1575 - Polish Parliament selects Istvan Bathory as king of Poland 1702 - The Forty-seven Ronin (leaderless samurai), under the command of Ōishi Kuranosuke, avenge the death of their master in Japan 1977 - Test Cricket debut of Pakistan spin bowling great Abdul Qadir v England in 1st Test at Lahore 1983 - Biographical drama film "Silkwood", directed by Mike Nichols, and starring Meryl Streep, Kurt Russell, and Cher premieres 1984 - Sportscaster Howard Cosell retires from Monday Night Football 1993 - Muslim fundamentalists murder 12 Croats and Bosnians in Algeria 1997 - Revival of Arthur Miller's dramatic play "A View From the Bridge", starring Anthony LaPaglia, Allison Janney, and Brittany Murphy. opens at the Criterion Theater, NYC; runs for 239 performance, wins 2 Tony and 4 Drama Desk Awards 2017 - The Walt Disney Company buys most of 21st Century Fox for $52.4 billion More Historical Events »

  Who was Miguel Hidalgo? To put it in perspective: George Washington is the father of American independence; Mahatma Gandhi symbolizes India’s struggle against British colonial rule. Mexico has Miguel Hidalgo. Yet outside Mexico, few recognize his name. Figures like Benito Juárez—who famously dubbed himself the consummator of Mexico’s “second independence”—or Pancho Villa enjoy far more international fame. But Hidalgo, a priest who ignited Mexico’s War of Independence in 1810, remains a fascinating, if not outright antiheroic, figure for those willing to look closer.   From Revered Leader to Scorned Martyr The Battle of the Alhóndiga de Granaditas, José Díaz del Castillo, 1910. Source: Instituto de Cultura de Morelos   Hidalgo’s legacy is complicated. As a priest, he was known for his encyclopedic knowledge, fluency in several languages, artistic talents, and concern for the poor. Yet he was also infamous for multiple affairs, a fondness for revelry and gambling, and, once the war began, his controversial decision to allow the unruly revolutionary forces to commit massacres against Spaniards—women and children included. One stark example: in September 1810, as the revolutionary mob neared Guanajuato, hundreds of frightened families locked themselves inside the Alhóndiga—a fortified granary. Hidalgo and his enraged followers set fire to the doors, stormed the building, slaughtered the occupants, and then looted and razed the city.   Hidalgo tolerated these excesses, a fact he later acknowledged during his trial. Captured in 1811, Hidalgo was dragged on a grueling journey to the remote city of Chihuahua, where he was executed inside what is now the state government palace. A small niche marks the exact site of his execution. A Tarahumara indigenous man reportedly severed Hidalgo’s head with a single blow, earning twenty pesos for the gruesome task. But Hidalgo’s remains didn’t stay there. His head was salted and sent back to central Mexico, where it was locked inside a cage and hung atop the very building in Guanajuato where the massacre occurred. For ten years, it remained exposed to the elements and birds—a brutal warning to potential rebels. Father Hidalgo received the ultimate punishment: the dishonor of not having a proper burial, and worse, that the only face the public would remember was that of a sun-bleached skull.   When independence finally triumphed, the new Mexican government ordered the cage removed and the head, now faceless, given a hero’s burial. That should have been the end of it all. But it was only the beginning.   Portrait or Pretender? The Austrian Priest Legend Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla, by Joaquín Ramírez, 1865. Source: Wikimedia Commons   There are no photographs of Father Miguel Hidalgo—no images of his head or the infamous Alhóndiga cage. Photography arrived in Mexico nearly two decades later, in the 1840s. Hidalgo’s visage—a man entering old age, graying, nearly bald, with a noble, kindly expression—was immortalized instead in paintings by a young artist called Joaquín Ramírez. One such portrait hung in Mexico City’s National Palace in 1865.   Fast forward to the turn of the millennium, an era ripe with rumors and historical revisionism. A persistent whisper emerged: since Hidalgo was never painted from life—true—no one really knew what Mexico’s founding father looked like—half true. Worse yet, the widely accepted image by Ramírez was said to be a colossal fraud, actually a portrait of an Austrian priest. This rumor was fueled by Luis González de Alba, a former student activist, ex-convict, psychologist, science popularizer, and noted provocateur.   According to González de Alba, when Emperor Maximilian of Austria sought to create an official pantheon of Mexican heroes, he found no known images of Hidalgo and thus he enlisted an Austrian priest from his entourage to sit for what would, quite curiously, become the portrait of Mexico’s founding father. The story goes that this was how Mexico got its iconic image of the man who sparked its independence. Many Mexicans still believe this today.   “They Lied to Us”: The Bicentennial Controversy Canto a Guanajuato (detail, Miguel Hidalgo´s head inside the cage), by José Chávez Morado, 1965. Source: INAH   The Bicentennial in 2010 reignited the debate. The rumor became so widespread that some, including a state governor, called for a crusade to remove Hidalgo’s portrait from textbooks and find the “true” face of the nation´s Founding Father. Important newspapers and TV channels reproduced the story. A headline blared loudly in one particularly vocal newspaper: “They lied to us.” According to the myth, Mexicans had been paying homage to a Belgian or Austrian priest who never did anything for the country.   Like all great conspiracies, this one refuses to die and has resurfaced repeatedly. But is it true? Is Hidalgo’s face really based on a European priest, not the revolutionary whose head was once hung as a warning in central Mexico?   