History is a curious thing. It can be a source of great pleasure, pride, and sadness. It is the great guardian of memory, full of contradictions, and mystifying in its depth and extent. Then there is the Present. Modern, delightfully decadent, paradoxically always inferior to the good old years, but never a greater time to be alive. And now there is the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria (ISIS), which has married the Present and the Past together in a terrifying way that calls into question their status as discrete categories.

As is now well-known, ISIS, a self-proclaimed (though aren’t all independence movements in the beginning?) caliphate, has embarked upon the systematic destruction of material culture. Islamic sites are among the hardest hit. One such site is ancient Sāmarrā, the capital of the Abbasid Caliphate in the 9th century CE and now a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Caliphate-on-caliphate: one illegitimate and terrible, the other legitimised via conquest and recognized as such by history.

But who is to say that Raqqa, seat of the ISIS capital, will not also become worthy of UNESCO attention in 1000 years (hopefully 1000 years after its downfall)? While ISIS is issuing in no new Golden Age, it is certainly undertaking events of historical importance, terrible as they are. The material remains represent a tangible history caught up in a present history wrapped in a palimpsest of caliphates. Conceptually, it is interesting to consider why one history gains a UNESCO mandate, while the other, present history is entirely denied: after all, both caliphates came into existence via violence and were/are maintained by violence. Where is the line in the Syrian sand?

The peerless present has descended into summary executions, warring factions, and the destruction of cultural monuments. Has the world not learned from its past, dark mistakes? But a ‘mistake’ is measured by failure, not triumph, and the sad reality is that the tactics being employed today can be successful, even if immoral. History is full of marginalized peoples, whose plight is lost in tales focusing on the ‘mistakes’ of the victors. Conflicts such as the one in Syria have made me question our frequently heroic perspective of the past in media, publications, and teaching. Can the present inform the past?

In my opinion, it can. The pervasive and sad images issuing from Syria grant us the opportunity to personalize the past. The conflict allows us to do away with ingrained biases, since it does not easily fall into the conventional framework favored when analyzing history — East versus West (as Mallory Monaco Caterine has shown). In Syria, across the broader ideological and militaristic spectrum we find a kaleidoscope of conflicts between local powers and international backers: East versus East, East versus West, West versus West. A reductionalist interpretation is inadequate. While we may choose sides, each choice comes at a cost. Many of our favorite heroes, cities, and empires were guilty of crimes that would comfortably fit into the rhetoric of an ISIS or into the strategy of an Assad.

Take Athens, a city beloved by many — but not by classical Melos. In 416 BCE, Athens launched an expeditionary force to either convince or force the neutral island to join her Empire. In a speech immortalized by the historian Thucydides, the Melians based their defense on moral and compassionate arguments. The Athenians delivered their famous response,

“right . . . is only in question between equals in power, whereas the strong do what they can and the weak suffer what they must” (5.89)

Following a brief siege, the Athenians slaughtered the men, sold the women and children into slavery, and colonized the island for themselves (Thuc. 5.116). This was Athens — the world’s first democracy and the cornerstone of western civilization — operating at the barbaric level of ISIS.

Does this episode — hardly an outlier — affect our view of Athens overall? Perhaps our indifference is due to time and the fact that we don’t have immediate relatives who were involved. But how many of us have relatives in Syria? Is the difference between apathy and empathy really just bridged by images we see in the media? The picture of a drowned Syrian child shocked people around the world and helped raise the profile of the refugee crisis. When we respond to Thucydides’ account, it’s easy to acknowledge the brutality of the Athenians — but ‘shocked’ would be the wrong type of word to describe our detached reaction to it.

What of that great conqueror, Alexander the Great, Unifier of the Known World and Beyond? After massacring 6000 inhabitants of Thebes —the greatest city in Greece at the time and fighting for its freedom from an unwanted Macedonian overlordship — Alexander sold the remaining 30000 into slavery. Soon after, he conquered the great island nation of Tyre, a Phoenician behemoth in no way loyal to or interested in his cause. Tyre was a center of commerce and trade, and among the most dominant and influential sea-faring nations since the Bronze Age. Alexander, commander and tactical expert, besieged the resistant city by land and sea, constructing a mole that advanced menacingly from the mainland, eventually ending Tyre’s tenure as an island forever.

The next part is the footnote: some 6000–8000 Tyrians were slaughtered within and 2000 more were crucified on the beach as a warning to others. 30000 others were sold into slavery. Do we excuse these actions since they happened in antiquity? Why shouldn’t we judge Alexander by our experiences and standards today? After all, we readily use history as a precedent to justify the present. Achievements can overshadow atrocities, but they can never excuse them.

