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Why do we study war? It’s a question that makes many people uncomfortable, especially in modern classrooms where war is often treated as something distant, tragic, and best forgotten. Yet historian Victor Davis Hanson argues in his essay Why Study War? that ignoring war does not make it disappear. Instead, it leaves societies unprepared to understand conflict, recognize danger, or preserve peace. Hanson points out that military history has steadily declined as a field of study, even though war itself has never disappeared from human experience. He argues that studying war is not about glorifying violence, but about understanding human nature. Wars are shaped by discipline, leadership, culture, technology, and the will of societies to defend themselves. When citizens lack knowledge of military history, they lose the ability to judge decisions about war wisely or understand the consequences of conflict. In democratic societies especially, Hanson warns that citizens must understand war because they ultimately bear its costs and make decisions about its use. [https://www.city-journal.org/article/why-study-war] That argument resonates deeply with those of us who study ancient literature especially the Greek epics. Because long before textbooks and documentaries, the ancient Greeks were already asking the same question: What does war do to human beings? And nowhere is that question explored more powerfully than in The Iliad. War is not selective One of the most important lessons from studying war—whether through history or literature—is that war is never selective in its destruction. War does not care about social class. It does not care about wealth. It does not care about race, identity, or status. War destroys landscapes, economies, families, traditions, and entire ways of life. When we read The Iliad, we are not simply watching heroic warriors fight outside the walls of Troy. We are witnessing the collapse of a world. Crops go untended. Families wait in fear. Fathers bury sons. Wives become widows. Children grow up without protection. Animals, fields, and cities alike suffer the consequences of prolonged conflict. War is not simply a clash of armies. It is the unraveling of civilization. That is why studying war matters. The Iliad as a Study of the Cost of War Hanson reminds us that military history teaches us about sacrifice and consequence. Homer shows us the same truth, but through story rather than analysis. In The Iliad, we see not just victories, but grief. We see warriors who are not invincible heroes, but men pushed to the limits of endurance. Among them stands Achilles, the greatest of the Greek warriors, whose arc reveals the psychological cost of prolonged warfare. Achilles enters the war already marked by destiny. He knows his life will be short. He knows his glory—his kleos will come at the price of time. Yet even knowing this, he cannot escape the emotional toll of war. By the time Patrokles dies, Achilles is no longer simply angry. He is unraveling. Modern readers might recognize what today would be described as trauma. What we now call post-traumatic stress. Years of combat, loss, and rage push him toward revenge so consuming that he momentarily loses himself to violence. His killing of Hector is not just an act of war. It is an act born of grief and fury that war has magnified beyond reason. And yet even revenge offers no peace. That is perhaps Homer’s greatest insight. War and continued violence does not restore what it destroys. Achilles’ Final Realization The full arc of Achilles does not end with his victory over Hector. It continues beyond The Iliad, reaching into The Odyssey. When Odysseus encounters Achilles in the Underworld, the once-glorious warrior delivers one of the most sobering reflections in all of ancient literature. All his kleos, all his fame, all his victories literally none of it was worth the cost. Achilles tells Odysseus that he would rather live as a poor farmer on earth than rule among the dead. Glory had brought immortality in memory, but it had stolen life itself. That moment transforms Achilles from hero into warning. And it is precisely why studying war matters. Why War Must Be Studied & Not Forgotten Victor Davis Hanson argues that societies ignore military history at their own peril. Homer shows us why. When we study war, we are not celebrating violence. We are confronting reality. We are learning how fragile civilizations can be. We are witnessing how quickly order collapses under sustained conflict. War reshapes cultures. It erodes economies. It devastates families. It scars landscapes and memory alike. And perhaps most importantly, war changes people. Even the best of warriors are not immune. Achilles, the greatest of the Greeks, ultimately becomes one of the clearest examples of war’s cost—not just in lives lost, but in humanity strained to its breaking point. That is why we study war. Not to glorify it. Not to romanticize it. But to understand its power and its price. — Janell Rhiannon © 2015, revised 2026 Janell Rhiannon. All rights reserved. 
