By Kiran Williams

No other figure has captured the attention of scholars working towards a more diversified understanding of medieval Europe, and a more sophisticated apprehension of medieval conceptions of race, than St. Maurice, the Theban soldier-saint whose corporeal features have been extensively scrutinised in both written and visual interpretations. In particular, the 13th-century statue of him at Magdeburg Cathedral, which shows him with phenotypically African features, has been widely discussed. The singularity of this depiction compared to other medieval artistic representations of Maurice—which previously had shown him as a white Roman soldier—seems to have been analyzed and discussed through two major lenses: Maurice’s status as a foreign soldier, one with sufficient strength of arms to command a Theban Legion; and as a martyr, with sufficient strength of purpose in devotion to Christ to restrain those arms and be killed for his faith. 

Despite a considerable body of scholarship focusing both on artistic representations of Maurice and his cultural and religious legacy, there has yet to be a deep dive into how these scholars have chosen to write about Maurice, nor any critical examination of the specific language used by these authors to describe those visual characteristics which so evidently distinguished the saint from his contemporaries. In this paper, I will analyse several pertinent pieces of scholarship from the past two decades, considering commonalities and discrepancies in the authors’ descriptions of St. Maurice, his origins, and his place in the paradigm of European sainthood from the 11th to 15th centuries. In conducting this historiographical review, I seek to understand contemporary scholarship examining the relationship between race and sanctity, as well as the ways that historians have attempted to define “race” in Maurice’s historical milieu. 

Runoko Rashidi’s 2016 essay “The Black Saint Maurice: African Saint in Early Europe” is perhaps the most idiosyncratic work considered in this review. Rashidi, a Pan-African anthropologist, historian, and novelist, does not attempt to defray image through analytical writing, instead composing a photo essay which includes images of both the Magdeburg Cathedral statue alone and photographs with Rashidi standing next to it. The article also takes a first-person approach, with Rashidi describing the Magdeburg Maurice in terms that relate to his own experience of viewing. He begins the essay with a summary of the etymology of Maurice’s name, his personal view of Maurice within the larger canon of Catholic saints, and the genesis of his depictions in literature and art. Rashidi immediately refers to St. Maurice as “like a Moor,” distinguishing him as “The Black St. Maurice.” He summarises the events that led to Maurice’s martyrdom in his own terms, using short sentences which recount the number of soldiers in Maurice’s legion and the date of his martyrdom. This section outlines both the early history of St. Maurice’s veneration across Europe and the ways in which this veneration often referenced the influential Holy Roman Emperor Charlemagne. Immediately after, Rashidi inserts two close-cropped photographs—watermarked with his name to identify him as the photographer—of the Magdeburg Maurice’s face at frontal and oblique views. 

In the text that follows, he strongly affirms both the importance of Maurice’s associated symbols in representing the virtues of the Carolingian dynasty and his symbolic potency as a much relied-upon saint across class levels, a ubiquitously relevant and powerful intermediary. Throughout this section, Rashidi concretises his historical narrative with exact dates, like the (oft-disputed) 1240 C.E. installation of the Magdeburg statue, and traces the international diffusion of Maurice’s iconography, emphasizing how Maurice came to be widely revered and worshipped. Rashidi then moves to quote Gude Suckale-Redlefsen’s 1987 article of the same name, “The Black Saint Maurice, ”which highlights the heavily clad nature of Maurice’s silver mail, its contrast with his dark skin, and his indisputably non-European features. Another of Rashidi’s photos, with the statue, is included between the two text blocks in which this quote is included. Moving on to the use of Maurice’s imagery, Rashidi touches on the cultural importance of the “Moor’s head” as an iconographic motif employed in battle and religious processions before concluding with a statement underscoring the exceptional nature of a black saint being worshipped in a predominately white culture. 

Rashidi concludes his essay with twelve reproductions and photographs of what he claims are the most notable images of St. Maurice, with Rashidi’s name watermarked over a reproduction of Matthias Grünewald’s Saint Erasmus and Saint Maurice. These images depict the primary icons, all done in contemporary styles of the 16^th and 17^th centuries, associated with Maurice in his capacity as soldier-saint: a red-cross shield, golden sword, and elaborate silver-gilt armor.. From Rashidi’s article emerges a picture of St. Maurice as a crucially important, and near-universally esteemed, historical figure. Rashidi’s emphasis on the intricacy of the icons created and sublimity of monumental religious spaces erected in Maurice’s honor, effectively affirms Maurice’s importance and recognizability in the canon of saints, but does little to explain why Maurice was such a popular saint, or to consider how the veneration of the Black St. Maurice, in a culture deeply steeped in white supremacy, might have differed from that of any other saint. He simply presents a basic, accessible, holistic picture of Maurice that affirms the crux of his recognisability and fame on his race, while intimating that the Black St. Maurice is a figure separable from St. Maurice as a whole, a distinct interpretation [1].

In 2014, Anu Mänd, an art historian studying the semiotics of the Middle Ages, produced “Black Soldier – Patron Saint: St. Maurice and the Livonian Merchants,” which focuses on the iconography of St. Maurice in Livonia, a historical region in present-day Latvia. Mänd begins by introducing the phenomenon of using a black saint’s head as an emblem above mercantile establishments, emphasising the peculiarity of a black figure being chosen over a white one. Like Rashidi, she then summarizes the narrative of Maurice’s martyrdom.  However, unlike Rashidi, she attributes the decision to refuse Emperor Maximian’s order to attack Christians, the decision which precipitated the martyrdom of the Theban Legion, not to Maurice himself but the Legion as a whole. Mänd then moves to provide a short summary of relic translations associated with Maurice in Europe, the use of the Holy Lance as a symbol for him, his iconographic place in the Crusades, and his immense popularity as the patron saint of Magdeburg. She establishes this historical foundation with strings of dates and places that focus on the “cult of St. Maurice,” rather than St. Maurice as a purely human figure. 

