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Hypatia, Scholar and Teacher of Ancient Alexandria

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Julia Margaret Cameron via Wikimedia // Public domain

The late 4th and early 5th century philosopher and mathematician Hypatia was one of the most admired women in Alexandria, but she was also one of the most hated. She was the first known woman to both study and teach mathematics, astronomy, and philosophy, drawing students from far and wide, but she was also unabashedly pagan in a time when the city’s authority figures were Christian. In the end, her commitment to her beliefs would cost her her life.

Scholars differ on the date of Hypatia’s birth. It is thought that she was born between 350 and 370 CE in Alexandria, Egypt, which at the time was the sophisticated center of learning in the ancient world. She was the daughter of famed mathematician Theon, who wrote commentaries on works by the mathematicians Euclid and Ptolemy (his version of Euclid's Elements was the only one known until the 19th century), and who also wrote a popular treatise on the astrolabe, an instrument used to chart the position of celestial bodies.

Theon considered Hypatia his intellectual heir and tutored her in art, astronomy, literature, science, and philosophy. She taught math and philosophy at the university of Alexandria, where her father was director. She also wrote, producing several commentaries, and collaborated on more written works with her father. Sadly, none of her works survive, although some scholars believe that part of Theon’s version of Ptolemy’s Almagest was actually written by her.

Hypatia was a follower of the Neoplatonist school of thought, based partially on the teachings of the philosopher Plato. The Greek Neoplatonist philosopher Damascius described Hypatia’s work by saying: "The lady made appearances around the center of the city, expounding in public to those willing to listen on Plato or Aristotle." She is said to have been a popular teacher—and after her father died, was considered the foremost mathematician in the world.

Hypatia never married and most likely remained celibate due to her Neoplatonist beliefs. Damascius noted that she was "honest and chaste," while Socrates Scholasticus spoke of her "extraordinary dignity and virtue."

Orestes, the Roman prefect of Alexandria, admired her mind and sought her counsel. He was a Christian, but tolerant of all the faiths that co-existed in Alexandria, and he worked to form bonds between them. This tolerant attitude would place him in direct conflict with Cyril, the city’s new archbishop, and ultimately lead to Hypatia’s death.

Archbishop Cyril was not as tolerant of other faiths. When he became archbishop in 412, he closed and plundered churches belonging to another Christian sect. After a massacre of Christians by Jewish extremists, Cyril expelled all Jews from the city. Orestes opposed Cyril’s actions and complained to Rome, which led to an unsuccessful assassination attempt on the prefect’s life.

He survived, but Hypatia was less fortunate.

When a rumor spread that she was causing the conflict between Orestes and Cyril, a fanatical Christian sect murdered Hypatia in a particularly gruesome way.

On a March evening in the year 415 or 416 (accounts vary), a mob blocked her chariot as she was driving home. They pulled her from the chariot, stripped her naked, and stoned her to death with roofing tiles. The frenzied mob then reportedly tore her body apart, and burned what remained of her.

Some historians considered Hypatia’s death to be a deliberate act taken by Cyril against Orestes, who refused to reconcile with him. Other historians do not hold Cyril directly responsible for Hypatia’s death, while acknowledging that he did promote the intolerance that helped turn a mob against a prominent pagan figure.

Ironically, despite the fact that she was murdered by a Christian mob at least in part because she promoted Neoplatonist ideas, some of her teachings would eventually influence Christian doctrine. One of her students, Synesius, became a Christian bishop, and some scholars say that his earlier Platonic studies influenced the church’s doctrine of the Holy Trinity.

Today, she is remembered as one of the first women known to have studied math and philosophy, and her name lives on in a scholarly journal devoted to feminism and philosophy. She is sometimes credited with the line: "Reserve your right to think, for even to think wrongly is better than not to think at all."

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History
The Day Notre Dame Students Pummeled the Ku Klux Klan
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At first glance, there was nothing unusual about the men who stepped off the train in South Bend, Indiana on the morning of May 17, 1924. Dapper and mannered, they drifted from the station to the downtown area. Some headed for a nearby office that sported a red cross made out of light bulbs stationed in the window. Others roamed around looking for Island Park, the site of a planned social gathering.