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Summer has a way of changing how we notice the world. The sandals come out, the dust rises from the road, and suddenly the small details—the ones usually hidden—step into view. Most people, when asked about beauty, talk about eyes, smiles, broad shoulders, or the unmistakable strength of a warrior’s arms. Greek poets certainly did. They praised gleaming armor, golden hair, and chests bronzed by the sun. But there is one feature rarely celebrated in song, despite its quiet importance. The foot. Yes, the foot. Stay with me here. In the world of heroes—whether in epic poetry, sculpture, or battlefield lore—the foot carried men across kingdoms, over mountains, and into the heart of legend. Before ships sailed and chariots thundered, warriors walked. They marched miles beneath burning skies. They climbed rocky hillsides. They stood firm in shield walls. A hero’s strength began at the ground beneath him. I suspect my appreciation for this particular detail began years ago while studying classical art. There are moments in art history that shift how you see the human form forever. One of those moments came while standing before the statue of David. Everyone talks about David’s posture, his gaze, his tension before battle. But what struck me most were his feet—strong, grounded, carved with deliberate care. They are not decorative. They are functional. They root him to the earth like an oak before the storm. Those feet belong to someone prepared to stand his ground against a giant. And perhaps that is the deeper appeal. Strong feet suggest steadiness. Balance. Reliability. A warrior who can stand firm when everything around him begins to fall apart. In epic literature, that steadiness matters. Heroes are defined not only by how fiercely they strike, but by how firmly they remain standing when others cannot. Consider the long marches of the Achaean army across foreign soil, or the defenders of Troy holding the walls day after day. Before glory came endurance. Before victory came miles of dust, stone, and exhaustion. Even in quieter moments, there is something unmistakably comforting about the sound of steady footsteps approaching—a reminder that someone capable, reliable, and grounded is nearby. The Greeks understood this well. Stability was strength. Endurance was beauty. So perhaps the next time summer arrives and sandals replace boots, it is worth noticing the small details that history often overlooks. Not every heroic trait glitters in bronze or flashes in sunlight. Some are quiet, grounded, and easy to miss. But without them, no hero stands. — Janell Rhiannon © 2015, revised 2026 Janell Rhiannon. All rights reserved. Every once in a while, a character appears on screen who feels strangely familiar, even if he lives in a completely different world. That happened to me while watching Sons of Anarchy. Somewhere between the roar of motorcycles, the leather cuts, and the constant tension inside the club, I realized I had seen this story before. Not in California. Not in modern times. But outside the walls of Troy. At his core, Jax Teller reminds me of Achilles. Not because they live the same kind of life, but because they share the same dangerous blend of loyalty, pride, fierce love, and emotion-driven decisions. Both men act from the heart first and deal with consequences later. Achilles, the greatest warrior of the Greeks, lived for honor and loyalty to those closest to him. His world was shaped by the bonds he trusted most. When those bonds were threatened, his response was swift and intense, often reshaping the fate of everyone around him. Jax Teller moves through life in much the same way. His loyalty to his club, his family, and the idea of what his world should be drives nearly every decision he makes. Even when he knows the risks, he pushes forward because loyalty matters more than comfort. Both men also inherit legacies larger than themselves. Achilles carries prophecy in his blood. From birth, his life is tied to destiny and reputation. Jax inherits the vision of his father, written in journals and whispered through memory. Each man struggles with the same question: how do you honor the past without becoming trapped by it? Then there is the matter of anger. Achilles’ rage is famous enough to open The Iliad. His anger fuels the conflict that drives the entire epic forward. Jax also wrestles with anger that simmers beneath the surface. It is not empty fury, but emotion sharpened by grief, betrayal, and responsibility. Both men believe they are acting in defense of something worth protecting. Both discover that revenge rarely ends cleanly. And for both men, there is a moment when loss breaks something inside them. When Opie Winston dies in Sons of Anarchy, it begins to undo Jax in ways that feel hauntingly familiar to readers of Homer. Opie was not just a friend. He was brother, confidant, and the one man who grounded Jax when the world around him spun into chaos. His loss shakes Jax at his core, just as the death of Patroclus shattered Achilles. When Patroclus fell beneath the spear of Hector, Achilles did not simply mourn. He unraveled. Grief became fury. Fury became violence. The man who had once withdrawn from battle returned as something darker and more dangerous. Ancient writers would later describe warriors like Achilles in these moments as berserkers, fighters consumed by rage and driven beyond reason. Jax reaches a similar threshold. At one point, Jax makes the chilling observation that you cannot sit in the president’s chair without becoming a savage. Leadership demands hardness. It requires choices that stain the soul. Achilles faced the same transformation. By the end of The Iliad, he is no longer the warrior who simply seeks glory. He becomes something more brutal, more relentless, a man consumed by vengeance and grief. In both stories, grief strips away restraint. What makes these characters compelling is that they are not mindless fighters. They think. They question. They wrestle with the cost of their choices. At times they see the consequences clearly, yet still step forward because turning back feels impossible. Watching Jax Teller navigate loyalty, power, and consequence often feels like watching a modern echo of Bronze Age heroism. Replace motorcycles with chariots, trade guns for spears, and shift California highways into the dusty plains of Troy. The emotional core remains the same. Different armor. Same struggle. And perhaps that is why stories like these continue to resonate. Whether told in ancient poetry or modern television, we are drawn to the same kind of figure. The man who loves fiercely. The man who fights for those closest to him. The man who carries the weight of his choices long after the battle ends. Because in the end, every age tells the same stories. Only the weapons change. — Janell Rhiannon © 2015, revised 2026 Janell Rhiannon. All rights reserved.