It is here that Mänd analyses the blackness of St. Maurice’s iconography in the shifting ideological milieu of 12^th century Europe, arguing that attitudes towards Black people, long characterized by conceptions of blackness as “the ugliness of evil and sin,” were beginning to shift. Mänd suggests that an increasing familiarity with Black individuals at court and in popular writing led to devotional practices which transcended racial discrimination and “othering,” pointing as evidence to the increased frequency with which “positive” Biblical figures (largely St. Maurice, St. George, and the Virgin) were depicted as Black. Mänd further suggests that Maurice’s oscillating racial depictions across Europe might correspond to shifting views of blackness in positive and negative terms. While she does not explicitly identify the causality and exact nature of this dynamic, her inclusion of this theory suggests that she perceives both black and white depictions of St. Maurice as representing the same figure fundamentally, rather than distinguishing the black images—as Rashidi does—as a distinct epithet. She frames her discussion of the Virgin and St. George in this physiognomic framework, arguing that the negativity typically associated with dark skin might be ignored if sufficient piety was evident in the given figure. This system of values introduces an interpretation of medieval race-making which positions St. Maurice’s blackness as an oppositional force to his sainthood, and which positions his enshrinement in the Catholic canon of saints as happening despite his blackness rather than in conjunction with or apart from it. Mänd argues that, while saints with black skin were no longer completely atypical by the 15th century, black saints were often mistakenly identified as St. Maurice, testifying to the enduring power of blackness as an identifying characteristic.

Mänd continues to delineate the history and practice of the Black Heads’ Guild, describing their function as a discrete social group in Livonia, their veneration of St. Maurice, and the iconographic link between the cult of St. George—another vastly more popular soldier-saint who was, occasionally, depicted as Black—and the cult of St. Maurice. She suggests that the Black Heads’ Guild’s use of St. Maurice’s iconography was largely a function of his status as a soldier-saint, and that this iconography had additional cultural resonance in light of Livonia’s history as the target of predominantly German-led crusades. Mänd’s interpretation of St. Maurice as a figure whose blackness was subordinated to his role as warrior and martyr, and which became ancillary to his worship in Livonia, directly contrasts with Rashidi’s positioning of Maurice as exceptional because of his blackness. Where Rashidi emphasizes the ideological contradictions associated with the veneration of a dark-skinned saint on a predominantly white, Christian continent, Mänd seemingly argues that these contradictions did not exist when the Magdeburg statue was erected in the 13^th century, thus excising issues of racial differences and blackness from her piece. She is then able to use the term “black” without having to deal with the meaning of blackness in a medieval setting or the importance of blackness to devotional practice. As such, she presents a St. Maurice who is similar to Rashidi’s, but whose emblematic prowess is generic and whose corporeal form is an accessorial rather than defining characteristic. Mänd opens her piece in much the same way as Rashidi closes his—by questioning the worship of black saints alongside white saints, but neither fully delve into the medieval practises which would seem to make exalting a black person as a holy martyr atypical, surprising, or objectionable [2].

In contrast to Mänd, who contends that imagery of Maurice proliferated in a (mostly) racially tolerant 12^th century setting, Geraldine Heng, a medieval literary scholar and critical race theorist, suggests, in “An African Saint in Medieval Europe: The Black Saint Maurice and the Enigma of Racial Sanctity” (2014) that black depictions of St. Maurice were borne out of a culture deeply steeped in animosity towards black Africans. Like Rashidi and Mänd, Heng first summarises Maurice’s martyrdom and the spread of his iconography across Europe, emphasizing the exceptional nature of his blackness as a holy figure, noting the ways in which his relics served as exoticized objects with the power to create an imagined Africa in European consciousnesses. Unlike Mänd, Heng also suggests that the acceptance of his blackness by white society was less a function of his holiness than it was his historicity and authenticity as an antique figure. Heng analyses Maurice’s martyrdom and iconographic connection to that of contemporary crusader kings through the lens of comparative literature, juxtaposing 13th-century literary fantasy with Eucherius’ Passion of the Martyrs to illustrate the ways in which Maurice’s idiosyncratic popular image synthesized conceptions of the chivalric lord knight and the Christian soldier. She further argues that Maurice is defined by four primary characteristics: his blackness/Africanness, his elevated social status as a knight, his devotion to Christianity, and the earliness of artistic depictions of him as black.

While Heng, like Rashidi, distinguishes Black Maurice as a distinct figure, she argues that this blackness was not, as Rashidi seems to suggest, of mysterious origins, but instead reflective of the multiethnic composition of the courts of the Holy Roman Empire in the 12^th century. Critically, Heng refutes the idea put forth by Mänd that blackness had purely negative connotations before the 12^th century. Instead, Heng suggests that, in the Germanic kingdoms in which the Black Maurice first appeared, his blackness served as a sort of expansionist symbol –  one which reflected both the universality of the Christian faith and the secular scope of Frederick II’s empire. She does incorporate the discussion of physiognomic values present in Mänd’s piece in considering the sinfulness attached to black bodies as an expression of “universal salvation.” Put simply, where Mänd argues that sanctification wards off the sin of blackness, Heng argues that blackness itself, when acknowledged as a sin, and forgiven, begets piety; black bodies, too, might be saved. The Magdeburg Maurice is, in Heng’s estimation, both subversive of sanctified value systems and, as an affirmation of the universal redeeming power of Christ, an implicit affirmation of them. Heng concludes by considering the Magdeburg statue in light of two key art historical developments in the early-to-mid 13^th century: the creation of increasingly life-like and dynamic statues which encouraged interaction with the viewer, and a broader trend towards idealised artistic representations of “pure [whiteness].” She suggests that the latter development hindered the creation of other artistic representations of Maurice past the late 13^th century, affirming Kaplan and Devisse’s view of the Magdeburg statue as a singularly successful representation of a black African. Further, while Mänd and Rashidi centre their studies primarily on historical data, Heng largely focuses on the intersection of visual analysis, literary comparisons, and her own inferences to construct her analysis [3]. 

The last piece of scholarship considered here is Effrosyni Zacharopoulou’s 2015 article, “The Black St Maurice of Magdeburg and the African Christian Kingdoms in Nubia and Ethiopia in the Thirteenth Century.” Like Heng, Zacharopoulou begins by affirming the importance of the statue as indicating a transformation in “racial identity” before summarising the statue’s history, its connection to Otto I, and its contemporary symbolic significance to crusaders. Zacharopoulou suggests that the blackness of the Magdeburg Maurice is particularly notable in light of the fact that the Christianised kingdoms around Thebes, the Egyptian city from whereMaurice and his fellow legionaries are thought to have originated, were incredibly ethnically varied, precluding an interpretation of the statue’s blackness as solely rooted in historical authenticity. Instead, Zacharopoulou suggests that the Magdeburg statue is best considered in light of critical 13^th century political developments which preconfigured its creation: continued European contention with Arab and Egyptian Muslims in the form of the Fifth Crusade (1217-1221), the intensification of Papal military and ideological campaigns against heresy, and changes in European relations with eastern and African Christians. Zacharopoulou argues that the creation of the Magdeburg statue, and associated societal acceptance of the iconography of a black Maurice, stemmed in part from increased contacts with African Christians in and around Egypt during the Crusades, suggesting that the Magdeburg Maurice is best seen as symbolizing the scope of imperial power and the integration of African Christians into Christendom, though Zacharopoulou also argues that the statue must be understood in its localized geographic context [4].