A closer look at these visitors revealed one common trait: Many were carrying a folded white robe under their arm. Those who had arrived earlier were fully clothed in their uniform and hood, directing automobile traffic to the park.

The Ku Klux Klan had arrived in town.

Fresh off a controversial leadership election in Indianapolis, Indiana, there was no reason for Klansmen to have any apprehension about holding a morale booster in South Bend. Indiana was Klan territory, with an estimated one in three native born white men sworn members within state lines. Just a few months later, Klansman Ed Jackson would be elected governor.

It was only when Klansmen found themselves guided into alleys and surrounded by an irate gang of Catholic students from nearby Notre Dame University that they realized mobilizing in South Bend may have been a very bad idea.

The Klan wanted a rally. What they got was a full-scale riot.

Photo of KKK Indiana Grand Dragon D.C. Stephenson
Indiana Grand Dragon D.C. Stephenson
By IndyStar, Decemeber 12, 1922 issue, Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons

Politically-endorsed prejudice was the order of the day in the early part of the 20th century, when the Klan—first created in 1866 to oppose Republican Reconstruction with violent racial enmity and then revived in 1915—expanded its tentacles to reach law enforcement and civil service. No longer targeting people of color exclusively, the KKK took issue with Catholics, the Jewish faith, and immigrants. An estimated 4 million Americans belonged to the Klan in the 1920s, all echoing the group’s philosophy that only white, God-fearing citizens were worthy of respect.

Under the guidance of Indiana's Grand Dragon D.C. Stephenson, the group had attempted to shift public perception from the lynch mobs of the past to an orderly and articulate assembly. Rallies were held in KKK-friendly areas; propaganda material was becoming an effective weapon for their cause. Acceptance of the Klan’s ideology seeped into political office; Stephenson was a prominent Indiana politician.

To help continue that indoctrination, the Klan made plans for a parade in South Bend to be held on May 17, 1924. That it would be in close proximity to the Notre Dame campus was no mistake: At the time, 75 percent of the school's nearly 2000 students were Catholic, a religion the Klan found abhorrent. By pledging allegiance to the Vatican, their reasoning went, Catholics were acknowledging a foreign power. In the fall of 1923, they had persisted in setting crosses on fire near the University of Dayton in Dayton, Ohio, a predominantly Catholic college, and were frequently chased off by angered football players. That December, the Klan set off firebombs in Dayton during Christmas break. While no one was seriously injured, the intent was to send a message—one they wanted to spread to Indiana.

In the weeks and months leading up to the parade, both students and faculty began to get a taste of that perspective. Copies of the Fiery Cross, the official Klan newspaper, circulated on campus; one Klansman showed up at an auditorium to broadcast that Catholics were not good Americans. He exited the stage when attendees began throwing potatoes at him.

If that public response was foreshadowing, the Klan either ignored or failed to heed the warning. Members began arriving the Friday evening prior to the rally and were met at the train station by irritated students, who scuffled with the early arrivals by ripping their robes. By Saturday morning, when more Klansmen arrived, hundreds of students were in town, a loosely organized anti-Klan task force.

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Klan members were used to breezing into towns without incident. Here, they were immediately confronted by young, ornery college kids proud of their Catholicism. Klansmen were led into alleys and tossed into walls; students who played for the school’s legendary football squad formed wedges, the offensive line-ups found on the field, and plowed into groups of Klan members like they were challenging for a state title.

The violence, swift and sudden, prompted the Klan to retreat to their headquarters in South Bend. The students followed, their blood pumping hot at the sight of the red cross lit in the office window. Below it stood a grocery store with barrels of fresh potatoes. The students lobbed them at the glass, smashing the bulbs inside.