In Search of Miguel Hidalgo’s True Face First Mexican post stamp, design by José Villegas, 1856. Unknown artist. Source: Mexico Desconocido   The 1856 Postage Stamp   In fact, the “Austrian priest” theory collapses quite quickly. Mexico issued its first postage stamp on August 1, 1856—a half real blue stamp crudely printed and roughly cut—but it unmistakably depicts Miguel Hidalgo. A quick glance reveals the same man Ramírez painted a decade later. This stamp proves Hidalgo’s image wasn’t simply concocted in 1865.   One might argue that the balding man with the aquiline nose and priestly collar was simply a product of the engraver’s imagination. So to determine whether this face had a historical basis—and wasn’t merely artistic license—historians need to look further back, to earlier sources that suggest the image was not conjured from thin air.   Lucas Alamán’s Testimony Illustration of Miguel Hidalgo in a book by Lucas Alamán, unknown artist, 1849. Source: Biblioteca Bicentenario, Aguascalientes   Lucas Alamán, a prominent Mexican thinker, politician, and historian, wrote one of the country’s first histories when independent Mexico was barely three decades old. Many witnesses of the revolutionary war were still alive.   From the first edition (1849), Alamán’s history included a portrait of Hidalgo nearly identical to the postage stamp and Ramírez’s painting. And in fact, he took that illustration from an even older book. When Alamán’s history and the portrait appeared, hardly a generation had passed since Hidalgo’s death, and many still remembered him personally. Remarkably, Alamán met Hidalgo himself as a 17-year-old in Guanajuato—the site of the massacre. His physical description leaves little doubt that, while no photograph existed, both the postage stamp and Ramírez’s portrait capture Hidalgo’s likeness fairly well:   “I had the opportunity to see and speak with Hidalgo often—he was a frequent visitor to my home,” Alamán wrote. “He was of medium height, stooped shoulders, dark complexion, lively green eyes, head bowed slightly toward his chest, quite gray and bald, seemingly over sixty, yet vigorous though not quick in movement; taciturn in everyday dealings but lively in debate, much like a scholar in heated argument. He was modestly dressed, wearing the typical garb of small-town priests.”   The Divergent Fates of Hidalgo’s Likeness and His Remains Photograph of the Column of the Angel of Independence, unknown photographer. Source: Wikicity   While Hidalgo’s face has followed a relatively smooth trajectory—traced through paintings, engravings, postage stamps, eyewitness descriptions, and schoolbook illustrations—his skull has led a far more erratic existence. One was fashioned by memory and myth, stabilized by artistic convention and national need; the other wandered through crypts, display cases, and forgotten vaults, marked by uncertainty and decay. The face became iconic, almost serene in its reproducibility; the skull, meanwhile, remained elusive, physically real yet symbolically unstable. And yet, in 2010, on the bicentennial of Mexican independence, these two diverging paths unexpectedly met.   When Mexican independence was secured, the cage holding Hidalgo’s skull was removed by the victors around early 1821. The head was buried alongside other revolutionary heroes in a city cemetery, where they remained until 1823. That year, a solemn procession moved the skulls to Mexico City’s cathedral. There, according to contemporary accounts, bones were jumbled in a niche later infested with cobwebs and rats. In 1895, the bones were exhumed, cleaned, sun-dried, photographed, and reburied.   Their final resting place was secured in the 1920s, beneath the iconic Independence Angel column. During the 2010 bicentennial, the relics were restored and studied scientifically. Some voices called for modern forensic techniques to reconstruct Hidalgo’s face.   But the results brought embarrassment. First, the bones of Vicente Guerrero—the man who finally secured independence in 1821—showed no evidence of execution, contrary to legend. Mariano Matamoros’s remains turned out to be those of a woman. And Hidalgo’s skull, marked “HA,” was identified with more certainty but was heavily damaged after years exposed to the elements—his face entirely lost, replaced by a hollow void. The dream of bioarchaeology resurrecting Hidalgo vanished.   A Nation’s Father, Restored: Truth Beyond the Faceless Skull Photograph of the skulls of the heroes, unknown photographer, 2010. Source: El País   Miguel Hidalgo’s head has had an eerie journey. Severed from his body, it traveled across Mexico, displayed in various towns before being hoisted high to dry in the open air, then shuffled back and forth across the country. For decades, his skull and the bones of other freedom fighters lay forgotten in a humid, unlit chamber of Mexico´s cathedral, jumbled with other remains in a damp recess no one wanted to enter. From time to time, concerned citizens petitioned to have them moved to a more dignified resting place, but the bureaucracy proved as unyielding as stone. No one claimed responsibility, and every official insisted the task fell outside their jurisdiction.   One can’t help but wonder if the Father of the Nation’s ghost rebelled against this barbaric fate, spawning the enduring rumor that no one could ever know his true face.   But thanks to a young man who saw him in Guanajuato—the teenager Lucas Alamán, who grew into a scholar and historian—we can confidently reject the myth that Hidalgo’s features were lost forever. His faceless skull may stare darkly into the void, but the historical person and his face remain recoverable.   Controversial man, yes. Antihero, perhaps. Father of the Nation, beyond doubt.

