engineers revolutionised the material by mixing volcanic ash (pozzolana) with lime and water, often transported from the Bay of Naples. This created a hydraulic concrete that could set underwater and, remarkably, grow stronger over time. The Pantheon’s immense, unsupported dome is the most dramatic advertisement of this achievement. It’s a structure that has resisted earthquakes, fires, invasions and centuries of continuous use, all thanks to the material’s durability. The material is even able to ‘self-heal’ when exposed to water. Once armed with concrete, Roman builders were no longer bound by the limitations of cut stone. They created vast basilicas, monumental bath complexes, sweeping amphitheatres such as the Colosseum, and harbours. Concrete turned Rome into a vertical metropolis of multi-storey insulae (apartment buildings), housing tens of thousands of residents. It also enabled the construction of aqueducts, bridges and warehouses to create infrastructure that stitched the empire together. Roman concrete was the foundation of an architectural revolution, one that shaped the physical world of the Romans and continues to astonish and inspire us today. Jess Venner, ancient historian, presenter and author Read more | The ingenious Roman invention that sparked the ancient empire’s obsession with luxury Antibiotics Antibacterial life-savers that transformed medicine Of all the incredible inventions that have benefited humanity over the centuries, none has been more important, or saved more lives, than the creation of antibiotic medicines. Before antibiotics you could die from even the smallest of infections: a paper cut could kill you. Women routinely died in childbirth, often from infection. Their children fared no better. In 1900, one in five children in the UK died before they were five years old. Many diseases had no cure. The biggest killer in the late 19th century was tuberculosis. It infected up to 90 per cent of the urban population in Europe and North America, and the only treatment for it was fresh air. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/05/GettyImages-1166918163-78a5d01-e1778505454293.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Several workers in light‑coloured uniforms and head coverings stand along an assembly line, inspecting and arranging rows of cork‑topped glass bottles in a factory setting." title="“According to one study, antibiotics have added an average of 20 years to our life expectancies across the globe,” says Keith Lowe (Image by Getty Images)" /> All of this changed with the invention of antibiotics. After sulphur-based antibiotics were first introduced in the US in the 1930s, deaths during childbirth dropped by a third, and deaths from scarlet fever by two thirds. The mass production of penicillin in the 1940s had even more impressive results. For the first time, silent killers such as tuberculosis could be completely cured – along with a whole list of other diseases too long to mention. According to one study, antibiotics have added an average of 20 years to our life expectancies across the globe. But one can have too much of a good thing. Because antibiotics were so effective, they were over-prescribed right from the start. Some bacteria are now developing resistance to our drugs. Unless we are careful, we risk a return to the days when a simple cough or a paper cut could be the prelude to something much, much worse. Keith Lowe, author of The Fear and the Freedom: How the Second World War Changed Us (Viking, 2017) The steam engine Hot stuff! History’s most pumped-up changemaker The invention of steam power was in many ways iterative, but the production of a steam engine by Baptist preacher and ironmonger Thomas Newcomen in 1712 was a transformative moment. Born in Devon, Newcomen was acutely aware of the problems of flooding in tin mines in the south west, and the first steam engine was designed to pump water out of the mines. In 1765, his design was refined by James Watt, who added a separate vessel for condensation. This meant an engine’s main cylinder could remain hot while steam condensed in a separate, cold chamber. As a result, machines could be both scaled down and made more powerful. Over the next 150 years, refinements were made and the principles of thermodynamics came to be further understood, paving the way for modern engineering and cosmology. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/05/GettyImages-152189276-f188a51-e1778505597214.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A labelled technical illustration of an early steam engine showing a brick housing, a boiler at the base, a vertical cylinder with a piston, and a large beam mechanism transferring motion." title="The invention of the Newcomen steam engine of 1712 was “transformative”, says Hannah Skoda (Image by Getty Images)" /> The steam engine, of course, powered the industrial revolution. Factories, trains and ships were all driven by steam power, and it ushered in political, social and cultural transformations. In many ways, steam facilitated Britain’s global dominance. Patterns of labour were turned on their head, and many courageously protested as they found wages lowered, inequalities exacerbated and capital concentrated in the hands of those who owned the technology. Hannah Skoda, associate professor of medieval history at the University of Oxford Read more | From family to factory: women's lives during the Industrial Revolution The World Wide Web The brainchild of Britain’s greatest surfer dude The most important invention of my own lifetime has been the World Wide Web. At university in the early 1990s, it was essentially the preserve of computing enthusiasts and science students. By the end of the decade, even the most dry-as-dust history professors had been persuaded of the benefits of Sir Tim Berners-Lee’s big idea. It’s easy to see why. As more of the world’s archives have been put online, research has been transformed out of all recognition. The most obscure book or article can be located in seconds. Voluminous texts that would have taken months to wade through can be searched in an instant. Information and ideas can be shared in real time between scholars working on opposite sides of the globe. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/05/GettyImages-52102864-6b6cc1d-e1778505703326.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A beige Apple desktop with a CRT monitor, keyboard, and wired mouse, showing an early Netscape‑style browser open to a webpage about the British monarchy." title="The internet has transformed research “out of all recognition”, says Marc Morris (Image by Getty Images)" /> Alas, in the past decade or so, we have seen the downsides. A tool designed for the sharing of information can also be used to spread misinformation. Algorithms are tweaked so that the truth is suppressed and propaganda is promoted. Malevolent actors can rig elections, distort polls and even topple governments. The internet has led to measurable increases in division, racism and fascism. Will the good outweigh the bad? Right now, as was famously, but mistakenly, said of the French Revolution, it is too soon to tell. Either way, when historians of the future are asked to name transformative inventions, the World Wide Web will be towards the top of their lists. Marc Morris, medieval historian, writer and broadcaster The printing press How movable type moved the world’s discourse The invention of the printing press by a German goldsmith, Johannes Gutenberg, around 1440, changed the world forever. Modelled on the humble screw press, an innovation from the Roman era initially used to crush grapes and olives, the new, movable printing press could produce up to 3,600 pages per day, compared to 40 by hand-printing and a few by hand-copying. This sparked a printing revolution that spread from Gutenberg’s workshop in Mainz to more than 200 cities across Europe. By 1500, more than 20 million books had been produced by the new printing presses, and during the 16th century their output rose to an estimated 150–200 million copies. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/05/gr0078412H-e137cf8-e1778505874704.