Turning to consider the commonalities and discrepancies in the authors’ approaches to evaluating St. Maurice’s blackness and Africanness, all four draw extensively on historiographic and primary sources to establish the historical account of Maurice’s martyrdom, the development of his cult, and the proliferation and use of his iconography. All of the articles seem to agree on four core characteristics of a black St. Maurice: he appeared in the mid-13th century and was closely associated with European kings; his Magdeburg statue is the most unique and noteworthy likeness of him; his blackness and sanctity are in conversation with medieval associations of colour with good and evil; and he was accepted by medieval Christians for veneration. Yet despite these fundamental similarities in structure (and, it should be stressed, in sources), comparing these articles reveals four distinct portraits of St. Maurice. That Rashidi’s St. Maurice— a symbol of a sort of proto-Black Power, universally venerated for his decisiveness and courage—exists besides Heng’s St. Maurice—whose blackness primarily testifies both to the salvatory power of Christ and the geographic extent of German imperium—clearly demonstrates both the enduring historiographic ambiguity around Maurice and the ways in which, as a singularly notable black saint, he retains contemporary resonance. 

What is remarkable about these comparisons is not their summation of Maurice as a historical figure—in the context of other 3^rd century saints, a historical Maurice seems plausible, if not likely—but the extraordinarily different settings in which they situate him. Rashidi’s narrative centres him as a legendary hero at the intersection of the modern and medieval, emphasizing his perennial relevance in a European culture which was, and continues to be, deeply biased against blackness. Indeed, Rashidi’s emphasis on Maurice’s personal virtues in the nexus between his iconography and contemporary regal iconography testifies to the extent to which Rashidi has gone to restore to him what we might call historical agency. By contrast, Mänd and Zacharopolou, both of whom largely focus on rigorous historical accounts of the saint’s iconography and cult within a more localized geographic context, situate Maurice in a society both familiar and accepting of his “difference” by virtue of exposure. But while Mänd suggests this iconographic acceptance through the fifteenth century indicates the prioritisation, by European Christians, of Maurice’s piety over his blackness, Zacharopoulou argues that that such an acceptance is all of the more exceptional because of the enduringly hostile climate towards blacks in much of Europe, similar to Heng’s situation of Maurice within a disturbingly racist “discourse on blackness… of vicious black African[s].” This fundamental contention between the authors over the nature of antiblackness at the time of the creation of the Magdeburg Maurice suggests the existence of a relatively nuanced racial environment, one in which blackness was neither entirely accepted nor outright rejected. 

As to the specific language the authors use in explaining the “difference” found in various depictions of St. Maurice, there seems to be minimal regularity or standardization in the vocabulary employed. The nearly interchangeable use of African, black, Africoid, and Negroid throughout the Rashidi, Mänd, and Zacharopoulou pieces raises interesting questions about the definition of these terms in a medieval context. In outlining the variability in skin color of other artistic representations of Maurice, Mänd notes that some artists took a middle ground, opting to depict his blackness but not his African phenotype, an interpretive decision which suggests, in turn, that the two were not seen as one and the same. Heng and Zacharopoulou, too, choose to present the two characteristics as distinct, often describing Maurice as a “black African.” Heng is deliberate in specifying blackness as “epidermal race”—skin colour used to identify place of origin—while Rashidi seems to align blackness with a state of being, a cultural phenomenon accompanied by expectations of inferiority which Maurice, exceptional as he is, surmounts. Zacharopoulou explicitly refutes the notion that St. Maurice of Magdeburg’s blackness was solely rooted in his specific geographic origins in literature, pointing to a 13th-century belief in the correlation between dark-skinned people and anti-papal heretics, which would imply an interpretation of racial identity as a systemic, morally-derived, man-made label rather than an indication of Theban heritage. 

Additionally, Rashidi and Mänd both describe the Magdeburg statue as an important image in the development of Maurice’s cult, but do not describe the actual image beyond the features that make it identifiably African. Heng and Zacharopoulou, however, describe or allude to the statue’s qualities—the properties which evoke empathic responses from the viewer—but do not choose to explicate which physical characteristics, precisely, contribute to the statue’s Africanness. The radically different approaches to documenting the characteristics of the statue raises a critical question: are a defined set of traits for African bodies necessary in this context? Do Heng and Zacharopolou see Africanness as self-explanatory, as so obvious as not to warrant description? Or do they see a list of physical features as inherently exclusionary, restrictive to a more expansive and diversified vision of Africanness? Reciprocally, Rashidi and Mänd’s particular identification of full lips and a broad nose as distinctly African traits bears consideration, especially in the context of whether these would have been the defining characteristics of an African man in the 13th century. Though Rashidi and Mänd, unlike Heng and Zacharopolou, do not use the terms “race” or “racialised,” the apparent consensus that St. Maurice’s blackness affects his interpretation naturally implies that the environment in which he emerged was involved in practices of discrimination between pictures of dissimilarly coloured and shaped bodies, practices which potentially bear resemblance to ideas of race-making. 

Our comparative analysis of these articles also raises the question of how interpretations of a black St. Maurice fit—or are impelled—into 21st-century racial discourse. Both Rashidi and Mänd employ a particularly contemporary lens in their study of Maurice. Mänd’s analysis of the historiography of the Black Head’s Brotherhood makes extensive mention of contemporary issues of racism in the production of scholarly texts, while Rashidi’s photo essay format, accessible writing style, and emphasis on Maurice as a singularly exceptional black figure in non-African Christendom aligns his piece more closely with a public history angle. Indeed, Rashidi’s inclusion of photographs of Maurice marked with Rashidi’s name, as well as photographs of himself in front of the Magdeburg statue, striking the same pose and expression, seem to invite comparison between the attested African features of the statue and those of Rashidi, thereby subverting accusations of anachronism and presentism in applying racial language to St. Maurice. Rashidi suggests, then, that the presentation of blackness and Africanness in a medieval context has profound bearing on modern conceptualisations of race. 