  Shogun is the second adaptation of the 1975 novel by James Clavell about the first Englishman who visited Japan and was made a samurai by the third feudal lord aiming to unify Japan after centuries of civil war. Going by just these broad strokes, the show is quite historically accurate. However, the characters have all had their names changed, with the real-life William Adams being rechristened to John Blackthorne and feudal lord Tokugawa Ieyasu becoming Yoshii Toranaga. A closer look reveals a few more historical discrepancies, both big and small.   William Adams vs. John Blackthorne William Adams with Daimyo and their Attendants, William Dalton, 1866. Source: Wikimedia Commons   Shogun is not a documentary. Beyond not being insultingly inaccurate about Japanese culture, it has no obligation to be a history lesson with high production values. Its primary goal is to be an entertaining story, and judging by the number of awards that the show has won, it has succeeded in that. And yet, a lot of fans of Shogun will naturally wonder how much of the series really happened. We will examine this through the lens of the show’s three main characters, starting with John Blackthorne.   Blackthorne is based on William Adams, a real-life English navigator who arrived in Japan in 1600 when his Dutch vessel, Liefde, came ashore in Kyushu, one of the four main Japanese islands. Just like in the show, his crew was initially detained while the local Jesuit priests urged the authorities to execute them. The hostility between the Portuguese missionaries and Blackthorne is probably one of the most realistic elements of the show. According to the 1494 Treaty of Tordesillas that divided the world between Spain and Portugal, the Portuguese laid claim to Japan and were not willing to share it with Protestant nations like England or the Netherlands.   View of Dejima in Nagasaki Bay Folding Screen, Kawahara Keiga, 1836. Source: Museum Volkenkunde; Wikimedia Commons   In the spirit of fairness, it is worth pointing out that they were right to worry as, after things settled down for Adams in Japan, he made contact with the Dutch East India Company who quickly sent trading ships to Japan. In 1641, after Catholicism had fallen out of favor in Japan, the Protestant Netherlands became Japan’s only source of contact with the outside world through the artificial island of Dejima in Nagasaki. But back to Adams’ story.   Managing to secure a meeting with Tokugawa Ieyasu—who, like Toranaga, was consolidating power at the time and preparing for the final battle with his enemies that would result in the creation of the Tokugawa shogunate—Adams managed to escape death and found his way into the feudal lord’s service. Unlike in the show, though, his later life was relatively drama-free. Adams shared with Ieyasu his knowledge of shipbuilding and navigation and was put in charge of some naval construction projects. He might have helped influence some of Japan’s policies concerning the outside world by providing information about the political situation in Europe, but he was far from being Ieyasu’s close confidant or a minister in the government. He definitely did not square off against ninjas or other assassins.   Engraving of, From Left to Right, Blijde Boodschap, Trouw, Geloof, Liefde (William Adams’ ship) and Hoope, Zacharias Heijins, 1600. Source: Artwork from the book Wijdtloopigh Verhael via Wikimedia Commons   Blackthorne’s cultural assimilation into Japanese society, however, has a historical basis as Adams learned to speak Japanese, married a Japanese woman, and took on the Japanese name of Miura Anjin (The Pilot of Miura). While he was made a samurai, he was never part of the ruling class. Due to his foreign status, William Adams always remained just on the outside of Japanese society; close enough to get a good look at it (the letters he wrote in Japan are important sources for historians) but not close enough to make any substantial contributions to it outside of trade and maritime navigation.   Hosokawa Gracia vs. Toda Mariko Hosokawa Gracia, Asami Matsue, 1930. Source: Kyoto National Museum   Playing the role of translator between Blackthorne and Toranaga and providing viewers with a fascinating look into the world of female Japanese nobles, Toda Mariko has been one of the standouts of Shogun. But was she a real person and what was her role in the Tokugawa shogunate? The answers to these questions are respectively: yes, though heavily fictionalized, and none, since she died before Ieyasu consolidated his power and started a dynasty that lasted for more than two-and-a-half centuries.   Mariko is based on Hosokawa Gracia (1563-1600), born Akechi Tama, a fascinating though tragic figure of Japan’s civil war period. She was the daughter of Akechi Mitsuhide, once a general in the service of Oda Nobunaga, the man who kickstarted the unification of Japan and whose equivalent on the show is Kuroda Nobuhisa. Nobunaga was ultimately forced to commit seppuku after being betrayed by Mitsuhide. On Shogun, the turncoat general takes a more active part in his lord’s death, which brings dishonor on him and forces him to kill his entire family and then himself. Mariko was then forced to marry the brutish Buntaro as punishment for her father’s crime.   