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A historical pamphlet cover featuring a woodcut of a peasant holding a sword and a goose, standing beside a sack, with a ribbon bearing a short phrase above and blocks of German text printed below." title="300,000 copies of Martin Luther’s tracts were distributed, “sparking the Reformation”, says Tracy Borman (Image by Topfoto)" /> The invention of the printing press coincided with a sharp rise in learning and literacy among the middle classes, which in turn led to an increased demand for books. Traditional medieval scribes simply couldn’t have kept up. Arguably the greatest impact of the printing press was the democratisation of knowledge. People across society now had ready access to ideas and information. Debate and dissent followed. From 1518–20, 300,000 copies of Martin Luther’s tracts were distributed, sparking the Reformation. The English Civil War, American and French revolutions, industrial revolution and the spread of the scientific method had their roots in the dissemination of ideas and information that printing facilitated. Tracy Borman, author, historian and broadcaster Read more | How William Caxton printed the first-ever book in English The Socratic method The philosophical creation of a questioning mind A mode of philosophical enquiry may not sound too exciting, but the Socratic method was a new way of seeking knowledge. As pioneered by the man who gave the approach its name, the fifth-century BC Athenian philosopher Socrates, it involved one person outlining a belief or assumption, and then another person asking questions about the belief in order to ascertain its truth or nature as fact. By asking questions, the elements of the original belief or assumption could be challenged, updated, refined and reissued – leading to a better, more factual and more truthful understanding of an issue. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/05/dreamstime260216686cmyk-f203522-e1778506013250.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A marble bust of an older man with a full beard and mustache, carved with realistic facial features and draped clothing, displayed in front of vertical wooden panels." title="Socrates pioneered “a new way of seeking knowledge”, says Michael Scott (Image by Dreamstime)" /> It sounds pretty straightforward, but the Socratic method was a game-changing approach to enquiry. It defined philosophical approaches to the nature of knowledge and truth for centuries – and still does today. Not that his method did Socrates himself much good. His habit of always asking questions annoyed the great and the good of Athens – often because those questions showed them up as not knowing much about what they claimed to know about. He was put on trial for moral corruption and impiety. According to Plato, part of Socrates’s defence was that he was the mýops or ‘gadfly’ of Athens. Yes, he was irritating and easy to swat, but his constant questioning helped guard Athens against complacency. Socrates, history records, was sentenced to death. Michael Scott, professor in classics and ancient history at the University of Warwick The railway The future comes down the tracks Historians of the 19th century are spoiled for choice when it comes to world-changing inventions. Technologies such as the telegraph, phonograph, camera, light bulb, bicycle and internal combustion engine all transformed everyday life. Yet one development stands above the rest: the railway. The world’s first standard gauge, steam-hauled public railway, between Stockton and Darlington, opened to passengers in 1825. Over the following decades, Britain was gripped by ‘railway mania’, as enormous sums of money were invested in rapidly laying thousands of miles of track. Other countries quickly followed suit. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/05/GettyImages-179807387-bdbd9b4-e1778506325241.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="An early steam locomotive moves along a railway line as people in 19th‑century dress watch, including a rider on horseback carrying a flag and passengers in open train cars." title="After the world’s first public railway opened in 1825 between Stockton and Darlington, “Britain was gripped by ‘railway mania’”, says Bob Nicholson (Image by Getty Images)" /> The arrival of the railway had a huge economic impact. It propelled the industrial revolution by allowing goods, raw materials and people to be transported both more quickly and more cheaply. It also accelerated the spread of news and information, carrying letters and newspapers across the country at unprecedented speeds. Its impact even extended to timekeeping, leading to the adoption of standardised national ‘railway time’, replacing local sundials. The effects were not limited to industry and commerce. Railways enabled people to travel further for leisure, fuelling the growth of seaside resorts such as Brighton, Blackpool and Scarborough, whose beaches filled with legions of day trippers. At the same time, the rise of railway commuting reshaped patterns of living and created new markets for publishers. Some enterprising magazines even targeted regular travellers by offering free life insurance schemes, paying out to families of readers killed in railway accidents, provided they were carrying that week’s paper when they died. In short, the railways didn’t just change the way we travelled, they transformed how we lived. Bob Nicholson, writer, broadcaster and historian at Edge Hill University The mouldboard plough A farming tool pulled by animals There can only be one choice and it’s the sexiest invention imaginable: the mouldboard plough. You’re probably getting hot under the collar already, but try to control yourself. Simple scratch ploughs were fine for the light, gravelly soils of the Middle East and around the Mediterranean. But it was the mouldboard plough, first developed in China more than 2,000 years ago, that would revolutionise farming. There are strong arguments for connecting the mouldboard plough to the population growth and urbanisation in northern Europe, especially between 900 and 1300 AD. The advantage of the mouldboard plough was that it could cut long strips of soil and turn them over as it moved along the field. In the wet, heavy soils of northern Europe, this was hugely beneficial. The new ploughs improved drainage and buried weeds deep. This led to increased productivity and economic growth. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/05/GettyImages-1326283282-bc923b6-e1778506398628.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A weathered wooden plough with a curved guiding handle, a metal blade, and a simple metal frame, shown as an example of early farming equipment." title="The mouldboard plough led to “increased productivity and economic growth”, says Eleanor Barraclough (Image by Getty Images)" /> The mouldboard plough was also heavy, and needed a large team of animals – oxen, horses – to pull it. This eventually led to more community-based farming. This in time would lead to the manorial system, which might be summarised as one bigwig at the top, many smallwigs below. Today, it’s still possible to see evidence of the mouldboard plough’s impact in fields that are no longer used for crops: the ghostly outline of lines and dips known as ‘ridge and furrow’. Being married to a fellow early medieval historian, our road trips are an absolute riot. We squeal, “RIDGEANDFURROW!” whenever we clock that distinctive corrugated pattern, while our children groan in the back of the car. Eleanor Barraclough, historian, broadcaster and author of Embers of the Hands (Profile, 2024) This article was first published in the April 2026 issue of HistoryExtra Magazine
Medieval family planning: meet the strong-willed women who redefined motherhood in the Middle Ages
In the Middle Ages, the bearing and raising of children defined women’s lives. But as Elinor Cleghorn explains, there were women who had other ideas and boldly challenged attitudes towards motherhood
