When I tell people I specialise in the ancient Near East, they often assume that my fascination must have something to do with the modern Middle East. It is an understandable assumption. I grew up in the shadow of 9/11 and the War on Terror, with Iraq, Afghanistan, Israel, Syria and Iran rarely far from the headlines. Then, somewhere along the way, I developed a fascination with Assyrians and Babylonians and eventually decided to devote a considerable part of my life to studying them. Surely there must be a connection.

For a long time, I resisted that idea. Whenever someone suggested that studying the ancient Near East must help me understand the modern Middle East, I felt an instinctive urge to point out how different the two are. There are roughly two and a half millennia between the fall of Babylon and the world we see on the evening news. Languages, religions, political institutions and entire peoples have appeared and disappeared in the meantime. You will not understand Saddam Hussein by studying Nebuchadnezzar, nor will an Assyrian royal inscription explain Islamic State.

More importantly, the suggestion seemed to contain an assumption that bothered me: that my interest somehow needed a modern justification. I do not study Babylon because it is useful. I study it because Babylon interests me. Nobody needs to explain why Imperial Rome is worth knowing about by demonstrating its usefulness for understanding today’s Italy. Yet with the ancient Near East, I sometimes feel expected to explain what this rather obscure subject can teach us about the world we live in. “It helps us understand the Middle East today” would provide a convenient answer, but I have never wanted to give it.

And yet I have gradually come to suspect that I was objecting to the wrong thing. There is a difference between studying the past in order to understand the present and acknowledging that the present influences the questions we ask of the past. I may have no interest in turning Assyria into an allegory for American foreign policy, but I am still a child of my time.

Continue reading “A child of my time”

When watching Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey, I noticed something interesting. Nolan seems to place Odysseus and the other returning heroes of the Trojan War firmly within the world of the Sea Peoples: the mysterious seaborne warriors who swept across the eastern Mediterranean around 1200 BC and even challenged the mighty Egyptian Empire.

It’s an attractive idea. The Trojan War is traditionally dated to roughly the same period as the Bronze Age Collapse, and some of the peoples mentioned in Egyptian inscriptions have even been linked to the Greeks who fought at Troy. Perhaps Odysseus and his crew were themselves among the Sea Peoples. As it turns out, Nolan is far from the first to make that connection.

Continue reading “Does the Odyssey contain memories of the Sea Peoples?”

Ask someone about the ancient history of Palestine and they will probably mention the Israelites. Ask about the Philistines and most people know only one story: David and Goliath. And some would probably mention Samson as well.

Yet for centuries the Philistines were among the most powerful peoples of the southern Levant. Their cities controlled international trade, negotiated with Assyrian kings and dominated the Mediterranean coast. Long before Jerusalem became famous, Gaza, Ashkelon and Ashdod ranked among the region’s most important urban centres.

Their civilization eventually disappeared. But although the Philistines themselves vanished, they left behind something unexpected: the geographical name by which much of the region would later become known.

Continue reading “How the Philistines shaped Iron Age Palestine”

David is one of the most noteworthy figures in the Bible. He is remembered as the shepherd boy who slew Goliath, the gifted musician who soothed King Saul’s troubled mind, the adulterer whose affair with Bathsheba brought tragedy upon his household, and the pious king traditionally credited with composing many of the Psalms. In both Judaism and Christianity, he occupies an even greater place as the founder of the royal dynasty from which the Messiah was expected to descend.

Yet before he ruled from Jerusalem, David spent years doing something very different. He recruited a private army, forged alliances, protected settlements, raided his enemies and even sought refuge with a Philistine king. Whether these stories preserve historical events has long been debated. But the question of what “really happened” often obscures a more revealing one: what kind of political figure was the historical David? Viewed against the geopolitical realities of the tenth century BCE, he emerges not simply as a legendary king, but as a remarkably successful military entrepreneur who transformed a personal following into one of the ancient Near East’s most enduring dynasties.

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Governors, Local Rulers and the Classification of Neo-Assyrian Rule

On Thursday 9 July 2026, I presented a paper at the conference Order Out of Chaos: Classification and Categories in the Ancient Near East at University College London as part of my PhD research. The paper explores the often blurry boundary between provinces and vassal kingdoms in the Neo-Assyrian Empire and argues for a new interpretation of the role of governors in Assyrian imperial rule.

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For many readers familiar with the Bible, Ahab (r. 874–853 BCE) is remembered primarily as the wicked king who opposed the prophet Elijah and allowed the worship of Ba’al in Israel. Yet this image reflects the concerns of later biblical authors rather than the geopolitical realities of the ninth century BCE.

Viewed through the lens of contemporary Near Eastern politics, Ahab appears as a remarkably capable ruler. During his reign, Israel became one of the strongest kingdoms in the Levant, capable of challenging Damascus, projecting power over its neighbours, and contributing one of the largest contingents to the coalition that confronted Assyria at the Battle of Qarqar.