This is where the show deviated the most from reality. Akechi Mitsuhide was actually killed by a peasant bandit after escaping from the forces of Toyotomi Hideyoshi (the show’s Taiko, whom Toranaga used to serve) out to avenge Nobunaga. Following her father’s death, Tama, who had been married since she was 16, was placed under house arrest by her husband, Hosokawa Tadaoki, for both of their protection. It was during that time that she converted to Christianity, took on the name Gracia, and dedicated herself to the study of Latin and Portuguese.   Hosokawa Gracia Monument. Photograph by Spockasia, 2018. Source: Wikimedia Commons   She did not have a chance to practice any of them with Adams, because the two never met. There was a four month window between Adams’ arrival in Japan and Gracia’s death, but it never resulted in a meeting between the two. Instead, Gracia chose to end her life to not become a political pawn. When Ishida Matsunari (Ishido Kazunari on Shogun) tried to kidnap the wives of the samurai loyal to Ieyasu before the Battle of Sekigahara of 1600, Gracia reportedly instructed one of her retainers to kill her. It has been suggested that she did not opt to take her life herself like so many other Japanese nobles before her because of her Christian faith. Needless to say, she was not exploded by ninjas.   The connection between Mariko and Gracia is obvious, from their Christian devotion to their linguistic abilities and being at odds with the enemies of Ieyasu/Toranaga through their familial connections. But a closer examination reveals all of that to just be surface similarities that obscure a real-life figure whose story easily rivals that of the fictional Mariko in drama and pathos.   Tokugawa Ieyasu vs. Yoshii Toranaga William Adams before Shogun Tokugawa Ieyasu, William Dalton, 1866. Source: Wikimedia Commons   There is an oft-repeated, totally apocryphal, but deeply symbolic story about Japan’s three unifiers. One version of the tale is found in Taiko, a fantastic historical novel by Eiji Yoshikawa. The story goes that the three men were asked what they would do if they had a bird that would not sing. Oda Nobunaga supposedly said: “Kill it.” Toyotomi Hideyoshi supposedly said: “Make it” or “Make it want to sing,” while Tokugawa Ieyasu said: “Wait.” While fictional, it does get to the heart of who Ieyasu was as a person, especially around 1600.   Like the real Ieyasu, Toranaga is portrayed on Shogun as a man of great patience and quiet cunning. A shrewd navigator of the complex world of late 16th-century Japanese politics, he knows exactly when to apply pressure, when to be merciful, and how to properly utilize every person in his orbit to achieve his own goals. In all those regards, Shogun did a pretty good job portraying the future founder of the Tokugawa Shogunate. If there is any criticism that can be levied against Shogun, it is maybe that it has made Toranaga a little too serious and ignored all the fun (albeit probably apocryphal) stories in Ieyasu’s biography.   Portrait of Tokugawa Ieyasu by Kano Tan’yu, early 17th century. Source: Wikimedia Commons   There is a legend that, in 1573, Ieyasu stopped at a teahouse while retreating from the Battle of Mikatagahara, when suddenly he got word that his enemies were closing in on him. Making a run for Hamamatsu Castle, he was allegedly stopped by the teahouse’s elderly owner and made to pay his bill in front of his soldiers. That is apparently the etymology of the Zenitori area of modern-day Hamamatsu City, which literally translates to “The Taking of the Money.” Whether true or not, it is what has been told about Ieyasu, showing that in the eyes of his Japanese countrymen, there was a lighter side to him.   There is also this: Ieyasu cut his teeth as a military commander while fighting Buddhist zealots known as the Ikko-Ikki in Mikawa, which today makes up the eastern part of Aichi Prefecture in central Japan. The Ikko-Ikki were a powerful populist movement in 16th-century Japan and while they primarily recruited their “holy warriors” from among peasants, some samurai did join their ranks. In Mikawa, one of the old centers of Ikko-Ikki activity, this also included some of Ieyasu’s own retainers, which could have shaped his later views on religion and the value he placed on loyalty.   Tokugawa Ieyasu with Help from the Jodo Monks of the Daiju-ji Temple in Okazaki, Defeats the Ikko-ikki at the Battle of Azukizaka, Yoshitoshi, 1873. Source: Wikimedia Commons   In the end, the Daiju-ji temple in Okazaki sent Ieyasu a regiment of warrior monks to help defeat the Ikko-Ikki. As part of the ensuing peace agreement, Ieyasu agreed to restore the Ikko-Ikki compounds to their original state. So he burned them down, arguing that an empty field was their original state (Turnbull, S., p. 17). This dark sense of humor could really have completed the portrayal of Toranaga in Shogun. But this might be unfair criticism, especially given that the entire first season of Shogun is only 10-episodes long and its action takes place within less than one year. In that context, Toranaga is a good portrayal of Tokugawa Ieyasu (though, once again, he did not fight ninjas). The show has already deviated somewhat from the novel, and since it uses flashbacks, perhaps in Season Two we will see more fleshing out of Toranaga and more details about Ieyasu shrouded by the thin veils of fiction.   Works cited:    Turnbull, S. (2008), Japanese Warrior Monks AD 949 – 1603. Osprey Publishing.