In the winter of 841, a Frankish noblewoman named Dhuoda decided to compose a book of life advice for William, her eldest child. Since 824, when she married, Dhuoda had been living in Uzès, a town in southern France. Her husband, Bernard of Septimania, was a duke and military guard with family ties to the ruling dynasty of the first Carolingian emperor, Charlemagne. Almost two and a half years after their marriage, they welcomed their “most dearly desired first-born son”. As Dhuoda began writing to William, she pictured how he would hold her book when it was finished, how he would touch and turn its pages. Fifteen years earlier, William had issued “forth out of [her body] into the world”. Now, as he was leaving childhood behind, the lessons issued from her hand to his, from her body to his, would guide him towards adulthood. Dhuoda named her book Liber Manualis, Latin for handbook – literally translated as ‘hand-held book’ – and she hoped William would keep it with him always. As well as a collection of advice about how he should serve God, live virtuously, overcome hardships and be an honourable man, the Liber Manualis was a channel through which she hoped they would remain connected. For Dhuoda would not be there in person to care for William as he grew up. The Carolingian empire, as Dhuoda noted, was “in the midst of much agitation and discord”. Charles the Bald, son of Emperor Louis the Pious, and his half-brothers had been embroiled in civil wars over lands and succession for years. In June 841, after Charles won a bloody battle, Bernard, who fought against him, appeased Charles by offering his son William as vassal. Back in the spring of 841, Dhuoda had given birth to their second child, a boy. Bernard was a contentious figure with many enemies so, for his newborn son’s protection, he had him removed from his family home and taken to Aquitaine. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/0752743-354aa37-e1776414834828.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A medieval illuminated manuscript shows a veiled religious woman with a halo seated and writing in a book. She wears blue and brown robes against a gold background, with decorative blue-and-white border patterns on the left." title="A 13th-century depiction of Hildegard of Bingen. Though she never had children of her own, the German abbess took on the role of mother to her spiritual community (Image by Topfoto)" /> Dhuoda, under Bernard’s orders, remained at home in Uzès. She was lonely and fearful for her children, but there was nothing she could do. Bernard, as father and patriarch, determined the fates of his sons. Dhuoda, as a woman, a mother, had no such right. Composing her handbook, which she hoped William would show to his younger brother one day, was a way for Dhuoda to process her grief by mothering from afar. “I am somewhat ill at ease and eager to be useful to you,” she explained as her handbook began. Through the act of writing, she was sustaining her bond with the children she had birthed and nurtured. “Even though I am absent in body, this little book will be present,” she wrote. Little is known about Dhuoda’s life other than the details she gives in her handbook. But like so many medieval women, her existence was defined by bearing and raising children. As a woman of noble birth who married into aristocracy, Dhuoda’s principal duty was to provide her husband with heirs. But, regardless of class or circumstance, womanhood in medieval Europe was synonymous with motherhood. Carrying, birthing and caring for children was viewed as a woman’s natural purpose. By virtue of the female body’s reproductive biology, mothering was assumed to be irrefutably inscribed into a woman’s being. Marrying a man and bearing his children was often the only way for women to ensure their safety and security. In addition, at least for those who were married, becoming a mother garnered respect, both from women’s families and wider society. A perilous undertaking But while motherhood did afford many women status and stability, it could leave them vulnerable. Children were assumed to be the legal property of their fathers, and mothers such as Dhuoda had few parental rights. To become a mother in the first place, women also had to navigate the dangers of pregnancy and birth. Pregnancy losses and stillbirths were sadly commonplace, and 15–30 per cent of babies died before their first birthdays. Childbirth was a leading cause of women’s deaths. Much of what we know about the experiences of medieval mothers is gleaned from records of childbirth rituals, medical texts detailing midwifery practices, and even in accounts of life-saving miracles that reportedly happened during dangerous births after a would-be mother or her caregivers prayed to a saint for protection. Of course, medieval motherhood went beyond giving birth. But there are few sources available today that reveal what caring for and raising children, through infancy and beyond, felt like and meant to women themselves. Dhuoda’s Liber Manualis, intimately addressed in her first-person voice to her beloved son, is one of the only surviving texts from the early Middle Ages to describe the duties of mothering and the emotions of motherhood in a woman’s own words. As well as their many domestic duties running households and tending to their families, mothers were recognised in medieval culture as being responsible for nurturing their children’s souls and spirits. For Dhuoda, the responsibility she held for guiding William’s faith was sacred, and she was determined to do her duty to him regardless of the distance between them. Dhuoda was educated and literate, and she wove her knowledge of scripture, Christian doctrine, natural science and ancient philosophy into her lessons. Read more | Marvellous medieval medicine: why their curious cures were better than you think Medieval women were expected to remain modest, and Dhuoda admonished her thoughts as those of an “unworthy woman”, a “frail vessel” and a “feeble... shadow”. But she was steadfast in her belief that, as a loving mother, no one was better qualified to teach her child how to become a good man. “My son, you will have learned doctors to teach you,” she wrote, at the end of the first chapter of Liber Manualis. “[But] they are not of equal status with me, nor do they have a heart more ardent than I, your mother, have for you.” Dhuoda saw herself as “twice a mother to [William], both in soul and in body”. Mothers’ ability to serve as their children’s moral and religious guardians was certainly related to their intimate physical connection. Parallels were drawn between the bodily nourishment a mother provided during pregnancy and while breastfeeding, and the spiritual nourishment of her tutelage and guidance. But while women were respected for creating and sustaining new lives, their reproductive bodies were still believed to be steeped in shame. The Bible decreed that Eve, the first woman, was responsible for unleashing sin into the world. To atone for her wrongdoings God commanded that all women suffer in childbearing and maternity. Women existed to ‘go forth and multiply’, but the agonies they endured while doing so were punishments for their inherent sinfulness. Through the model of Mary, motherhood become associated with salvation. Yet Mary was exceptional because, unlike all other mothers, she became pregnant and gave birth without any of the corruptions of sex, blood or pain. Spiritual motherhood The highest state of womanhood, according to medieval clerics, was achieved not by biological mothers, but by those who committed to lifelong ‘virginity’ and devoted themselves to God as nuns and abbesses. The religious culture of the Middle Ages denigrated the physical processes of childbearing and held biological mothers to strict moral standards. But, by elevating the significance of motherhood beyond the body, it also enabled women to be mothers in ways that were not confined to marriage or tethered to domesticity. By adopting the role of spiritual mothers, some medieval women gained rare opportunities to lead, think, create and write. Three centuries after Dhuoda wrote her handbook, Hildegard, a German abbess of the Benedictine order, established a new women’s monastery, the Rupertsberg, on top of a hill near the town of Bingen in the Rhineland. Hildegard was born in 1098 as the youngest of 10 children. She was tithed to the church by her noble parents. Aged just 14, she became a nun and retreated into a cloistered cell in the Disibodenberg monastery in Germany’s Rhineland-Palatinate region, which later expanded into a convent. In 1136, she was appointed magistra, or mother superior, at Disibodenberg, and 14 years later she moved with the nuns over whom she presided to the Rupertsberg. Hildegard’s life was full of hardships and privations, but she was devoted to guiding and teaching her spiritual family. “I exercised the care of my daughters in all things necessary for their bodies and souls,” she wrote. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/default-9ed4fca-e1776350598918.jpg" width="620" height="413" alt="An old woodcut-style illustration showing a woman in labour seated in a small room, supported by one woman standing behind her while another kneels in front as a midwife. All three wear early modern European clothing." title="A medieval woodcut shows a mother-to-be on an obstetrical chair. Hildegard of Bingen celebrated women’s role in childbearing and motherhood (Image by Wellcome Images)" /> In her work as the primary caregiver of her community, Hildegard showed how the strongest maternal bonds could be forged beyond biology. As she guided her daughters in prayer and taught them scripture, she also showed that the work of mothering was as much about the cultivation of minds as the nurturance of bodies. Hildegard claimed to have experienced visions from God since childhood, but she kept them secret for fear of being branded a heretic. When she was 42 and suffering with illness, she was called by a “voice from heaven” to reveal what she had seen and heard. Alongside running her monastery and tending to her daughters in spirit, Hildegard began to write about her visions. The year after she moved to the Rupertsberg she completed Scivias, the first of three illustrated volumes of her theological insights, and soon she became a prolific composer of hymns, poems and music. It was also at the Rupertsberg that Hildegard wrote two medical treatises. Causes and Cures dealt with the creation of the world and the human body’s place within it, while Physica described the healing properties of plants, herbs, animal substances and earthly elements. In medieval Europe, monasteries often provided healthcare to people in need. At Disibodenberg, Hildegard tended to medicinal plants in the gardens and assisted in the infirmary. In the library, she immersed herself in Latin translations of Greek, Roman and Arabic medical and botanical discourse. Although she had never experienced biological motherhood, her role as a caregiver to women’s bodies and souls inspired her to think compassionately about their physical experiences as child-bearers and infant nurturers. Read more | Medieval influencers: 4 women who brought change to the Middle Ages While she believed that women who didn’t devote themselves to God were created to be subject to men and to mother their children, she also countered some of the more misogynistic ideas promoted by Christian doctrine, and concerned with women’s reproductive, maternal and sexual bodies. She wrote of Eve as the “first mother” rather than a tempted deceiver. She described menstrual blood as the “vital force” through which women brought forth offspring as trees bear fruit. She honoured the work women’s bodies did to sustain the growth of a foetus, give birth and produce milk to nourish infants. She even celebrated women’s sexual pleasure and wrote one of the earliest descriptions of the female orgasm. The monastic sphere was one of the few places where medieval women were afforded the time, space and resources to cultivate their own communal, creative and intellectual lives. But Hildegard’s extraordinary contributions to religious culture, medicine, science and art, which she achieved because of her role as a maternal caregiver, mark her out as a truly path-breaking medieval mother. The privileged few The breadth of education Hildegard received as a nun and abbess was only available to a privileged few. Most medieval women received no education beyond domestic skills, basic literacy, and religious instruction when they were young, and many were not granted opportunities to pursue lives of the mind as they grew up. Once they married and became mothers, the burden of their household and care-giving duties rarely allowed them to read and study. Among the vast numbers of women who needed to provide for their children and families, it was rarer still for mothers to sustain their livings as writers and thinkers. But after being widowed in 1389 and becoming the sole provider for her children, Christine de Pizan, an Italian-French writer, found a way to do just that. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/gr0029518H-02fbea9-e1776350670610.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A medieval illustration showing a robed figure in a tall white headdress gesturing toward an armoured person holding a staff. Between them is a table with an open book, a closed red book, and a small writing box, set in a room with a lattice window and decorative arches." title="The writer Christine de Pizan – shown (left) in a 15th-century manuscript illumination – was a source of inspiration for mothers across France (Image by Topfoto)" /> Born in Venice in 1364, Christine wanted to pursue learning from childhood. She was encouraged in this by her father, a physician and astrologer who served in the royal court of Charles V in France. When she was 15, she was married to Etienne du Castel, a secretary and notary to Charles V, and they went on to have three children. After Etienne died of plague, Christine faced financial strife because of complications with the sales of her late husband’s estate. Instead of opting to remarry to ensure her and her family’s security, she decided to support her children, along with her own mother and a niece for whom she was also responsible, on her own. She began her career by writing lyric poems, and soon she was composing ballads and poetic narratives for wealthy patrons in the royal court. In the 10 years after her husband’s death, Christine became France’s first professional woman of letters. As a working mother, she studied independently and wrote prolifically. In 1405, she wrote the book that has assured her legacy as one of history’s most important proto-feminist thinkers. The Book of the City of Ladies celebrated notable historical women and countered centuries of ingrained misogynistic arguments claiming women were weak, incapable of thought, prone to vice and dependent on men. That same year, Christine also wrote The Treasure of the City of Ladies, in which she advised women of all social classes and circumstances – from peasants to royalty – on how to become fulfilled, resilient and useful in their roles as wives and as mothers. Christine wished for the text to be read and shared widely by “valiant ladies and women of authority” the world over. She achieved this dream decades after her death when the advent of print meant her books were published and distributed widely. Read more | From Joan of Arc to Brigitte Bardot: meet the trailblazing women who shaped French history During her lifetime Christine gained unprecedented recognition and her influence continued for centuries. For some mothers, her work also became a guiding light. Anne de Beaujeu, Princess of France and elder daughter of Louis XI, owned a copy of Christine’s Treasure, and it inspired her to write a book of lessons for her own daughter Suzanne, who was born in 1491. About 25 years earlier, The Book of the City of Ladies graced the birthing chamber of Elizabeth of York, Duchess of Suffolk, at the Oxfordshire home of her mother-in-law, Alice Chaucer. This was because Chaucer made sure the room where Elizabeth would give birth to her third child contained books that reflected her and Elizabeth’s maternal expertise as teachers and guides. Women lost to history Though the majority of medieval women were mothers, few had the ability or opportunity to reflect on their mothering lives in writing. The voices of the many who lacked the privilege of education and literacy are lost to history. But, through the writings that survive, we can see that motherhood was then as nuanced and multifaceted as it is today. Dhuoda, Hildegard of Bingen and Christine de Pizan represent the breadth of those meanings and experiences. Even in their socially and biologically ordained roles, women still found ways to take control of their lives. And they achieved this in a male-dominated world where women, as mothers, often had little freedom to determine their destinies. Dhuoda continued to be a mother despite being separated from her children. In doing so, she left a moving, curious and revealing account of her relationship with her son – and with herself. Hildegard’s awesome achievements showed what was possible when the work of mothering transcended biology. Christine proved that motherhood was no impediment to women becoming providers and independent thinkers. All three of these women created their own concepts of motherhood. Despite social, financial and ideological barriers, they mothered on their own terms. Elinor Cleghorn is a feminist cultural historian, writer and researcher. Her latest book is A Woman’s Work: Reclaiming the Radical History of Mothering (W&N, 2026) This article was first published in the April 2026 issue of HistoryExtra Magazine
Would you eat a mummy to cure a disease?