It is clear that, even in those articles not explicitly focused on the Black St. Maurice of Magdeburg alone, the statue is still centred as the predominant visual reference for the meaning of a dark-skinned likeness of Maurice, a focus evident in the inclusion, in all four article titles, of phrases like “The Black St. Maurice” and “black St. Maurice”. Further research might aim to provide deeper analyses of works of art depicting St. Maurice as black outside of the immediate space of Frederick II’s reign [5]. Such work might provide additional context for how black depictions of St. Maurice were received over time, and might reveal critical discrepancies in styles of artistic representation across temporal and geographic space. Additionally, scholars might further emphasize the ways in which Maurice’s iconographic blackness affected his hierarchical position and functionality within the cult of saints, looking to how, if at all, the specific acts including gift giving, the decoration of altar spaces, and processions, which constituted the interpersonal relationship between worshipper and saint were affected by the way in which Maurice was racialized, and whether there exists a clear emphasis among worshippers on one of his core attributes; black, African, soldier, martyr. 

Footnotes

[1] Rashidi, Runoko. “The Black Saint Maurice: African Saint in early Europe.” Journal of Pan African Studies, vol. 9, issue 7 (2016).

[2] Mänd, Anu. “Black Soldier – Patron Saint: St Maurice and the Livonian Merchants.” Nordic Review of Iconography, no. 1 (2014): 56-75.

[3] Heng, Geraldine. “An African Saint in Medieval Europe: The Black Saint Maurice and the Enigma of Racial Sanctity.” In Sainthood and Race: Marked Flesh, Holy Flesh,” ed, by Molly H. Basset and Vincent W. Lloyd, first edition, (Oxfordshire: Taylor & Francis, 2014): 18-44.

[4] Zacharapolou, Effrosyni. “The Black St Maurice of Magdeburg and the African Christian Kingdoms in Nubia and Ethiopia in the Thirteenth Century.” Southern African Journal of Medieval and Renaissance Studies, vol. 25, (2015)

[5] See Maryan Ainsworth, Sandra Hindriks and Pierre Terjanian’s “Lucas Cranach’s ‘Saint Maurice’” for an example of such a work, with a focus on visual analysis.

Bibliography 

Heng, Geraldine. “An African Saint in Medieval Europe: The Black Saint Maurice and the Enigma of Racial Sanctity.” In Sainthood and Race: Marked Flesh, Holy Flesh,” ed, by Molly H. Basset and Vincent W. Lloyd, first edition, (Oxfordshire: Taylor & Francis, 2014): 18-44. 

Mänd, Anu. “Black Soldier – Patron Saint: St Maurice and the Livonian Merchants.” Nordic Review of Iconography, no. 1 (2014): 56-75. 

Rashidi, Runoko. “The Black Saint Maurice: African Saint in early Europe.” Journal of Pan African Studies, vol. 9, issue 7 (2016): 150-166. 

Suckale-Redlefsen, Guda. Der heilige Mohr /The Black Saint Maurice. First edition, (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1987): 19. 

Zacharapolou, Effrosyni. “The Black St Maurice of Magdeburg and the African Christian Kingdoms in Nubia and Ethiopia in the Thirteenth Century.” Southern African Journal of Medieval and Renaissance Studies, vol. 25, (2015): 77-110.

By Kash Radocha 

A ship sails across the Mediterranean sea, having departed from Turkey and en route to Holland. When it arrives in a Dutch harbor, the buyer of the shipment discovers a strange plant tucked away inside his crates, most likely a gift from his Turkish vendor. Unsure of what it truly is, he plants a few in his vegetable garden, until in the spring, a wide array of colored flowers pop up and baffle him. It was through a visitor of this man’s garden that they were identified as tulips; thus, the true cultivation of the flower began, and it was studied by a man named Carolus Clusius. Native to the Middle East, the tulip was a beautiful flower unknown in Europe prior to the 1500s. When it first arrived, most did not know what to make of it; some thought it was an allium species, and promptly ate it. However, this plant would soon play a much more significant role in Dutch history. 

The 1634–1637 collapse of the Dutch tulip market has been widely characterized by historians and economists as the first speculative bubble in history, in which asset prices–in this case, the contract prices of newly introduced tulips–far exceeded their intrinsic valuation. While this assessment is undoubtedly accurate, there actually lies a deeper and evidently overlooked rationale that can be critically attributed to the collapse. This paper dives into the many circumstances using a variety of sources surrounding the tulip trade, the economic collapse of the market, and the underlying causes that ultimately led to the collapse of the Dutch economy. In doing so, it explores a separate answer that places blame not only on risky trade behaviors, but also emphasizes the flowers being traded as the main variable. In this essay, I will argue that the Dutch economy surrounding the trade of tulips collapsed not simply because of the risk of speculative market trading, rather the tulips themselves presented as a causality for the inhibition of the trade because of a virus affecting their ability to reproduce.

Judith A. Lesnaw and Said A. Ghabrial cite in their journal that the botanist credited with being the father of tulips, Carolus Clusius, began planting some of the first tulips in Holland, studying the plant and writing down his observations [1]. Clusius was reluctant in selling his findings; mainly because in addition to the normal, solid color bulbs he was growing, he was also growing an extremely strange and special variant, for the true nature of the flower’s existence was unknown. Nobody knew their genetic composition and the reasons for the captivating pattern, and only looked on to their beauty. So, because of his resistance, many resorted to breaking into his garden and stealing rare plants to reproduce for their own profit. The widespread cultivation of the flower can be attributed to this thievery. According to Mike Dash, author of the book Tulipomania: The Story of the World’s Most Coveted Flower & the Extraordinary Passions It Aroused, the spreading of the tulip gained so much momentum that “by 1630 professional flower growers could be found in almost every town in the Dutch Republic” [2]. 

However, its exotic introduction can account for its success among investors. Since it was a new, gorgeous introduction into European life, many coveted the flower. But, looking back to Clusius reveals a different answer. Many of the bulbs Clusius planted had sprung up with captivating patterns, which he described as the flowers being “broken.” To consider a flower broken, the petals of the tulip had to have strayed from a solid color and developed a pattern of streaks of an alternating color. Dash claims that the earliest observations of the phenomenon date to about 1580, but probably existed previously [3]. Much later, it was discovered that a virus was the cause for these patterns. At the time, however, his reluctance to sell this variant of the flower seemed to be because his was the only garden in Europe in which it could be found. Clusius likely had his speculations since he had studied botany for most of his adult life; he may have been reluctant to sell as he was still studying the cause for these varying patterns. Regardless, the flowers were stolen, and soon these unique flowers spread rapidly and were sold to the highest bidder. The economy took a turn for the worst for traders years later in 1637 when the entire trade eventually collapsed. Historians credit the failure to investors’ inability to pay the growers the high price originally agreed upon previously, but a major factor seems to be overlooked in terms of the trade failures. Ultimately the true failure of the entire trade rested in the tulips themselves, because the virus that caused their unique appearance had catastrophic consequences on the flowers, unbeknownst to the Dutch at the time. 