Beneath the familiar rhythms of Italian life in the 1970s, something had fractured. The café tables still filled each evening along Rome’s Via Veneto, couples still strolled through Florence’s Piazza della Signoria, and the espresso machines still hissed in Milan’s fashionable bars. But things were not as peaceful as they may have seemed in these quiet moments. Click here to view slideshow Between roughly 1969 and 1988, Italy descended into a period of political violence so pervasive that it earned a chilling nickname: Anni di Piombo, or the Years of Lead — a reference to the lead bullets that became horrifically commonplace in the Italian streets. It wasn't a conventional civil war with clear front lines, nor was it a foreign invasion that united Italians against a common enemy. The Years of Lead represented a battle of extreme ideologies, and it was characterized by acts of terrorism and violence from both far-left and far-right groups. The country was simultaneously on the brink of a Marxist revolution and another fascist takeover. It was a dark chapter that casts a shadow to this day. The casualty count of the Years of Lead tells part of the story: tens of thousands of acts of political violence, hundreds dead, and thousands wounded. But numbers alone do not fully capture the psychological toll those decades took on a nation that had rebuilt itself from the ashes of fascism and World War II, only to find itself unable to guarantee its citizens' safety just a generation later. The Piazza Fontana Bombing Marks A Dark Turn For Italian Democracy Dec. 12, 1969, began as an ordinary Friday in Milan, but around 4:45 p.m., that normalcy was destroyed by a deadly tragedy. As customers stood in line at the Banca Nazionale dell'Agricoltura in Piazza Fontana, a bomb exploded with devastating force, tearing through the crowded bank. "I was sitting at my desk behind the bank counter. I heard a blast, a bolt which stunned me," clerk Michelle Carlotto told the BBC at the time. "In the smoke I saw a body fly from the public section above the counter and fall one yard away from me. I was shocked, I couldn't move." Three more explosions went off across Rome around the same time, leaving at least 16 people dead within the hour and dozens more wounded. In the aftermath, Italian Prime Minister Mariano Rumor called what came to be known as the Piazza Fontana Massacre "an act of barbarism which has no precedent in the history of the country." But while this extreme attack may have been unheard of at the time, it ultimately set the precedent for the next two decades of violent extremism. The bombing was a turning point that graduated political unrest to the mass casualty terrorism and insidious misdirection that marked the Years of Lead. La strage di Piazza Fontana e le bombe a Roma/Light HistoryA massive funeral in Milan for the victims of the Piazza Fontana massacre. December 1969. Police initially arrested Pietro Valpreda, an anarchist, along with other left-wing activists, feeding a narrative that leftist extremists were responsible. The media amplified this story, and for a time, it seemed to confirm the fears of conservative Italians that radical leftists posed an existential threat to social order. Only gradually, through years of investigations, trials, and revelations, did a different picture emerge. The evidence increasingly pointed not to anarchists but to neo-fascist terrorists, specifically members of the Ordine Nuovo (New Order), a far-right group with disturbing connections to elements within Italy's security services. Some investigators began to use the phrase strategia della tensione — the "strategy of tension" — to describe what they believed was actually happening: right-wing terrorists were conducting attacks designed to be blamed on the left. The goal of this strategy was to create public fear and disorder to effectively justify authoritarian measures and discredit leftist movements. And the confusion and murky investigation surrounding the Piazza Fontana bombing became the template for Italy's descent into chaos, one that would play out numerous times during the Years of Lead. The Early Days Of The Years Of Lead The year 1974 was a particularly dark chapter in the Years of Lead, with two major attacks that showed just how far neo-fascist terrorists were willing to go. On May 28, during an anti-fascist demonstration in Brescia's Piazza della Loggia, a bomb exploded from within the crowd, killing eight people and wounding more than 100 others. It had been placed in a garbage can in the square, right where hundreds of citizens had gathered to protest against fascism, with the intent of eliminating as many of them as possible. Public DomainSmoke in the air just after the bomb went off at the Piazza della Loggia in Brescia. May 28, 1974. It wasn't the only attack that summer, though. On August 4, the Italicus Express, a train carrying vacationers from Rome to Munich, became the next target. As the train passed through a tunnel near San Benedetto Val di Sambro, a bomb went off in one of the cars, killing 12 people and wounding another 48. According to a New York Times report from the following day, investigators did not know at the time who had set off the bomb but said the attack "appears certain" to have been a terrorist act. Later investigation and trials once again pointed to neo-fascist groups, but like before, it was difficult to link specific individuals to the attack with any confidence. Regardless of who perpetrated the act, both of these bombings in such close succession drove home a terrifying reality that nowhere was safe — not public squares where people exercised their democratic right to assembly and not even trains full of families on vacation. The Kidnapping And Murder Of Aldo Moro By The Red Brigades On the far-right side, neo-fascists aimed to terrorize through indiscriminate slaughter, but the far-left was not beyond terror either. The most notorious leftist organization during