Why, in the past, did people eat bits of dead body? And what sort of ailments were they believed to cure? HistoryExtra's Elinor Evans explains more
Why, in the past, did people eat bits of dead body? And what sort of ailments were they believed to cure? During the early-modern period, corpse medicine became a widely accepted practice throughout Europe. From the blood of the dead to the ground-up remains of mummies – and even, in Ancient Rome, fresh body parts – throughout history human bodies have been treated as potent remedies. Drawing on expertise from historians including Dr Richard Sugg and Dr Campbell Price, HistoryExtra's Elinor Evans traces the history of this chilling historical practice. View Green Video on the source website Read more | Early-modern cannibal doctors: why mummified corpse was considered medicine
This surprising medieval medical belief still shapes how we think about wellness
As familiar notions suggest, medieval medicine was influenced by herbs and humours. But these factors were part of a broader holistic system in which emotion and lifestyle were also considered essential to staying healthy
Judged against the standards of modern medicine, the Middle Ages can seem like a time of ignorance; an era when healthcare was based on crude remedies and superstitions. In reality, medieval healthcare was built on a broad – but, in its own way, sophisticated – understanding of how the body worked that placed emphasis on a combination of physical, emotional and spiritual wellbeing. Much of this thinking drew on ancient Greek and Roman medical traditions, particularly those associated with Hippocrates and Galen, whose works were preserved and studied throughout the medieval period. But how did the religion of the Middle Ages factor into this understanding? Indeed, as historian Katherine Harvey explains on the HistoryExtra podcast, many medieval thinkers treated religion and medicine as two parts of one system. Religion and medicine in the medieval healthcare system “I think it’s really important that although we see religion and medicine as two different things, they didn’t,” explains Katherine Harvey. “It was very much two overlapping ways of understanding the world and understanding your body.” Religious practice shaped attitudes towards behaviour – from diet and fasting to sexual intimacy and daily routines – all of which were understood to have direct consequences for physical health. For example, fasting wasn’t only a spiritual discipline, but also believed to regulate digestion and bodily balance, while sexual restraint was associated with notions of conserving vital bodily energies. Therefore, Harvey says, “it was quite usual for a physician to prescribe both medical and spiritual remedies; to give you a bottle of medicine, but also a charm to use.” Read more | Kill or cure? 10 medieval medical practices and their effectiveness In the later Middle Ages, there was also “a preoccupation with the idea that the body is God’s creation,” Harvey explains. And this had important implications. This imbued maintenance of the body with a moral responsibility, too. “You’ve got a spiritual duty to look after it,” Harvey says, “as well as a selfish one to try and keep yourself healthy.” Evidently then, everyday religious practices were deemed to have medical significance. “They see things like going to church, confessing, or having religious images in your house as things that are good for your soul,” Harvey explains. “They’re good for you spiritually, but they’re also good for your mental health, and therefore your physical health. It all ties up.” Pilgrimage, too, could be understood in this way. It was both a spiritual journey, and a means of restoring health through movement. The medieval mind–body connection Central to medieval medicine was the idea that the body and mind were deeply interconnected; that “your physical, spiritual, and mental health was intertwined,” Harvey says. While this differs from modern scientific frameworks (particularly in its emphasis on the impact of religious belief on physical health) the underlying principles are distinctly recognisable. “There’s a lot of evidence that they worried about a lot of the same things that we do,” Harvey notes. In particular, medieval thinkers believed that emotional states could directly influence physical health – a principle that has become a key tenet of 21st-century wellness. “They worried about things like anger management,” Harvey explains. Anger was believed to heat and dry the body, disrupting its balance and potentially leading to illness. This concern was rooted in humoral theory, which held that the body contained four humours – blood, phlegm, yellow bile and black bile. The balance of these could be disrupted by emotional as well as physical factors. Harvey points, for example, to Ælred of Rievaulx, an English Cistercian monk and writer who complained that the pressures of his role (including disrupted sleep and constant responsibility) were contributing to his illness. “He says that he’s ‘going to die’ if he doesn’t stop doing his job,” she says – a feeling that might be familiar to anyone with corporate stresses today. “They talk a lot about melancholy. They worry about keeping their minds active in old age,” Harvey says. The Black Death Member exclusive | Listen to our six-part podcast series on how the Black Death shook the Middle Ages Listen to all episodes now Joy as medieval medicine If negative emotions could harm the body, the belief was also that positive ones could protect it. “Negative emotions shorten life, whereas joy ‘moistens’ the body,” Harvey explains. This led to a surprisingly familiar set of recommendations. “They encourage people to listen to music, to spend time with their friends, to wear nice clothes, read books – all the things that we still like doing.” Read more | What was life like in a medieval town? A historical A-Z However, moderation remained important. It was thought that “you can die of too much joy,” Harvey notes. But in general, cultivating happiness was seen as a form of preventative medicine. “Joy, being happy, is very much good for your health, and the things that make you happy are good for you.” Courtly culture, festivals and communal gatherings all played a role in sustaining this sense of joy, reinforcing the idea that emotional wellbeing was socially – as well as individually – maintained. Managing fear in a time of crisis These ideas became especially significant during periods of widespread crisis, such as during the Black Death of the 14th century. Specifically, medieval authorities became concerned about the psychological effects of constant exposure to grief. “They get very worried that the world is very depressing,” Harvey says. The fear was that this overwhelmingly negative emotional climate could make people more vulnerable to illness. In response, some communities took striking measures. “There are places where they actually ban mourning garb or funeral bells so as not to frighten people too much.” While medieval medicine certainly didn’t have access to modern scientific knowledge, it was far from simplistic. It recognised that health depended on a complex interplay of a person’s physical condition, emotional state, lifestyle habits, and spiritual wellbeing. And while the underlying explanation for this was framed in religious and humoral terms, its crucial insight was that the way we live, think and feel has a profound impact on our health – a centuries-old principle that still chimes with how we try to live today. Katherine Harvey was speaking to Charlotte Vosper on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.
Katherine Harvey reveals the ways in which medieval people thought about their bodies and minds, and how they tried to live long, healthy lives
In reality, were medieval people dirty and covered in mud? What did they think were the healthiest things to eat? And how often did they think they should be having sex? Speaking to Charlotte Vosper, Katherine Harvey reveals the practical, and somewhat surprising, ways in which individuals in the Middle Ages cared for body and mind – from food and sex to hygiene and even going to the toilet.
Inside a Roman villa: luxury life in ancient Britain
HistoryExtra’s Rachel Dinning and Kev Lochun introduce the underfloor heating, fine mosaics and elegant rooms of Chedworth Roman Villa in Gloucestershire, that reveal the surprising luxury of life in Roman Britain
Step into one of the grandest Roman homes ever discovered in Britain, and explore the secret luxuries of Roman Britain, as we head inside Chedworth Roman Villa in Gloucestershire, now in the care of the National Trust. HistoryExtra’s Rachel Dinning and Kev Lochun introduce the underfloor heating, fine mosaics and elegant rooms that reveal the surprising luxury of life in Roman Britain. You’ll hear how this countryside retreat functioned, who lived here, and what it tells us about wealth, identity and culture under Roman rule. With thanks to all at Chedworth Roman Villa View Green Video on the source website
Toilets through time, from sponges on sticks to medieval privies
What was it like to do your business in a Roman communal toilet? How did Romans really use a sponge on a stick? HistoryExtra's David Musgrove explains all
In this whistle-stop tour of how our ancestors have used the loo, HistoryExtra’s David Musgrove heads to the National Trust's Chedworth Roman Villa in Gloucestershire, to see what we can learn from the most universal of all experiences. With expertise from historians Hannah Platts, James Wright, Tracy Borman and Jerry White, he explores the ins and outs of how toilets have worked through time – from innovations in carrying away our waste to a remarkable ancient edict that demanded flatulence. View Green Video on the source website Find out more about the history of toilets in our podcast mini-series, when Musgrove revisits long-past lavatories in the company of leading historical experts to uncover what we can learn about our ancestors and their eras – from the sociable long-drops of Roman Britain and draughty medieval garderobes to the cesspits of the Victorian slums.
The ancient Greeks had six essential tips for health. How many do you do?