For a time the flowers sold no matter their color because of the high demand, since tulips were new to Europe and cultivated mainly in Holland. However, as the popularity of these “broken flowers” took Holland by storm, the value of tulips changed drastically, and evidently so, broken tulips came out on top for their unique and rare beauty. Economist Peter M. Garber of Brown University states that the value of solid colored bulbs was non-existent, except for the chance that they might break [4]. He also describes the flowers of the trade, and maintains that the most important varieties of tulips were in fact diseased for over two centuries of European cultivation. The Amsterdam Tulip Museum records that “at the height of Tulip Mania, it was the ‘broken’ flowers that had speculators running wild. Viceroy, Admiral Van Der Eijk, the legendary Semper Augustus… they all featured a distinct, broken pattern.” [5]. This pattern, as described by the Museum, was the result of a virus inflicted against different species of tulips. The best visual of the breakage could be found on the breed Semper Augustus, immortalized in paintings by various European artists. Its petals were coated in brilliant red and streaked with white stripes that looked similar to soft brushstrokes by a paintbrush, and each bulb was slightly different from the rest. It is understandable as to why this flower was the most coveted of them all, since it was not only rare but also uniquely gorgeous [6].

However, the existence of these broken tulips led to serious ramifications. Despite the continued cultivation of these diseased flowers over numerous generations, the virus caused serious damage to the flower’s health and spread to other plants if the tulips were grown relatively close by. The Museum notes that “spread by aphids, this tulip breaking ‘mosaic’ virus infects the bulb and causes the flower to ‘break’ its lock on a single color” [7]. Aphids are small insects that rely on plants and flowers for nutrients, just like many other insects. These aphids discussed are the facilitators of what are known to be potyviruses: “Dekker et al. characterized ‘five viruses that cause color breaking in tulips and concluded… that they are distinct potyviruses’” [8]. The authors go on to elaborate on the effects of the individual viruses and conclude that they are not solely physical. Rather than the virus exclusively affecting the pigmentation of the petals, it was also inhibiting the flower’s ability to reproduce in sufficient and healthy quantities. At the height of the Dutch tulip trade, the facts about tulip breakage were not well-known, and the only evidence of the virus was physical. Lesnaw and Ghabrial specify that in terms of the tulip’s health, the potyviruses reduced flower size, pollen production, and seed set [9]. With each generation of infected flower produced, the offspring were gradually weaker and less abundant than the parent’s generation. After many generations, this led to early withering in flowers that were bred too quickly despite their sickly state and resulted in varieties of some tulips no longer growing. This caused major issues for growers since their coveted flower could no longer be sold. Historian Anne Goldgar describes that sales of the flowers came to take the form of contracts for future deliveries [10]. If the grower was lucky, their intended buyer would have already paid for the flower, but would never actually receive a shipment because the flower was never grown. When the deliveries were never fulfilled, both parties experienced financial problems. Thus, the very virus that made a particular tulip species so valuable also caused the species to be physically vulnerable and impaired the grower’s ability to meet demand. 

Reproducing the virus to grow the much-coveted tulips was tricky for growers largely because of the lack of scientific knowledge at the time. Growers had no way of knowing how the virus spread, when it would take hold, or when the virus would cause the flower to wither away. Further, Garber notes that planting the seed of an infected flower will only result in a common flower because the virus infects only the bulb [11]. The downfall of the entire trade could be largely attributed to this inability to determine if the infection would take hold of the offspring of the infected parent. Many growers typically replanted the daughter bulb of the parent tulip, simply because it would bloom once again the following spring. Growers favored this method because seeds took multiple years to finally bloom. The Amsterdam Tulip Museum further supports the statement that every time an infected flower was replanted, its offspring were less abundant and even more sickly than the parent. Eventually, the tulip would have completely died, leaving no bulb to replant, meaning that broken tulips could no longer be reproduced quickly. It would take years to grow healthy flowers from seeds and transmit the virus to them, which would be far too long for any sustainable market focusing solely on the tulip. They reinforce this by stating: 

Over time, the virus weakens the bulb and inhibits proper reproduction. WIth each new generation, the bulb grows weaker and weaker, until it has no strength left to flower and withers away. It is for this reason that legends of old, like the Semper Augustus, have gone extinct. It is also why many growers today view the breaks not as a benefit but as a danger that must be purged. [12]

This still did not prevent growers from planting the flower seeds, so the entire tulip craze evolved into a highly speculative market viewed as gambling [13]. This worked for a short period of time at the height of tulip mania, spanning from 1634 to 1637. However, due to the economic collapse of the market in 1637, it became clear that this form of trading was simply not sustainable.

One factor to consider in the collapse of the tulip trade was the rapid growth of bulb values. Initially, prices for the bulbs began to rise slowly as more bulbs were introduced into Europe and more buyers coveted this new rarity. Regardless of the reproductive effects of the virus, buyers demanded these broken tulips simply for their beauty and offered extremely high prices for them. In Dutch currency at the time, one florin, also known as a guilder, equaled about $150 in today’s money [14]. A single bulb of the rare Semper Augustus sold for at least 3,000 guilders or $150,000 today [15]. That means that the best tulip cost upwards of $750,000. Under normal circumstances, the wealthy would have been typically the only class that could even begin to afford these high prices. However, the craze for tulips infected every class. According to Hayes, the newspaper, The Library of Economic and Liberty, wrote, “The rage among the Dutch to possess [tulip bulbs] was so great that the ordinary industry of the country was neglected, and the population, even to its lowest dregs, embarked in the tulip trade” [16]. Since tulips were so deeply integrated into Dutch life, members of the lower classes who had hopes of gaining wealth or acquiring rare beauty had no choice other than to join in on tulip mania. They viewed it as an easy access to wealth and status, as instead of the commodity being traded being an extremely rare or exquisite item, it was a plant that could be reproduced in the simplest of gardens. These members of the lower classes began making promises of economic gain for the growers, such as entering into financial contracts with no actual repercussions, in return for the exquisite flowers: “Bulbs, which have to stay in the ground for most of the year, naturally lent themselves to future trading with the demand fueled by a highly unequal society looking for rare status symbols” [17]. These promises were never fulfilled as in 1637, the entire economic bubble surrounding tulip mania burst and left growers in economic despair. The demand for tulips from every economic class further exacerbated the damage of the market crash, but the idea of a speculative future market was new at the time and no one had foreseen the consequences. 