Italy's Years of Lead was the Red Brigades, and while its members did not typically resort to mass murder, their preferred methods were just as brutal: targeted assassinations and kidnappings designed to strike at the heart of the state. Of all their operations, though, none were as audacious as the one they pulled on March 16, 1978. That day, the Red Brigades kidnapped Aldo Moro, the former prime minister and president of the Christian Democracy party. As Moro's motorcade traveled through Rome's Via Fani, Red Brigades members staged an ambush that left his five bodyguards dead and the politician himself spirited away to a secret prison. For 55 days, Moro became a hostage and propaganda tool as the Red Brigades issued statements portraying themselves as revolutionary tribunals judging the crimes of the Italian state. Moro himself, a skilled negotiator who had been working to bring Italy's Communist Party into government — a historic compromise that might have stabilized Italian democracy — wrote increasingly desperate letters to colleagues and family, pleading for negotiation. Unfortunately for Moro, the Italian government, led at that time by Prime Minister Giulio Andreotti, adopted a firm policy of refusing to negotiate with terrorists. Public DomainA photo of Aldo Moro that was released by the Red Brigades after he was abducted. It was a decision that sparked agonizing national debate. Should the state bargain for one man's life, even its own former leader, and risk legitimizing terrorism? Or should it hold firm to principle regardless of the personal cost? Before anyone could settle on an answer, however, Moro's situation came to an abrupt end. On May 9, 1978, Aldo Moro's body was found in the trunk of a car parked on Via Caetani in Rome, halfway between the headquarters of the Christian Democrats and the Communist Party — a clearly symbolic choice of location. He had been shot 11 times. The murder certainly shocked Italy and the world, but it did not bring the Red Brigades the revolution they sought. Instead, it galvanized public opinion against political violence and provided the impetus for a more robust state response to terrorism. In a way, the kidnapping and murder of Aldo Moro represented the height of the Red Brigades' operations and, ultimately, the beginning of their decline. And like the Piazza Fontana bombing, the specifics of who was involved in Moro's death are murky and still something of a mystery to this day. Several Red Brigades members were caught and imprisoned, but conflicting testimonies and an unclear timeline made it difficult to determine that the terrorist group had operated alone. Regardless, Moro's assassination marked a major turning point in Italian political discourse, but the Years of Lead still had yet to come to an end. In fact, the deadliest attack was still on the horizon. The Bologna Station Bombing, The Deadliest Attack During The Years Of Lead At 10:25 a.m. on Aug. 2, 1980, a bomb that was hidden in an unattended suitcase at Bologna's Centrale train station detonated with catastrophic force. The explosion destroyed the waiting room and collapsed much of the station's western wing. The death toll climbed to 85, and 200 other people were wounded, making the tragedy the single deadliest attack of the Years of Lead. Like every other investigation, determining the actors behind the attack was complex. It would take years of trials, appeals, and retrials to secure convictions of neo-fascist terrorists from the Nuclei Armati Rivoluzionari (Armed Revolutionary Nuclei). Public DomainThe destruction at Bologna Centrale train station after the explosion on Aug. 2, 1980. But the legal proceedings also unveiled disturbing allegations about the Propaganda Due — a secret Masonic lodge with connections throughout Italy's political and military establishment — and its apparent involvement in covering up the truth about the bombing. The Bologna massacre also proved to be a breaking point for the public. The strategy of tension had reached its apex, and as the city of Bologna began to rebuild and remember victims, several larger factors impacting Italy as a whole began to converge. First, the Italian state developed more effective counter-terrorism capabilities, including specialized police units and the introduction of laws allowing pentiti — repentant terrorists who agreed to cooperate with authorities in exchange for reduced sentences. It was a controversial policy, but it proved to be highly effective at enabling the police to break down terrorist cells. Second, the political landscape evolved in ways that undercut extremist narratives. The Italian Communist Party, for example, maintained its commitment to democratic processes and explicitly condemned political violence, denying terrorists any legitimate claim to revolutionary credibility. The political compromises and coalitions that Aldo Moro had died trying to achieve also eventually came to pass in modified forms, stabilizing Italian democracy even as it remained characteristically tumultuous. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, Italian society itself turned decisively against political violence. The Years of Lead had taken a toll, and young people who might have once been attracted to radical ideologies increasingly saw terrorism as morally and practically bankrupt. The culture decided that if change was going to happen, it would do so democratically — not with bullets or bombs. The scars of those Years of Lead still exist in the Italy of today, but in the end, the country's democracy survived. It didn't happen overnight, but the power of the people — not the shadowy institutions that divided them — prevailed. After learning about Italy's Years of Lead, see our collection of photos from the worst riots in American history. Then, read the little-known story of the Colfax Massacre. The post 33 Photos That Reveal How Terrifying Italy’s Years Of Lead Really Were appeared first on All That's Interesting.