With conflicting advice and endless new trends, it can feel hard to keep up with the modern health and wellness space. But ideas about how to live a healthy life are nothing new. Thousands of years ago, the ancient Greeks had their own list of requirements
Wellness might feel like a modern concept, attached to health-tracker apps, screen time, and green smoothies. But the concept of actively trying to lead a healthy life while keeping the body in a good state isn’t new. In fact, systems of preventative health stretch back more than 2,000 years to the medical traditions of the ancient Mediterranean world. Speaking on the Life Lessons from History series from the HistoryExtra podcast, Sasha Handley, a professor of early modern history at the University of Manchester, says there used to be a “fantastic preventative healthcare culture” based on advice that dates back to ancient Greece. As she sets out, there was a list of six lifestyle factors and behaviours that physicians, medical practitioners, and ordinary people alike knew they had to take care of for their long-term health. These were the ‘six non-naturals’ and the ancient Greeks believed that “temperance of all of those six things was key to long-term good health, according to the wisdom of the time” says Handley. The term “non-naturals” described factors external to the body that could be managed or regulated, as opposed to “naturals,” which were the body’s innate characteristics So what were these six factors, and how much do they align with modern thinking? Fresh air The first non-natural to look after was fresh air – that is, “getting enough of it and making sure that you were not taking in fetid or corrupt air,” Handley says. The Greeks thought that ‘bad air’ could cause disease and advocated for good airflow within houses to lessen exposure to stagnant air. Read more | Meet the people the ancient Romans and Greeks desperately tried to hide Today, we know there is no singular concept of ‘bad air’. But there are pollutants in the air that can be hazardous to people, and we do know that some diseases are airborne. Food and drink It was considered important that a person was “eating and drinking the right kinds of things for [their] bodily constitution, but also at the right times of day,” Handley says. Theories about what was good to eat and when were based on the four humours: blood, phlegm, yellow bile, and black bile. Different foods being either cold or hot, or wet or dry, affected the balances of the four humours in the body, which led to different outcomes for people’s health and constitutions. For example, someone believed to have an excess of “heat” might be prescribed cooling foods such as cucumber or lettuce. Galen, a Greek physician and philosopher whom the idea of the six non-naturals is attributed to, thought that warm food led to the production of yellow bile, while cold food led to the production of phlegm. Galen practised in the second century AD and became one of the most influential medical authorities in history. Read more | If ancient Romans didn't understand calories, how was their theory of nutrition so accurate? Now, our understanding of food and diet is more scientific. But we do know that some specific nutrients have particular health benefits; protein helps to contribute to maintaining muscle mass, while vegetables can be a source of different micronutrients and vitamins. Exercise and rest Getting enough exercise and rest was also believed to be important. Exercise was seen as having a drying effect on the humours, and physicians recommended exercises to patients both to prevent and treat disease. The body, in humoural thought, was constantly shifting in balance; movement was one of the tools available to correct excess moisture or sluggishness. Galen thought work and exercise were equal, defining them as vigorous movements that made you out of breath. The exercises that he prescribed to his patients, though, were more moderate. He recommended exercises that involved a small ball. Watch now | Why the Ancient Egyptians WEREN'T ancient Massage and baths were also seen as having a similar effect to exercise, something that would be echoed in wellness modern wellness trends centred around saunas, sports massage, and cold plunges. Sleep and waking Sleep and dreams were important parts of ancient Greek philosophy as well as their medical knowledge. Dreams were deemed to be evidence of the state of the body, and therefore were helpful in diagnosing medical issues. But they were also important within ancient Greek religion. The ancient Greeks believed that the gods could communicate via dreams and that sleep had healing properties through its link with the gods. We might not bring up our dreams in doctors’ offices these days, but research increasingly shows the powerful health impact of sleep on physical, cognitive, and emotional health. Recent studies show that getting enough sleep can be associated with lower rates of chronic diseases such as dementia, diabetes, and heart disease. Excretion and retention The fifth non-natural “sounds fairly graphic, but it’s excretion and retention,” Handley says. “This refers to bowel habits, but also to things like sweating appropriately and keeping the body at the right temperature.” It was thought that excretion, in all its forms, helped keep the four humours balanced. If one humour accumulated excessively, it could be expelled through sweating, urination, bleeding, or purging. Bloodletting in particular became a standard treatment in later medical traditions influenced by humoural theory. Read more | Blood, guts and spectacle: 6 shocking events from the history of ancient Roman gladiators Although we don’t think about regulating our excretions in terms of bloodletting and purging like the Greeks did, the increasing awareness of gut health – and therefore its impact on the bowel – is perhaps a modern descendant of this idea. Passions of the mind “The very last one is usually called the passions of the mind, which we read today as emotions,” Handley says. “So emotional health, making sure that you were not getting too angry, too sad, and keeping your mind and body in a good balance.” Different emotions were associated with excesses of the four humours, so keeping your emotions in check contributed to your humoural balance. Too much blood might make you too happy and too much phlegm might make you too reserved, while too much black bile might make you melancholic and too much yellow bile might make you angry. Read more | Give away your worries, like an ancient Mesopotamian Clearly this idea links to our modern understanding of mental health – especially now we know that physical health and exercise are linked to mental health. How similar are the non-naturals to ‘wellness’ today? Nowadays, we think of ‘wellness’ as separate from ‘health’. Where health is the absence of disease, and wellness is a more general emotional and physical wellbeing that we can influence via lifestyle factors. The ancient Greeks thought the same. Health was seen as the responsibility of individuals to regulate their non-naturals to look after their own health, and maybe even avoid having to see a doctor. Read more | Are you healthier than a Roman? These ancient secrets for longevity are still shockingly relevant There was an element of taking personal responsibility for good health, leading to the idea that bad habits could cause certain diseases. But the six non-naturals also worked in tandem with the ‘naturals’ – or the innate factors that we have no control over that also cause disease. Today, we see things similarly: some diseases and conditions are caused by lifestyle factors, whereas others develop independently of how we live. And just like modern ‘wellness,’ ancient Greek health was about more than just the body, too. Medical knowledge was intertwined with ethics, morality, politics, and philosophy – which is why many of the most famous Greek physicians, such as Galen and Hippocrates, were also philosophers, and many philosophers also mused on issues of the body. The ancient Greeks actually thought that achieving perfect health was essentially impossible since it required a precise balance of the humours, which changed every day. Instead, a ‘neutral’ body was the goal – something that doesn’t necessarily align with modern ideas on health optimisation and biohacking. Dr David Musgrove was speaking to Sasha Handley on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.