Every story has its kings and warriors, but the women behind them often wield power just as sharp as any blade. Sometimes sharper. While watching Sons of Anarchy, I found myself thinking about one woman in particular from Greek myth: Clytemnestra. At first glance, the worlds could not be more different. One ruled a Bronze Age palace built of stone and bronze. The other moved through the shadows of modern California, commanding respect inside an outlaw motorcycle club. Yet the longer you watch Gemma Teller, the harder it becomes to ignore the resemblance. Both women are mothers first. Not gentle, passive mothers tucked quietly behind the scenes, but women who understand that survival sometimes demands decisive action. They are protectors of their bloodline, guardians of legacy, and architects of vengeance when they believe their families are threatened. Clytemnestra is often remembered for one act above all others: the killing of her husband, Agamemnon. To later audiences, it reads as shocking betrayal. But within the logic of myth, her actions are rooted in grief and rage. Agamemnon sacrificed their daughter, Iphigenia, in exchange for favorable winds to sail to Troy. A king secured glory. A mother buried a child. Years passed, but grief does not fade simply because time moves forward. When Agamemnon finally returned from war, Clytemnestra did not hesitate. She exacted revenge with deliberate precision. Her violence was not wild or reckless. It was planned, measured, and rooted in the belief that justice demanded action. Gemma Teller operates from a similar place of conviction. When she believed that Tara posed a threat to her son Jax and the future of the club, she acted with terrifying certainty. Like Clytemnestra, Gemma did not view herself as a villain. She believed she was protecting her family, preserving order, and defending what mattered most. Her choices were brutal, but in her mind, they were necessary. That is what makes both women so unsettling. They do not act from madness. They act from purpose. Both understand that power does not always sit on a throne. Sometimes it moves quietly behind the scenes, shaping events long before the world notices what has happened. Both women wield violence not as an emotional outburst, but as a calculated tool. They believe that hesitation invites weakness, and weakness invites ruin. Yet there is always a cost. Clytemnestra’s vengeance secured justice in her eyes, but it also set into motion the downfall of her household. Her son, Orestes, would one day return to avenge his father. Blood called for blood. Revenge created more revenge. Gemma’s story follows a similarly tragic path. Her decision to eliminate Tara did not preserve her family. It fractured it. Her attempt to protect Jax ultimately contributed to his unraveling. That is the quiet truth both stories reveal. Women like Clytemnestra and Gemma Teller are not powerless figures reacting to events beyond their control. They are decision-makers. Strategists. Women who step forward when others hesitate. They wield authority not through title, but through will. And perhaps that is why they endure as unforgettable figures in their respective worlds. Not because they were gentle. Not because they were forgiving. But because they were willing to do what others feared. Queens of vengeance do not wait for justice. They create it. — Janell Rhiannon © 2015, revised 2026 Janell Rhiannon. All rights reserved. There are moments when I sit with The Iliad open in front of me, pencil in hand, annotating line after line, when a single thought rises above everything else: How in the world did Homer remember all of this? Not just the battles. Not just the heroes. But the catalogues of ships, the genealogies, the speeches that roll on for dozens of lines without faltering. I find myself flipping back through pages, checking names, tracing relationships, marking themes, and wondering how one poet managed to carry an entire war inside his memory. Meanwhile, I sometimes forget why I walked into the kitchen. The deeper I go into annotation, the more astonishing the achievement becomes. Every time a warrior is introduced, he is not just named but placed—son of this father, from that city, tied to this lineage. These details matter because identity mattered in the Bronze Age world. A man was not simply himself. He was his ancestors, his homeland, his reputation. Homer preserves those connections with remarkable consistency, as if he is walking through a living memory rather than composing from imagination. Of course, scholars remind us that Homer likely did not memorize the poems in the way we memorize modern texts. He worked within an oral tradition, one built on rhythm, repetition, and formulaic phrases that made storytelling easier to carry across generations. Epithets like “swift-footed Achilles” or “rosy-fingered Dawn” were not just poetic flourishes. They were anchors, memory tools that allowed the bard to weave long narratives without losing his place. Even so, the scale of the achievement still feels staggering. Sometimes I imagine Homer standing before an audience, voice rising above the crackle of firelight, the rhythm of his words carrying the story forward while listeners leaned in to hear what happened next. No pause button. No notes. No search bar. Just memory, voice, and the weight of tradition behind him. And here I am, surrounded by books, notes, bookmarks, and digital tools, still amazed at the sheer endurance it must have taken to hold such a vast story in the mind. The longer I work through these lines, the more respect I feel not just for the poetry itself, but for the discipline behind it. It makes modern writing struggles feel a little less heroic by comparison. And yet, perhaps that is the quiet lesson hidden beneath the poetry. Great stories are not only inspired. They are practiced, refined, and carried forward by persistence. Even if we occasionally lose our place in the middle of a paragraph. — Janell Rhiannon © 2015, revised 2026 Janell Rhiannon. All rights reserved. |
Janell Rhiannon
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