Continue reading “Ahab, the king who made Israel a regional power”

Earlier I argued that during the late ninth and early eighth century BCE a relatively stable regional order existed in the Levant. Before that system emerged, however, one ruler briefly came closer than anyone else to establishing his dominance over all of Syria: Hazael of Damascus.

Hazael is one of the most remarkable figures of the ninth-century Levant. Unlike many contemporary kings, he was probably not born into a royal dynasty. According to the Books of Kings, he served at the court of the former king Ben-Hadad II before seizing the throne around 843 or 842 BCE. The biblical account describes how he assassinated his master after being informed by the prophet Elisha that he would one day become king. Whether or not every detail of this story is historical, few scholars doubt that Hazael was a usurper.

Continue reading “Hazael of Damascus, an Aramaean hegemon”

The Assyrian Empire has a public relations problem. Watch any documentary or read any popular history website and there is a good chance that within minutes someone will be impaled, flayed, or have their city burned to the ground. Preferably all three. The accompanying narrator will then solemnly inform us that the Assyrians ruled through terror, demanded impossible tributes from their neighbours, sought to conquer the entire known world and eventually suffered a well-deserved downfall.

This image is not entirely without foundation. The Assyrians were perfectly capable of extreme violence and, unlike many rulers throughout history, they were remarkably eager to advertise it. Yet I often find myself frustrated by how predictable these portrayals have become. Not because they are completely wrong, but because they are so incomplete. The Assyrian Empire frequently appears as a stock villain: an ancient equivalent of the Galactic Empire, forever plotting conquest while everyone else waits to be conquered. The real Assyrian Empire was far more interesting than that.

Continue reading “Assyria, more than history’s favourite villain”

In my previous post, I argued that the low frequency of Assyrian campaigns in the Levant between 841 and 743 BCE does not necessarily indicate stagnation or decline. Rather, it suggests that a relatively stable regional order had emerged in which local powers such as Damascus, Hamath, Luḫuti and Arpad largely managed their own affairs while Assyria focused its attention on developments in the north and east.

One of the clearest glimpses of this world comes from the reign of Zakkur, king of Hamath and Luḫuti. Who exactly Zakkur was remains unclear. In his own inscription, he claims that the god Baʿlshamayn raised him from humble origins and made him king. Scholars have often interpreted this statement as evidence that he was a usurper rather than a legitimate heir.

Zakkur probably originated from Hatarikka (Hazrach), the capital of Luḫuti, which remained his principal residence even after he acquired Hamath. How this happened is uncertain. He may have first become king of Luḫuti and later conquered Hamath, overthrowing its ruling dynasty in the process. Whatever the precise sequence of events, Zakkur succeeded in uniting two previously separate kingdoms and creating a larger and more powerful state than had existed before in central Syria.

Continue reading “Zakkur of Hamath: the limits of Levantine power”

The Levant has played a central role in world history since the earliest beginnings of civilization. This fertile corridor between the Mediterranean Sea and the Arabian Desert, situated between Mesopotamia, Egypt and Anatolia, formed a crossroads of long-distance trade. Caravan routes crossed its valleys and plains, while its ports connected the eastern Mediterranean to wider maritime networks. Much of the wealth of Levantine cities derived from their position as intermediaries in both overland and maritime commerce.

Politically, however, the Levant was highly fragmented. Phoenician city-states, Aramaean tribes and Neo-Hittite kingdoms constantly competed for control of trade routes. Alliances shifted frequently and no single power could easily dominate the region for long. For Assyria, the Levant therefore represented both opportunity and danger: a wealthy gateway to the Mediterranean, but also a frontier capable of producing powerful anti-Assyrian coalitions.

Under Shalmaneser III (r. 858–824 BCE), Assyrian armies campaigned repeatedly in the Levant, confronting anti-Assyrian coalitions led by rulers such as Ahuni of Bīt-Adini, Irhuleni of Hamath and Hazael of Damascus. A century later, the region again became the focus of Assyrian expansion under Tiglath-pileser III (r. 745–727 BCE), who annexed large parts of Syria and Palestine and transformed former client states into Assyrian provinces.

Yet between these two periods lies a striking gap. According to the Assyrian Limmu List — a chronological record in which each year was named after a high official and often accompanied by a brief note about a military campaign — there were hardly any Assyrian campaigns to the Levant between roughly 841 and 743 BCE. This was not because Assyria became inactive. On the contrary, Assyrian kings campaigned almost every year, but mostly toward the north and east: against Urartu in the Armenian Highlands and frontier polities the Zagros and Taurus Mountains. Why, then, was the western frontier comparatively quiet for almost a century?

Continue reading “All quiet on Assyria’s western front”