The conflict had been uninterrupted by law enforcement, but not for lack of trying. Deputy Sheriff John Cully, himself a Klansman, tried to enlist the National Guard but was shot down by officials. Notre Dame president Matthew Walsh had already implored students not to go into town, but his words went unheeded.

Unencumbered by authority, the 100 or so students idling near the Klan’s office decided they wanted to seize the hideout. Dozens began running up the stairs but were greeted by a Klan member who produced a gun. Unarmed, the students backed off. Four seniors went back and came to an impromptu truce: The student body would disperse if the Klan agreed to hold their rally without weapons or their robes.

The agreement seemed to placate both sides until Stephenson finally arrived in town before the parade’s scheduled 6:30 p.m. start. Assessing the roughed-up Klansmen and their skittish behavior, he complained to the police, who posted officers on horseback around their assembly at Island Park.

But there would be no rally: A heavy downpour prompted Stephenson to call it off, although the potential for further violence likely weighed on his mind. Lingering students who still hadn’t returned to campus met departing Klansmen as they attempted to drive out of town, smashing windows and even tipping over one car.

By Sunday, things seemed to have settled down. Walsh cringed at newspaper reports of the incidents, fearing it would portray the students as thugs.

Unfortunately, neither side was done protesting. And when they met a second time, the robed men would be backed up by lawman Cully and a squad of 30 deputized Klansmen.

Denver News - The Library of Congress (American Memory Collection), Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons

Students back on campus Monday had taken to hanging up seized Klan robes and hoods on their walls like trophies. It had been a rout, with the Klan barely putting up a fight.

Now, word was spreading through the halls that the Klan had captured or perhaps had even killed a Notre Dame student. Roughly 500 students jogged the two miles back into South Bend, eager for another confrontation.

When they arrived at the Klan’s headquarters, the light bulb cross had been rebuilt. It was an act of defiance, and the students moved forward. But the Klan was prepared: Many had been deputized, and uniformed officers joined the melee. Axe handles and bottles were brandished, and blood began to stain the street. It was a clash, with parties on both sides laid out.

When he got word of the conflict, Walsh rushed to the site and climbed on top of a cannon that was part of a monument. Shouting to be heard, he implored students to return to campus. His voice cut through the sounds of breaking glass, snapping the students out of their reverie. They returned to the school.

Absent any opposition, the Klan did the same. Stragglers from out of town returned home. With bombastic prose, writers for the Fiery Cross later recapped the event by accusing Notre Dame students of “beating women and children.” Later that summer, they declared they’d be returning to South Bend in greater number.

It never happened. Although the Klan maintained an aura of strength for several more years, the conviction of Stephenson for raping and murdering a woman in November 1925 extinguished one of their most enthusiastic leaders; the Depression dampened the ability of new recruits to pay dues. By 1930, the Klan was down to an estimated 45,000 members.

While Walsh never condoned the vigilante justice exacted that weekend, he never disciplined a single student for it.

Additional Sources:
Notre Dame vs. the Klan, by Todd Tucker (Loyola Press, 2004)
"Hearing the Silence: The University of Dayton, the Ku Klux Klan, and Catholic Universities and Colleges in the 1920s" [PDF], by William Vance Trollinger

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Why the Berlin Wall Rose and Fell
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One of history's most notorious barriers broke ground early in the morning on August 13, 1961, when East German construction workers, guarded by soldiers and police, began tearing up the Berlin streets.

As European history professor Konrad H. Jarausch explains in this video from Ted-Ed, the roots of the Berlin Wall can be found in the period of instability that followed World War II. When the Allies couldn't decide how to govern Germany, they decided to split up the country between the Federal Republic of Germany in the West and the German Democratic Republic in the East. Eventually, citizens (especially young professionals) began fleeing the GDR for the greater freedoms—and higher salaries—of the West. The wall helped stem the tide, and stabilized the East German economy, but came at great cost to the East's reputation. In the end, the wall lasted less than three decades, as citizen pressures against it mounted.

You can learn more about exactly why the wall went up, and how it came down, in the video below.

[h/t The Kid Should See This]

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