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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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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. |
Janell Rhiannon
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