When they bloomed in the spring at the height of tulip mania in 1637, growers were petrified because they could not meet demands even though they had already been paid. This gamble was taken by the growers. It was also not just the quantity of tulips that caused growers to not meet their demands, but also the type of tulip. As a separate form of trust within this trading, Dash claims buyers had no chance of inspecting the bulbs before they bloomed [18]. This holds true as, again, bulbs needed to remain in the ground for most of the year before they bloomed. By the time they actually bloomed, buyers would probably have no chance to actually get their hands on any as others would have already invested prior to their growth. So, the type of tulip was critical to the amount they were investing, as breeds like the Semper Augustus had an extreme value ratio compared to simple solid color breeds. This gamble was taken by the buyers. Evidently, both parties in the trade took high risks, so in a way, the people of the trade were liable to the economic collapse, but not without the tulips. 

Hayes even states that buyers informed growers that they could not pay the price previously agreed upon, which caused the market to fall apart. Even so, if this faulty trust did not occur and buyers stayed true to their words about their investment, it was only a matter of time before the blame would have been placed on the growers. In the end, the trade would have collapsed at some point because of the virus. The Amsterdam Tulip Museum reinforces the statement that every time an infected flower was replanted, its offspring were less abundant and even more sickly than the parent. Eventually, the tulip would have completely died, leaving no bulb to replant, meaning that broken tulips could no longer be reproduced quickly. It would take years to grow healthy flowers from seeds and transmit the virus to them, which would be far too long for any sustainable market focusing solely on the tulip. The Amsterdam Tulip Museum supports this by stating: 

Over time, the virus weakens the bulb and inhibits proper reproduction. WIth each new generation, the bulb grows weaker and weaker, until it has no strength left to flower and withers away. It is for this reason that legends of old, like the Semper Augustus, have gone extinct. It is also why many growers today view the breaks not as a benefit but as a danger that must be purged. 

After the collapse of the peak prices during tulip mania, it took years for the tulip economy to settle. Holland still grew and cultivated tulips in greater numbers than the rest of Europe, but not to the same extent seen during the late 1630s. Dash describes the life of professional growers after the entire ordeal: 

This steady business was of inestimable value to the florists, who certainly must have lost a good proportion of their customers to the mania, and from scattered hints it appears that the bulb growers did what could to keep supply of the most favored species low. They thus contrived to maintain prices at a decent level for years, cannily resisting the temptation to breed more tulips and risk flooding the limited market that remained.

Since the collapse, some growers were still able to produce flowers. It is fortunate for the country that many still clung to growing and selling tulips, andt today the Netherlands still relies heavily on tulips for their trade market. Additionally, the flowers of the current trade are almost all completely different from those during tulip mania times. It took centuries for historians to understand why the tulip crop had failed so catastrophically. The phenomenon of “tulip breaking” was still unknown, and probably less widespread than it had been before. The Semper Augustus, one of the most beautiful species, was probably completely extinct along with many other broken breeds, and others managed to survive long enough to be studied as technology advanced greatly. The Amsterdam Tulip Museum cites that “it was not until 1928 that scientist Dorothy Cayley discovered the cause [of breaking] to be a virus.” [19]. The virus was dubbed the “mosaic virus” for its physical effects on the tulip as well as other plants that it ended up affecting. The tulip still remains as the most prominent example of the mosaic virus, since the visuals are most clear on flower petals as opposed to the leaves of other plants. Its effects were studied further and finally, after centuries, the Dutch had their answer behind tulip breaking: Cayley, having studied the flowers intensively, revealed it to be a negatively impactful virus against the flowers, which inhibited reproductive success and caused the breaking of pigmentation in their petals, and can ultimately be attributed to the eventual extinction from overbreeding of sickly bulbs. The Tulipmania Art Journal states that since tulip cultivation is still extremely important to the Dutch economy, they promptly banned cultivation of infected bulbs to protect plantations of tulips [20]. This led to even further extinction of infected breeds, and today very few remain in private conservatories and breederies. Some botanists outside of Holland still grow and produce infected breeds, simply because of their beauty and the higher prices offered to them. Still, the severity of tulip mania was never truly reflected again in today’s society, despite some broken tulips still being grown and sold.

Ultimately, it can be concluded that although the nature of a speculative market caused the economic collapse of the Dutch tulip craze, the true fault of the entire market rested in the flowers themselves. They were infected with a beautiful yet dangerous virus that inhibited proper reproduction of the flowers, so as multiple generations were bred in a short span of time,  fewer and fewer tulips actually bloomed. This held true especially for the rarest breed, Semper Augustus, which promptly went extinct and has been immortalized in paintings. The beauty of these tulips captivated many and took Europe by storm. Growers could not know that what caused the beautiful patterns of the tulip was actually a virus and that the trade was doomed from its beginnings. 

Footnotes

[1] Lesnaw, Judith A. and Said A. Ghabrial. “Tulip Breaking: Past, Present, and Future.” Plant Disease, vol. 84, no. 10, 2000, https://apsjournals.apsnet.org/doi/pdf/10.1094/PDIS.2000.84.10.1052. 1053.

[2] Dash, Mike. “Tulipomania: The Story of the World’s Most Coveted Flower & the Extraordinary Passions It Aroused.” 84.

[3] Dash, “Tulipomania,” 61.

[4] Garber, Peter M. “Tulipmania.” The Journal of Political Economy, vol. 97, no. 3, 1989, The University of Chicago Press. https://ms.mcmaster.ca/~grasselli/Garber89.pdf. 542.

[5] Amsterdam Tulip Museum. “Broken Tulips: The Beautiful Curse.”

[6] Amsterdam Tulip Museum.

[7] Amsterdam Tulip Museum.

[8] Lesnaw and Ghabrial. “Tulip Breaking.” 1055.

[9] Lesnaw and Ghabrial. “Tulip Breaking.” 1056.

[10] Goldgar, Anne. “Tulipmania: Money, Honor, and Knowledge in the Dutch Golden Age.” University of Chicago Press, 2007. 2.

[11] Garber. “Tulipmania.” 542.

[12] Amsterdam Tulip Museum.

[13] Lesnaw and Ghabrial. “Tulip Breaking.” 1053.

[14] Hayes, Adam. “Dutch Tulip Bulb Market Bubble.” Investopedia, Dotdash, 30 Oct 2021, https://www.investopedia.com/terms/d/dutch_tulip_bulb_market_bubble.asp.

[15] Lesnaw and Ghabrial, “Tulip Breaking.” 1053.

[16] Hayes, “Dutch Tulip.”