The overlooked history of Muslims in Europe
Tharik Hussain speaks to Danny Bird about the long but often overlooked and distorted history of Muslims in Europe – and the enduring resistance to its reappraisal
Danny Bird: You open your book by recounting a chance visit to an old mosque in Cyprus. What was so significant about that moment? Tharik Hussain: Nothing changed for me on the day itself, because I knew very little about Islam’s history in Europe at that time. On a long, cheap layover in Larnaca – a place I’d never heard of – I was simply looking for a way to pass the time with a toddler in tow. I’d found a brief reference to a nearby mosque, and decided to visit. At the time (2003), I was preparing to make hijrah – to leave Britain, because I felt that I no longer belonged. My education had led me to believe that there was no meaningful Muslim history in Europe. So when we arrived at this neglected Ottoman-era mosque at the Hala Sultan Tekke, I had no framework for understanding it. The elderly guide didn’t speak English, and neither of us knew what we were looking at. What unsettled me was a tomb inside the mosque, which clashed with the theological outlook my wife and I held at the time. We left, dismissing the place, though the guide handed us a small booklet as we went. Two years later, while working as an English language teacher in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, I rediscovered the booklet. To my shock, it claimed that the tomb belonged to a relative of the Prophet Muhammad – his maternal aunt, Umm Harâm. That completely overturned my belief that Europe had no real Islamic history, let alone connections reaching back to the Prophet’s own family. When did Islam first come to Europe? If we look at the very beginnings of Muslim presence in Europe, it’s striking how quickly it arrived. Within 20 years of the Prophet Muhammad’s death in AD 632, Muslims were present in places such as Cyprus and, later, Sicily, establishing themselves far more quickly than Christian or Jewish communities had done in the continent. Some of these early arrivals, including members of the Prophet’s family, were then buried in Europe, their tombs becoming sites of ziyara (pilgrimage), holding great spiritual significance. Medieval sources document these tombs as being attached to a mosque, and highly revered. That period also marked the creation of the first Muslim navy. Initially, ambitions to launch a maritime expedition to Cyprus were met with caution, because Muslims had previously conquered only overland territories. After persistence and strategic negotiation, the naval expedition was allowed. Umm Harâm accompanied her husband on that mission, and she died during the campaign. This acquisition of Cyprus and establishment of a naval presence were pivotal, securing Muslim control of the eastern Mediterranean and enabling subsequent campaigns across Greek islands, Sicily, Malta, Portugal and Spain. Far from being minor raids, these early campaigns were foundational to the long-lasting Muslim presence in Europe. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/CR65R8webready-ae14d6f-e1770821971435.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="An 18th-century painting showing a bearded man in red and gold robes sitting atop a white horse. Under the horse are several men being trampled. The background shows a blue and white sky" title="An 18th-century painting of Saint James ‘the Moor-slayer’ turning the tide in the legendary battle of Clavijo – a myth created centuries after the supposed clash (Image by Alamy)" /> Why do you think that the history of Islam’s presence in Europe has for so long been hidden or even denied? There are several factors, as I suggest throughout the book. Put simply, in the long contest between Christendom and Islam in Europe, Muslim powers – the Umayyads in Iberia, later dynasties in the south and, latterly, the Ottomans – eventually ‘lost’. As the aphorism goes, winners write history. From the crusades onwards, anti-Muslim narratives grew in tandem with a developing exclusionary ‘European’ identity in Christendom. In the regions I discuss, these later fed into the Spanish Reconquista story and anti-Ottoman rhetoric to develop what I call an anti-Muslim DNA that runs through western European identity. National legends such as Santiago Matamoros [‘Saint James the Moor-slayer’, patron saint of Spain] or the ‘tribute of 100 virgins’ myth [the false narrative that the Christian kingdom of Asturias had to pay such a tribute annually to the Muslim emirate of Córdoba] helped cement these attitudes, as did countless local stories in areas that once had Muslim communities. This isn’t always the result of deliberate design – it’s a common human pattern – but the effect is undeniable. I also refer to the erasure and neglect of Islamic heritage – sometimes through omission from history books, sometimes through archaeological indifference, and at other times through misrepresentation. In places such as the Alhambra in Spain, later European romanticism or orientalist projections have distorted how that history is presented. Even today, popular historians often reinforce these old tropes. Read more | Step onto the medieval Silk Road and you'll witness its intense wonders – and its hidden horror That’s why, after I first visited Larnaca, I was shocked to realise how much had been excluded from the history I’d grown up with. Even academic works often reflected a strongly Eurocentric perspective. To counter this, I draw heavily on Muslim sources, and occasionally Jewish ones, which offer a very different picture: richer, more nuanced and far more appreciative of these moments in European history. Ultimately, whether we are comfortable admitting it or not – and I include myself as someone educated within this system – an anti-Muslim thread shapes our sense of European identity. Take the Balkans: this region is full of indigenous European Muslims, full of Islamic heritage, yet we instinctively place it outside ‘real’ Europe and label it ‘eastern’. People often blame the Iron Curtain, but the region was being othered long before communism, largely because it was the heart of Ottoman – and, therefore, Muslim – Europe until quite recently. All of this is part of the same 1,400-year story. In telling it, I use the Islamic calendar intentionally, beginning with the first Muslim presence within Europe around AD 647. How does the historical record debunk the notion that Islam, rather than being ‘foreign’, has in fact been an integral part of European history? What’s striking is that, regardless of the period, long Muslim presences in Europe – 800 years in Spain, 500 in Portugal, more than 200 in Sicily – are still described as ‘invasions’. It’s an odd way to characterise communities who, over centuries, became as Spanish or Portuguese as anyone else. We would never describe the European presence in modern America as an ongoing ‘invasion’, yet traditional historians have spoken this way about Muslims in Iberia and, later, the Balkans. Whether the initial arrival of Muslim armies is seen as invasive or not, the people who lived there afterwards, and whose descendants still live there, were not invaders. When I began examining these histories from alternative perspectives, especially Muslim and Jewish sources, a more complex picture emerged. Take the Muslim arrival in Iberia. When Tariq ibn Ziyad crossed into the Visigothic territories from north Africa in 711, one neglected factor is the role of the local Jewish population [in Iberia], who were enduring severe persecution. Some Jewish historians suggest that those people actively sought Muslim support. There is certainly evidence that Muslims and Jews cooperated: the 17th-century scholar Ahmad al-Maqqari records that, when Muslim forces captured major cities such as Córdoba, Granada and Toledo, they often left the local Jewish community in charge – a sign of both trust and local collaboration. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/P9GMRXwebready-c14b821-e1770821776100.