  The court of Tudor England was known for its decadence and grandeur, so what would Christmas have looked like at the court of King Henry VIII? One year, the king reportedly spent 13 million pounds on his celebrations, the equivalent of an entire year’s tax revenues. This paid for the finest food, the best entertainment, and hospitality extended to everyone, noble and humble alike. Discover what Yuletide festivities looked like at the Tudor court.   Advent: Fasting, Prayer, and Solemnity Pope Gregory I, by Jose de Ribera, 1614. Source: Wikimedia Commons   If you happen to be the sort of person who despairs at the sight of a Christmas tree in October or rolls their eyes at the sudden appearance of a Christmas advert in November, Christmas in Tudor England may have appealed. During the 16th century, there would be no singing, no feasting, no dancing, no decorating, and strictly no merriment at all until Christmas Eve, December 24th.   The weeks leading up to Christmas were known as Advent, introduced by the Church in the early 7th century. Pope Gregory I is best remembered for composing the many prayers, antiphons, and psalm responses associated with the season. But rather than a time of celebration, this was a period of fasting, prayer, solemnity, and spiritual preparation for the significant events that lay ahead.   The Adoration of the Shepherds, by Gerard van Honthorst, 1622. Source: Digitale Bibliothek MV   Fasting was the most important ritual of Advent, linked with Bishop Perpetuus of Tours (c. 5th century), who originally ordered that certain foods should not be consumed during the run-up to Christmas. The Tudors refrained from eating meat, cheese, and eggs, but also from playing games, dancing, and even engaging in amorous activities.   Decorations: Kissing Boughs, Candles, and Yule Logs King Henry VIII, by Meynnart Wewyck, 1509. Source: Wikimedia Commons   When the Tudors started decorating on Christmas Eve, they went all out, but without a Christmas tree in sight. During the early years of his reign, King Henry VIII liked to spend Christmas at Greenwich Palace, just as he had done as a young child. He later moved his celebrations to the bigger and much more luxurious palace of Hampton Court. The Palace was decorated with evergreen leaves and sprigs of holly and ivy, filling it with the aroma of wintery plants.   Holly Tree. Source: Annie Spratt via Unsplash   Holly was considered the typical man’s plant, whilst ivy was for girls. If a Manor House was adorned with more ivy than holly, the gentlemen were made fun of for being ruled over by the women. Mistletoe was also a favorite, too, as was kissing under the white berries. The Tudors tied together bunches of mistletoe and named them kissing boughs.   In the houses of poorer folk, Christmas greenery would have a more symbolic use than decoration. Leaves were entwined around machinery such as the distaff, a form of spinning wheel, to ensure that the women did not work over the Christmas period.   However, the centerpiece of Tudor Christmas decorations was the Yule Log. On Christmas Eve, the strongest gentlemen at King Henry VIII’s court would roll in an enormous piece of wood. It was lodged in the fireplace in the banqueting hall and burned over the next twelve days.   An illustration of people collecting a Yule Log taken from Chambers’ Book of Days, by Robert Chambers, 1864. Source: Wikimedia Commons   Almost every household in England would have had a Yule Log, and those hosting celebrations were obliged to provide one for guests. Christmases were cold in the Tudor Era, and so the Yule Log provided some of the heat required to keep the guests warm. Candles were also placed around the home to light dark evenings and ensure the festivities continued well into the night.   All decorations were picked and positioned by nightfall on December 24 and remained firmly in place over the twelve days of Christmas.   The Twelve Days of Christmas: Feasts and Festivities Massacre of the Innocents, by Pieter Brueghel the Elder, 1565-7. Source: RKD Images   During the 16th century, Christmas began on the 25th of December (the Feast of the Nativity of Jesus) and ended on the 5th of January (the night before the Feast of the Epiphany). These days were collectively known as the Twelve Days of Christmas.   It was King Alfred the Great (ruled 871-886) who originally established the observance of the twelve days of Christmas in England. He mandated that these days should be kept by everyone in the kingdom and that all legal proceedings, all work, and all fighting should come to a halt on Christmas Day, and should not restart until the end of the period.   Within the twelve days of Christmas fell several liturgical feasts, all of which were observed with the attendance of a mass. For example, the Feast of Saint John the Evangelist (December 27th), the Feast of the Holy Innocents (28th), the Feast of Saint Thomas Becket (29th), and the Feast of the Holy Family of Jesus (30th). While mass was a serious ritual, the remaining time was spent in fun and frivolity.   Saint Stephen’s Day (December 26th) is now better known as Boxing Day due to the tradition of giving gift boxes to servants who worked on Christmas, but got the 26th off.   Christmas Carols: Here We Come A-Wassailing  Henry VIII, after Hans Holbein the Younger, 1540-7. Source: Art UK   To say that the Tudors loved to sing Christmas Carols would be an understatement. They just loved to partake in an activity known as Wassailing. The Oxford English Dictionary gives two definitions of the term Wassailing. The first: “To drink plentiful amounts of alcohol and enjoy oneself in a noisy, lively way.” The second: “To go from house to house singing carols.” The Tudors combined the two.   Although many of our favorite carols were written during the Victorian era, there are many that were composed during the time of King Henry VIII, if not long before. Just a few of these include The Cherry Tree Carol, The Coventry Carol, I Saw A Maiden, The Boar’s Head Carol, O Come Emmanuel, Gaudete, Ding Dong Merrily On High, Good Christian Men Rejoice, and even We Wish You A Merry Christmas.   