[17] Peterson, Deborah. “A Brief History of Financial Bubbles.” Insights by Stanford Business, Stanford Graduate School of Business, 24 Nov. 2014, https://www.gsb.stanford.edu/insights/brief-history-financial-bubbles.

[18] Dash, “Tulipomania,” 114.

[19] Amsterdam Tulip Museum.

[20] Tulipmania Art. “Tulips of Tulip Mania Times are Called Broken and are Illegal in the Netherlands.” Tulipmania Art Journal, 1 Oct. 2020, https://www.tulipmania.art/broken-tulips-and-are-illegal-in-the-netherlands/.

Works Cited 

“Broken Tulips: The Beautiful Curse.” Amsterdam Tulip Museum, 5 Dec. 2017, https://amsterdamtulipmuseumonline.com/blogs/tulip-facts/broken-tulips-the-beautiful-curse. Accessed 16 Nov 2021. 

Dash, Mike. “Tulipomania: The Story of the World’s Most Coveted Flower & the Extraordinary Passions It Aroused.” Crown, 30 Jan. 2001, pp. 42-114. 

Garber, Peter M. “Tulipmania.” The Journal of Political Economy, vol. 97, no. 3, 1989, The University of Chicago Press, pp. 535-560, 

https://ms.mcmaster.ca/~grasselli/Garber89.pdf. Accessed 17 Nov. 2021. 

Goldgar, Anne. “Tulipmania: Money, Honor, and Knowledge in the Dutch Golden Age.” University of Chicago Press, 2007, pp. 1-7. 

Hayes, Adam. “Dutch Tulip Bulb Market Bubble.” Investopedia, Dotdash, 30 Oct 2021, https://www.investopedia.com/terms/d/dutch_tulip_bulb_market_bubble.asp. Accessed 16 Nov. 2021. 

Krawisz, Daniel. “How the Free Market Works.” Mises Daily Articles, 27 Oct 2009, https://mises.org/library/how-free-market-works. Accessed 17 Nov. 2021. 

Lesnaw, Judith A. and Said A. Ghabrial. “Tulip Breaking: Past, Present, and Future.” Plant Disease, vol. 84, no. 10, 2000, https://apsjournals.apsnet.org/doi/pdf/10.1094/PDIS.2000.84.10.1052. Accessed 16 Nov. 2021. 

Peterson, Deborah. “A Brief History of Financial Bubbles.” Insights by Stanford Business, Stanford Graduate School of Business, 24 Nov. 2014, https://www.gsb.stanford.edu/insights/brief-history-financial-bubbles. Accessed 17 Nov. 2021. 

Tulipmania Art. “Tulips of Tulip Mania Times are Called Broken and are Illegal in the Netherlands.” Tulipmania Art Journal, 1 Oct. 2020, 

https://www.tulipmania.art/broken-tulips-and-are-illegal-in-the-netherlands/. Accessed 8 Dec. 2021.

By Noah Elazar

Thomas Sankara (1949–1987) was a socialist revolutionary leader who took control of the former French colony of Upper Volta in 1983. He constructed a new national identity as Burkina Faso, and implemented wide-ranging, radical social, political, and economic reforms. Sankara was a controversial figure for his extreme politics and after just four years in the presidency, he was killed by his former friend and right-hand man, Blaise Compaoré. His policies, many of which directly and greatly benefited the Burkinabè people, as well as the distinct figure that he put forth, means that after his death, Sankara has taken on a new status as a political icon. Today he is remembered around Africa, and to a lesser extent the world, as a symbol of pan-Africanism, anti-imperialism, and left-wing politics. Western media often distills him down to “Africa’s Che.” But Sankara was a distinct figure on his own, and there are several important aspects to his legacy which deserve much greater attention from the wider world.

Sankara’s early life gave him personal experience with both colonialism and political revolution in Africa, which shaped him into the leader he became. Sankara was born in 1949, under French colonial rule in the territory of Upper Volta. The French had conquered the area which was to become Burkina Faso towards the end of the 19th century, and the formal territory of Upper Volta was established in 1919. However, France never considered Upper Volta to be of much worth, mainly taking Voltaic men to be manual laborers in other colonies. Upper Volta would gain independence from France in 1960, when Sankara was eleven years old. However, the first president, Maurice Yamégo, had strong ties to France and very little in the country actually changed with independence. When Yamégo’s government was overthrown in a military coup six years later, Sankara started to realize the power and importance of the country’s military, which would play directly into his later style of governing. When the new government, led by Lieutenant Colonel Sangoulé Lamizana, established the country’s first military academy, Sankara applied to and was accepted into the very first class at the age of 17.

In the academy, a progressive professor invited Sankara into discussions about socialism, neocolonialism, and political revolution, especially in Africa. This marked Sankara’s first exposure to radical left-wing politics. He gained further personal experience with political revolution when, after excelling at the Voltaic military academy, he was invited for further training at a military academy in Madagascar. In the third and final year of his stay in the island nation, it descended into political turmoil ending with a military takeover.

After returning to Upper Volta, Sankara began a highly successful military career where he became close friends with other radical members of the military, including Blaise Compaoré, who eventually served as his second-in-command. He also gained national recognition after successfully staging an ambush in a border dispute with Mali.

By 1980, Lamizana’s government had been in power with relative stability for nearly 15 years, unusual in the volatile West Africa of the time. However, Lamizana seemed disinterested in addressing any of the social or economic issues left over from Upper Volta’s time as a French colony. By the end of the year, Colonel Saye Zerbo took power in a coup. Zerbo pledged to fight corruption and reorganize the government. Sankara was offered the position of Minister of Information under Zerbo, which he reluctantly accepted. He soon brought diligence and determination to his post however, in which he strongly encouraged press freedom, especially to hold government officials accountable. It was as a public servant where he truly started to build his reputation and image. He forewent the luxury car offered to major government officials and could be commonly seen riding his bicycle around the streets of the capital Ouagadougou. When Zerbo’s government shifted towards authoritarianism following periods of unrest, Sankara very publicly resigned with a speech and radio broadcast.

Just seven months after Sankara’s resignation, yet another coup placed the moderate Major-Doctor Jean-Baptiste Ouédraogo in the presidency, and Sankara was soon appointed Prime Minister as an effort to appeal to the radical members of the military. In his acceptance speech, he swore an oath that he and other government officials would serve only the people, not themselves. This oath would end up becoming an important part of his legacy. In this position, Sankara made several prominent speeches, growing his skill at public speaking and his reputation in Upper Volta. At one rally in Ouagadougou, he viciously attacked Upper Volta’s elites, engaging the crowd with a call-and-response. He would use this technique to great effect in many of his speeches to the Voltaic/Burkinabè people.