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Medieval-style illustration showing two seated figures beneath stone arches. On the left, a bearded figure in purple and red robes sits on a throne with a small dove near his shoulder; on the right, another bearded figure in tan clothing sits holding a sheathed sword across his lap, both facing slightly toward each other against a pale parchment background." title="A 14th-century miniature depicts Roderic, the usurper Visigothic king of Spain, and Tariq ibn Ziyad, who led the Muslim forces against him in 711 (Image by Alamy)" /> From Jewish and Muslim perspectives, the arrival of Muslim rule could legitimately be seen as a liberation, given the conditions the Jewish communities had endured under Christian Visigothic rule. What followed was a celebrated period of coexistence – even a Jewish ‘Golden Age’ – in what became known as al-Andalus. Yet conventional European history insists on framing this as a conquest, which later justified the narrative of the Reconquista created by northern Iberian Christian realms – a narrative made even more curious by the fact that many leading figures of the so-called reconquest were descended from people who came from outside Iberia altogether. One of the most evocative parts of your book deals with what you term the ‘Córdoban Caliphate Culture’ – a world of poetry, architecture and science. What was this civilisation really like? It’s hard to summarise briefly, but this was a period of extraordinary scientific, philosophical and cultural achievement unlike anything Europe had seen. Lost Hellenic works returned to Europe through Muslim scholars who flourished in centres such as Córdoba, Palermo, Kairouan [in what’s now Tunisia] and, later, Cairo. Córdoba, in particular, became the intellectual heart of this vast cultural sphere. What’s remarkable is how widely these advances spread. They shaped not only Muslim societies but also Europe long after the caliphate fragmented. Yet this influence is still rarely acknowledged. Figures such as Ibn Sina [known in the west as Avicenna], al-Razi and al-Zahrawi were central to this transformation. Al-Zahrawi’s Kitab al-Tasrif (The Method of Medicine), published around the year 1000, described sophisticated surgical procedures, including draining fluid from an infant’s brain and treating migraines, at a time when England was still relying on remedies from ‘leechbooks’ and folk cures. His work covered surgery, orthopaedics, ophthalmology, dentistry, pathology and childbirth, and remained authoritative for centuries. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/BAL3085389webready-fe4d4ea-e1770822370370.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="An 18th-century miniature depicting three men wearing white and red turbans sitting together. On the left is a man with a long beard wearing a green robe, sitting crossed legged on a wooden bench. Behind him, another man wearing a blue robe stands, looking over the scene. To the right, another man dressed in red robe holding a horizontal stick with a basket on each end" title="An 18th-century miniature from what’s now Turkey shows treatment for smallpox based on Ibn Sina’s earlier writing (Image by Bridgeman Images)" /> Equally influential was Ibn Sina’s Canon of Medicine, which synthesised Greek knowledge with Arabic scholarship and became a foundation of European medical education. In philosophy, Ibn Rushd [Averroes] made Aristotle accessible, earning the byname ‘the Commentator’. Muslim scholars didn’t simply preserve knowledge – they expanded it and pushed it forward. Read more | Marvellous medieval medicine: why their curious cures were better than you think The cultural impact was just as striking. Ziryab (Abu al-Hasan ’Ali ibn Nafi), arriving in Córdoba from Baghdad like a rock star in 822, revolutionised etiquette, cuisine and music. Under his influence, Europeans adopted table coverings, cutlery, crystal glassware, three-course meals and refined dining customs. These innovations spread across the continent. All of this helped sow the seeds of the Renaissance, from which the Enlightenment eventually emerged. When you trace the intellectual lineage backwards, you find it leads directly to this era. Comparing medieval Córdoba to the cities of northern Europe, the 20th-century author Victor Robinson captured the contrast perfectly: “Europe was darkened at sunset, Cordova [sic] shone with public lamps; Europe was dirty, Cordova built a thousand baths; Europe was covered with vermin, Cordova changed its undergarments daily; Europe lay in mud, Cordova’s streets were paved; Europe’s palaces had smoke-holes in the ceiling, Cordova’s arabesques were exquisite; Europe’s nobility could not sign its name, Cordova’s children went to school; Europe’s monks could not read the baptismal service, Cordova’s teachers created a library of Alexandrian dimensions.” It’s a vivid reminder of just how brilliant this period truly was. When did Europe’s erasure of its Islamic past begin – and what drove it? The construction of an anti-Muslim identity in Europe began with the crusades, when papal calls urged Christians to unite against what was depicted as an infidel presence. In Spain, this sentiment gained momentum with narratives such as that of Santiago Matamoros, who was said to have miraculously appeared on a white horse to help Christians defeat Muslims at the mythical ninth-century battle of Clavijo. This legend emerged only in the late 12th century – long after the supposed battle. Another powerful myth was the aforementioned ‘tribute of 100 virgins’, in which the king of Asturias allegedly sent 50 noble and 50 common virgin girls to Umayyad rulers each year. Both narratives became central to emerging Spanish cultural identity, appearing in festivals and plays. To this day, many Spanish churches have statues depicting Saint James slaying Muslims. Through such myths, imagery and ritual, these narratives reinforced anti-Muslim sentiment and helped shape what became a modern Spanish identity. If you could sneak a few more pages into every European history textbook, which stories or people would you add first, and why? One of the most fascinating figures is Abd al-Rahman III, the first Umayyad ruler in Iberia to declare himself caliph. His story begins with the massacre of the Umayyads by the Abbasids in the Middle East in 750, in which his great ancestor Abd al-Rahman I was the sole heir to survive. Abd al-Rahman I fled first to north Africa, where he gathered support, crossing into southern Iberia a few years later. Drawing on the legacy of his family, in 755 he defeated the governor of al-Andalus and then established himself as emir Abd al-Rahman I, with Córdoba as his capital. Over subsequent generations, his descendants gradually extended Umayyad control over most of the Iberian peninsula. By 929, his great-great-great-great-grandson Abd al-Rahman III felt powerful enough to declare himself caliph – a bold move in a period when the Abbasids in Baghdad and the Shia Fatimids in Tunisia also claimed that title. He built the magnificent city-palace of Madinat al-Zahra – sometimes called the ‘Versailles of Muslim Spain’ – as a statement of his caliphate. He was of European descent, with white skin, blue eyes and reddish-blonde hair – so much so that he reportedly dyed it black to appear more ‘Arab’. His personality and appearance add another layer to his intriguing character. Read more | Divided they fell: how war, revolution and sectarianism led to the end of the Ottoman empire Are you optimistic that both Muslim and non-Muslim readers in Europe can embrace this shared heritage together and foster a fuller understanding of its past? I’m tentatively hopeful because more people today are willing to revisit accepted historical narratives. The challenge is undoing 1,400 years of anti-Muslim European storytelling and recognising the Muslim contribution to European culture often mislabelled as ‘Judaeo-Christian’. That term itself is misleading, given the repeated persecution of Jewish communities by historical European Christians while many found safety in parts of Muslim Europe. Acknowledging these shared histories could slowly shift perceptions, but it will take immense effort, courage and time. Many are uncomfortable with the idea that Europe is as Muslim as it is Christian or Jewish, reflecting the deep-rooted othering of Islam in European identity. Historians who challenge widely held narratives, such as David Olusoga or Sathnam Sanghera, often face significant hostility. Speaking openly about these histories requires resilience because it challenges beliefs central to people’s sense of identity. It’s urgent, though, because leaving Muslim contributions out of mainstream European history has allowed Islamophobic sentiment to flourish, giving contemporary far-right rhetoric room to portray Islam and Muslims as a ‘foreign’, invasive presence rather than a long-standing part of European culture – a myth repeated even in recent public demonstrations. Tharik Hussain is an author, historian and travel writer. His latest book is Muslim Europe: A Journey in Search of a Fourteen Hundred Year History (Viking, 2025) This article was first published in the January 2026 issue of HistoryExtra magazine
How did people understand pregnancy BEFORE modern medicine?
HistoryExtra’s Ellie Cawthorne took a brief look back at the wonderfully strange, surprisingly clever and occasionally downright bizarre history of pregnancy
What did people in the past do to not only diagnose pregnancy, but to ensure the health of mothers and babies in the nine months before birth? To find out, HistoryExtra’s Ellie Cawthorne took a brief look back at the wonderfully strange, surprisingly clever and occasionally downright bizarre history of pregnancy – it's a far from comprehensive but fascinating snapshot into this subject. View Green Video on the source website