The darker deeds of the Romans are more widely publicised, but no less trivialized. The Republic had ruthless conquest, dictators, civil wars, decimation, and a foundation story grounded in rape. The Empire continued this slide. Suetonius ensured the depravities of the Caesars would be immortalized. Later emperors such as Caracalla leaped on the masochistic chariot. Brutal politics and despots. Imperialism, mass killings, slavery — are these not the hallmarks of ISIS? Yet somehow tales of past cruelty and murder have morphed into quirky tales of amusement.

‘Western’ nations were certainly not solely responsible for such crimes, though ingrained prejudices against the East mean they should be acknowledged. Babylonians and Phoenicians played instrumental roles in early science, the calendar, astronomy, mathematics, and sea-faring. An Athens we may excuse for the occasional genocidal outburst given her cultural and political achievements. An Assyria we may not, since — well, it’s a little Eastern. Not that we should. King Sennacherib proudly displayed palace reliefs in Nineveh decorated with collections of heads and impaled prisoners. Darius II, King of Persia, conveniently gave a kill and conquer count in a monumental relief carved into Mt. Behistun. Mithridates VI was responsible for the murder of every Roman and Italian citizen in Asia Minor on a single day. The Sassanids are not fondly remembered for their treatment of the Christians in Jerusalem. The sites of many such rulers are currently under threat by ISIS. Should we feel sadness at the loss of monuments saturated in blood to a regime molded from the same cast?

The destruction of sites by ISIS has been well documented by their own grotesque propaganda campaign. Irina Bokova, Director-General of UNESCO, has led the backlash, decrying the “cultural-cleansing” of “humanity’s cultural heritage” with no “political or religious justification.” Politics as much as ethics, however, drives the United Nations, and we should at least consider the full picture. Bokova’s characterization ignores the ISIS position, and while we can absolutely disagree with its philosophy, we should recognize that there is a religious justification behind the devastation, as well as a political precedent.

ISIS is merely the latest perpetrator in a long list of shame. Its targeting of both archaeological and historic sites gives us perspective on the personal devastation that must have been felt by historical victims. Conceptually, the whole situation is difficult to comprehend: we are caught up in a present-day screening of a tragedy that should belong to the past, yet set in the same cities. Is there no grim irony in the fact that the Assyrian city of Nimrud has been plundered and destroyed by ISIS, just as their barbaric head-lopping-off kings did to other cities 3000 years ago? The bloodthirsty king Ashurnasirpal II, for instance, had this to say about a rebellious city:

“. . . I flayed all the chief men who had revolted, and I covered [a] pillar with their skins . . . From some [captives] I cut off their hands and their fingers, and from others I cut off their noses, their ears, and their fingers; I put out the eyes of many. . . . Their young men and maidens I burned . . . the city I destroyed, I devastated, I burned.” (Luckenbill 443, 445)

Just as we have difficulty applying present sentiment to the past, we are inconsistent in our evaluation of the vestiges of the past in the present. Ashurnasirpal II successfully asserted his power and dominance via the same acts of wanton violence and destruction that we see today.

Such tactics are grounded in installing fear in others interested in exploring the freedom trail. Alexander did not just destroy the Theban people; he also razed their city to the ground. There were no more revolts. When Rome defeated her old enemy Carthage once and for all, she destroyed the city utterly. For good measure, she did the same to the great Greek city of Corinth. Again the motivations lay in the assertion of power and in making an example of a resistant city. The tactic was a successful one for the Romans, and the human cost must have been enormous.

These events are not quite comparable to those of ISIS, since it has demolished primarily select monuments within occupied cities that are contrary to its doctrine. A parallel is found in the events following Theodosius I’s Edict of Thessalonica; subsequent decrees confirmed Christianity as the state religion of the Roman Empire and prohibited the old state religion of paganism. The decrees ushered in an unprecedented period of religious persecution, unsurpassed in scale ever since. Temples, sanctuaries, dedications, and monuments were pillaged and destroyed. A ‘lucky’ few such as the Parthenon and the Pantheon were converted into churches; most became marble quarries for other projects. The devastation was deliberate and provocative — paganism was far from a dead religion. ISIS is participating in a business with a nasty and lengthy, but complicated precedent. The ancient world must have been a melting pot of refugees and discontent peoples.

When precisely objects and ruins cross into the sphere of national and cultural monuments is a tricky question. I have heard people who surely had no previous idea what a lamassu is express informed outrage at the destruction of one. They’re right, of course, but such broad attitudes appear to be a very recent phenomenon. In the 18th century, Winckelmann’s work popularised Greco-Roman material remains and hastened in the neoclassical movement. The great European museums quickly started collecting (or plundering, depending upon your interpretation) objects, and the Grand Tour became an opportunity for upper-class tourists to see ancient lands in person.