The popular carol “Good King Wenceslas” is based on a real duke of Bohemia known for his charity.   Food: Boar’s Head, Mince Pies, and Mulled Wine Cardinal Thomas Wolsey, c. 1585-96. Source: Art UK   One of the main points of Christmas in the Tudor Era was that it could be enjoyed by everyone, regardless of their financial position. It was the duty not only of the king but also of other wealthy nobles to keep an open house at Christmas. Thanks to this endless Yuletide generosity, servants, tenants, and other less fortunate folk were all able to experience a Christmas fit for royalty.   For example, in the year 1525, Cardinal Thomas Wolsey welcomed a great number of people into his home. The English lawyer and historian, Edward Hall (1496-1547), recorded the event in his chronicles: “The Cardinal in this season lay at the Manor of Richmond, and there kept an open household, to Lords, Ladies, and all the others that would come, with plays and disguisings in a most Royal manner.”   Christmas Pie, by William Henry Hunt, 1847. Source: Wikimedia Commons   One of the main things that the kings, cardinals, and other nobles provided was an unthinkable amount of food. Some favored dishes included mince pies with real meat inside, plum pudding, marzipan (then known as marchpane) cut into all kinds of beautiful and artistic shapes, various jellies, and even an early form of mulled wine. A creation known as Tudor Christmas Pie was the main event. This consisted of a turkey stuffed with a goose, stuffed with chicken, stuffed with partridge, stuffed with pigeon, all baked within a pastry case.   It was the Tudors who pioneered food as a serious culinary experience.   While dining, all guests would be entertained by a variety of performers, including court jesters, acrobats, fire-eaters, jugglers, mummers, fools, and musicians. In between the long periods spent in the banqueting hall, time was spent hunting, partaking in sports, dancing, socializing, singing, and playing card games and word games.   Presents: The Giving and Receiving of Gifts Anne of Cleeves spending Christmas at Court, portrayed by Joss Stone in the television series The Tudors. Source: Pinterest   It was not Christmas Day, but New Year’s Day, that was allocated for the giving and receiving of presents.   At the court of King Henry VIII, many nobles saw this gift-giving as an opportunity to outdo each other. The aim was to present the king and queen with the most valuable, unique, and coveted gift they could afford to buy.   One notable example of Yuletide gift-giving can be found in the letters of the Spanish ambassador, Eustace Chapuys, who retold the events of January 1, 1532. His letter describes how King Henry VIII publicly declined a gift from his wife, Catherine of Aragon. King Henry had promised his wife-to-be, Anne Boleyn, that he would receive nothing from his exiled Queen.   King Henry VIII was also known as a generous gift-giver. He sent each of his friends and servants a small or large piece of silver; the exact amount was determined by nothing other than how much favor each person had accumulated throughout the previous year. While it may seem a little unimaginative, this was an extremely generous gesture. From King Henry VIII, the Duke of Norfolk received 30oz of silver. But it was Cardinal Wolsey’s name that appeared at the top of the inventory, receiving 40oz.   Twelfth Night (The Last Night of Christmas)  Twelfth Night Merry-Making in Farmer Shakeshaft’s Barn, by Phiz, 19th century. Source: Wikimedia Commons   In the Tudor Era, Twelfth Night was one of the most exciting evenings of the year. It was also the night before the 6th of January, otherwise known as The Feast Of The Epiphany or Three Kings Day.   One of the favorite traditions of the Tudors was electing a Twelfth Night king or queen. This was a temporary but seemingly hilarious role reversal between the king and a lowly servant. Once elected, the Twelfth Night king or queen would preside over the evening of entertainment, wielding an unlimited amount of power for a couple of hours.   The election process was simple. The palace chefs prepared a Twelfth Night Cake, like a modern Christmas cake, but a secret item, such as a coin or bead, was baked into the cake. Shared at the feast, whoever received the piece with the secret inside became the king or queen for the night. They would then dictate what games were played, dances danced, songs sung, and so forth. They were affectionately named the Lord or Lady of Misrule.   This tradition was inspired by the Roman festival of Saturnalia, a pre-Christian festival that also fell in December.   A Silver Groat of Henry VIII, 1544-7. Source: British Museum   A similar tradition was played out in the churches and cathedrals of England. A young boy would be selected to take the place of the bishop and would preside over the Christmas celebrations from Saint Nicholas Day (December 6th) until the Feast of the Holy Innocents (December 28th).   Scene from Twelfth Night with Malvolio and the Countess, by Daniel Maclise, 1840. Source: The Tate   William Shakespeare’s famous comedy, originally known as What You Will, was later titled Twelfth Night. This is not a recommendation from Shakespeare about when to perform the play, but instead a suggestion of the many role reversals, particularly between the noblemen and the servants, which occur frequently within the story.   The Legacy of Christmases Past Scrooge and the Ghost of Christmas Present, by John Leech, 1843. Source: Wikimedia Commons   In 1843, Charles Dickens declared the importance of Christmases gone by in his most famous novel, A Christmas Carol. At the end of the story, after experiencing a life-changing epiphany, Ebeneezer Scrooge delivers his most heartwarming speech: “I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year,” declares Scrooge, “I will live in the Past, the Present and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach.”