Sankara’s radical language alarmed conservative officers in the government, as well as France. The African affairs advisor to French president François Mitterrand landed in Ouagadougou on May 16, 1983. Although French involvement has never been officially confirmed, just hours later, Sankara was arrested and jailed. It was far too late for the government to get rid of Sankara, however. Protests erupted in Ouagadougou almost immediately, resulting in a two month period of political instability before Compaoré led a band of radical military officers favoring Sankara in yet another coup. On August 4, 1983, Sankara made a radio announcement that the government had been overthrown and that he was leading a new revolutionary process.

As president, Sankara would continue to develop into an iconic figure. He was almost always seen in military fatigues and distinctive red beret, and, very importantly, he was seen. Sankara was never content to rule from the presidential palace; instead he visited villages around the country, making speeches and getting hands-on with government projects. Although more of an uncommon sight, he could still be seen cycling or even jogging unaccompanied around Ouagadougou. Intentionally or not, many of his policies created distinct symbols of his dedication to the common people. He sold off the government fleet of Mercedes cars and replaced them with the much cheaper Renault 5, and required government officials to wear traditional clothing manufactured domestically. In a country where the ruling class had always distanced themselves from the abject poverty that the majority of the country lived in, it must have been a powerful sight to see the president personally demonstrate his commitment to listening to the common people and keeping the political upper class in check.

He also made himself visible to the broader African continent. He was a staunch supporter of pan-Africanism and anti-imperialism. He made a particularly famous speech to the Organization of African Unity, dressed, along with his entourage, in domestically-produced clothing to demonstrate the ability of the African people to achieve self-sufficiency. In the speech, he was even more overt, railing against Western aid in Africa as yet another form of colonialism. When French president Mitterrand visited Ouagadougou in 1986, Sankara criticized his fellow leader to his face, and relentlessly harried Mitterrand to free several colonies still under French rule. France had recently welcomed the leaders of apartheid South Africa to visit, and Sankara coldly proclaimed to Mitterrand that “they dirtied [France], with their bloodied hands and feet.”

For many important people, Sankara’s attempts to accomplish his radical reforms were too much, too fast. Traditional indigenous leaders and political elites worried that he was taking power away from them (selling their fancy cars did not improve Sankara’s popularity among the political elite either); sections of the Burkinabè population were tiring of his constant push towards ever greater accomplishments; and the French were concerned over his vicious denunciations of imperialism. With increasing unrest, and the suspected support of France’s ally Côte d’Ivoire, his own second-hand man Compaoré organized his assassination and took power for himself.

Sankara may have only held power for four years, but in that time he constructed an enormous cultural and political legacy. Around Africa, he is a common face on tee shirts and as a sticker in taxi windows, and has been memorialized in poetry and song. The spread of his icon around the continent is a strong demonstration of just how much he inspired pan-African pride and resistance to the former colonial powers. Not only did he speak to the entire continent about their cultural value and need for unity, but he demonstrated exactly how countries could throw off the lingering shackles of neo-colonialism and create pride in their nation and culture. Additionally, he created meaningful symbols around himself, from the beret taken from his military uniform, to the bike he rode to work, to his iconic pose captured in a statue. Perhaps most importantly, through his eloquent and prolific public speaking, he coined impactful phrases summarizing his ideology and drawing people in. In a time before social media made short, punchy statements almost a political necessity, Sankara understood the value in such quotable phrases.

Although more rare, there are artworks from around the world about him, ranging from Italian opera to French multimedia, to American historical fiction. Sankara does not have as global an appeal as similar figures, such as Che Guevara, simply because his appeal was always to Africans and the unique political and cultural situation that they faced at the time. Still, he is revered in leftist circles as a successful revolutionary whose time in power was cut short by imperialist forces. It’s unclear how much of Sankara’s icon was deliberately created, although considering that he generally prohibited any depictions of himself, it may have been entirely unintentional. Regardless, there is a powerful lesson for leaders around the world in both his habit of developing symbols and catchphrases, as well as his genuinity in not trying to turn himself into an icon.

While his cultural appeal may seem relatively limited, Sankara also made important contributions to the political sphere, especially in regards to developing, post-colonial nations. Firstly, Sankara recognized faults with Western-style democracy and implemented a different system. While he has been called autocratic by Western media, Sankara simply had good reason to believe that the parliamentary system, which had been implemented under their first president, Maurice Yamégo, was ineffective in Upper Volta. It did not enable the common people to be involved in political decision making, and was dominated by a class of political elites. Instead, Sankara opted for Cuban-style Committees for the Defense of the Revolution (CDRs), which, for the first time, gave many Voltaic/Burkinabè citizens a political voice. And although the CDRs unfortunately empowered young citizens who often abused their positions, the concept of highly localized, participatory democracy should not be completely discarded.

Secondly, Sankara demonstrated a model for nation-building from colonial history. Upper Volta was simply a line drawn around many different indigenous ethnic groups, without a shared language or culture. On the first anniversary of his revolution, Sankara changed the name, flag, and anthem of the country, in an effort to create a shared identity. The new name, Burkina Faso, combined words from the two biggest indigenous languages into a phrase which roughly translates to “Land of the Upright People.” The demonym, Burkinabè, added a suffix from a third language. Many of Sankara’s policies also worked to create a shared identity, mainly by encouraging cooperation and mutual support to achieve sweeping goals. These included massive campaigns to vaccinate children, plant trees, and build schools and other public facilities. When the Burkinabè saw genuine progress being made as a collective, the new national identity gained real meaning.

Thirdly, Sankara recognized the value of women and their domestic labor in his project. He encouraged women to join the labor force and men to recognize how much women contributed to their society. He promoted women to important roles in his government, and for one International Women’s Day, he directed men to take on the domestic tasks that women usually carried out, such as cooking and going to the market. Considering that the domestic labor of women is still grossly underappreciated around the world, there are certainly lessons to be learned from Sankara.

While Sankara’s cultural legacy may be small, he leaves a mark through his humble style yet iconic appearance. And his political legacy is anything but. His contributions to concepts of democracy, identity-building, and gender in politics are distinct, and unlike political theorists, he genuinely demonstrated that many of his ideas have merit. It is essential that he is remembered for his ideas as well as his important role in the history of Africa. We can all learn from his fierce love for his culture and belief in the ability of the common person to achieve greatness. Sankara did not think of himself as special: as he once said in reference to the entire Burkinabè population, “There are seven million Thomas Sankaras.”

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