But what counts as history has always been somewhat arbitrary. The Acropolis of Athens, for instance, passed into the care of the Greeks in 1822 and was promptly stripped of its Ottoman and post-Roman additions — almost 1500 years of history. The obliteration stemmed from anti-Ottoman sentiment and symbolized a transfer of power within the country. A respect for antiquity — broadly defined — was lacking. The Hague Convention for the Protection of Cultural Property in the Event of Armed Conflict was only signed in 1954; not all countries are signatories. UNESCO World Heritage Sites date back only to the last 50 years. Our interest in the preservation of the past represents one of the great cultural achievements of modernity, but it sits at the precipice of thousands of years of abuse.

Which brings us back to ISIS, whose actions are inexcusable in a world where diplomacy and tolerance are two of the great modern achievements, if still selectively applied. Palmyra has been the most recent high profile target. In a recent article, Tim Whitmarsh observed a sad irony in ISIS targeting this city, whose

“prosperity arose thanks to its citizens’ ability to trade with everyone, to integrate new populations, to take on board diverse cultural influences, to worship many gods without conflict.”

Similarly, Stephen Distinti brought to our attention the story of Zenobia of Palmyra, “her life . . . a repudiation of all that ISIS stands for.” While I agree entirely with their underlying sentiment, we should not gloss over certain other aspects.

To be clear: the mute ruins of Palmyra are harming no one and deserve none of the destructive attention they are receiving; they are certainly anti-ISIS. Bringing historical Palmyra into the dialogue is trickier. Zenobia was an elite, and her elevation to queen represented no major change for other marginalized women in her city; rather, she conformed to an existing framework of despotism reminiscent of Hellenistic monarchy and Roman Emperors. We may sympathize with her revolt from Rome and quest for independence, but the line between queen and tyrant is a shaky one. With monarchy came the need for an Empire, and Zenobia dutifully set out and won herself one, carving it out of resistant Roman provinces. This Empire was won and maintained by murderous violence, with the Egyptians particularly defiant (Zosimus 1.44ff.). Furthermore, Palmyra itself was built, maintained by, and economically dependent upon slavery. Violence, imperialism, and slavery — these concepts are not at all alien to ISIS thought. I agree the site must be freed from the savagery that is consuming it, but let’s not forget that for many people in antiquity it was no Eden.

Syria’s civil war is horrific. While human lives must always be the priority, the past is a problematic, but unavoidable part of our lives, as Mary Beard has recently shown. Bokova, Whitmarsh, Distinti, and countless others are correct in arguing for the protection of the material heritage. Whether a city carries cultural or UNESCO significance is unrelated to the humanitarian record of its rulers.

But evoking history as a counter argument to ISIS means the inevitable comparison of the two. The results are rather paradoxical: ancient seats of cruelty and violence are demolished to make place for the same. We glorify historical players who performed atrocities far outstripping those of today, yet forget their victims. We require inhumane actions in the present to better inform our readings of the past. Scipio Aemilianus, the Roman general in charge of the destruction of Carthage, epitomizes this paradox:

“. . . seeing the city at that moment in the final throes of absolute ruin, he is said to have wept, and clearly on behalf of the enemy. After being wrapped in thought for long, he realised that all cities, nations, and authorities must, like men, meet their doom; that this happened to Troy, once a prosperous city, to the empires of Assyria, Media, and Persia, the greatest of their time, and to Macedonia itself, the brilliance of which was so recent.” (Polybius 38.22)

This from the man who oversaw the annihilation. It’s easy to appreciate a Palmyra or a Nimrud for its antiquity, its beauty, and its perseverance. It is important to acknowledge, however, that they and many other places conceal histories as dark as the one we are witnessing today. ISIS’ actions are antithetical to our beliefs, but not necessarily to the legacy of the remains they are destroying.

The present is an unwilling history, reluctant to let go of current events and package them away for the future. So long as we feel we can do something, hope still remains and the episode belongs to the present rather than to the past. The relationship between ancient history and the present, however, involves a contradiction. Ancient history is impersonal and dispassionate. Material objects and events matter, but people don’t, since there is a personal disconnect between us and them.

The present is about people. Objects don’t matter. We privilege the old and walk by without a glance at the disposable new. ISIS, infusing the past with the present, has provided a terrifying insight into this relationship. Indirectly, we are now reminded of the human element that was painfully and — as I have argued — not unimaginably affected, yet whose voice is largely forgotten. The monuments have come to life, and we are confronted with the remains of tyrants in the hands of tyrants.

Simon Oswald taught at UCLA, is a graduate of Princeton, and is interested in classics, archaeology, and the world — particularly travel. He is currently somewhere on a quite delightful holiday.