How to Confront Historical Lies
This is an opinion piece outlining a best practice of how to read interpretations of the past, and how to confront falsehoods.
The study of history is like any scientific endeavor—subject to change when new facts arise. The discovery of new facts can lead to different ends. In the event that nothing was known about the topic until that new piece of information was discovered, the immediate result is string of new theories assembled by various historians each with their own background and emphasis.
The discovery of a new fact can also alter previous theories by unveiling oppositions to assumptions or presumptions. An assumption is to accept something as true without proof, whereas a presumption is to accept something as true without knowing for certain. Both are often employed in the study of history, but the area where differences in interpretation arise is precisely in that difference between proof and certainty. What does this mean?
In both scenarios—before one can even make an assumption or presumption—a narrative has to already be in place to facilitate further interpretations. For example, a charter mentioning a friendly discourse between Emperor Frederick I and his cousin, Duke Henry the Lion, may not mean much to someone unfamiliar with the rest of the story. Yet those more familiar with the layers of familial competition, political posturing, and disregard that the two often showed one another will likely read deeper into the charter. A solitary fact or piece of evidence is not sufficient to construct a narrative.
A collection of facts are required to construct a theory, or what the Germans call a roter Faden (red thread), indicating the points of connection between the various facts at hand. Thus, the facts must first be sought out before the theory arises, which in the case of a scholarly work, requires frequent visits to archives and libraries.
Why is this being discussed today? Because there are a multitude of narratives regarding the Middle Ages—or any topic for that matter—that are based upon a set of facts, yet many of the ‘facts’ are not facts at all!
Half-Truths
It is a common error to make a claim about an event with absolute confidence without actually knowing the facts. I have fallen into this trap before, and I presume many of my readers have as well. It often follows within a discussion about a topic I know quite a bit about, but then a question arise from a related topic, but rather than admit I know nothing, I am tempted to give an informed response nevertheless.
This sort of response goes by another name: politics. We all play the game, on our own level and often without serious consequences. Answering as a politician—i.e. without actual knowledge of the topic that can be proven by presenting actual work done on that topic—is no better than presenting a half-truth. Although in this case, the only noticable truth is that the politician is serious about his or her confidence to reply regardless of the content.
Therefore, it is important for historians to not act as politicians, leave hubris at the door, and speak only when properly informed. It is perfectly fine to say, “I don’t know” and even better to say, “I will find out.” The main obstacle in historical discourse is the hubris of relying upon one’s own knowledge bank as the definitive source, when in fact, everyone’s memory is subject to alterations and gaps.
The same applies to interpretations written about the past: the ‘definitive’ interpretation can always be upended by a newly discovered fact. A good example would be the narrative of barbarian hordes pillaging their way through the major western European cities in the 5th century AD. The narrative is built around the assumption that the Germanic tribes were determined to destroy Rome, and the presumption that they succeeded in doing so.
How can one put this interpretation to the test? By simply saying the opposite? The fact is, many of the written sources from the 5th century Romans depict the invaders ranging from the Visigoths, to the Huns, to the Vandals as hellish fiends seeking to blot out all life. With regard to the Italian peninsula, that isn’t an unfair assessment. But was it everywhere the same?
Excavations in the major cities in the Roman province of Gallia that later became the heart of the Merovingian territory do not show ash layers—the archaeological equivalent of a smoking gun. Ash layers within the stratigraphy of excavated soil indicate fire or some sort of destruction. Their presence tells a vivid story, sometimes corroborating the written sources, but their absence tells an equally important tale.
Discovering the absence of ash layers, while the written sources depict an apocalypse leads to two conclusions: was the writer simply using hyperbole, or was the writer simply wrong? Ancient sources are rarely fantastical, but often embellished. Furthermore, they regularly depict the reactions to the events rather than the events themselves. Of course different chroniclers have different agendas. For example, the Umayyads and Frankish chroniclers tell very different versions of the significance and details of the Battle of Poitiers in 732 AD.
How to combat half-truths
First, identify the half-truths that you may harbor by openly discussing with friends or simply revisiting what you know about a topic while on a walk. The gaps in knowledge will make themselves known, have no fear about that. This is what the doctoral seminar is actually supposed to accomplish: to destroy hubris and replace it with an appropriate, yet humble curiosity.
I had the good fortune of a doctoral advisor who was uncompromising in his rebuttals, made all the more brutal when he sensed overconfidence in his interlocutor. Those seminars were weekly incubators in which theories were challenged to their breaking point—as well as the student—training us to cite every column upon which theoretical temple rested. Hours of archival work brings with it something of a closeness to a topic until that topic becomes like a baby. Having someone else tear it from your arms, so-to-speak, evokes the emotions you might imagine. So spare yourself the heartache and be open about your own limitations.
Second, in the words of St. Paul to the Colossians:
‘Let the word of Christ dwell in you abundantly, in all wisdom: teaching and admonishing one another in psalms, hymns, and spiritual canticles, singing in grace in your hearts to God.’ Col. 3:16.
Correct your interlocutors in charitable fashion if you notice an inconsistency or knowledge gap.
Third, hold yourself to the same standard as you would expect of the experts. For them to even be a true expert, they must first have gone through the gauntlet of having their theories shredded by others in the arena of the seminar. Seminars that are too weak in this regard create students with weak theories—silver needs to be constantly refined, after all.
You may find two and three to be inconsistent. How can you be charitable, yet expect true lovers of knowledge to evicerate false claims? Well, it depends on where you are. A seminar at a university is intended to be like an arena of ideas in which the gladiators, if you will, know precisely what awaits them. Sitting amongst others at the dinner table, on the other hand, is not an equivalent setting.
Conclusions
Question every theory or interpretation that does not have any primary sources or scholarly citations referenced within the text. Always keep an open mind—particularly with regard to you own knowledge gaps. And finally, be charitable in your corrections, unless of course it is in a seminar, in which case the gloves are off.