In the previous post, I argued that Mesopotamian divination reflects a particular, externally framed way of thinking. Meaning was located in the world — in the stars, in the entrails of sheep, in unusual events — and the task of the human mind was to interpret these signs within an increasingly sophisticated internal logic. But what about literature? Does this outward orientation also shape how Mesopotamians represented themselves?

The absence — and emergence — of an inner life

For much of Mesopotamian literature, the answer seems to be yes. Characters act, speak, and interact with gods and kings, but their inner lives — their doubts, emotions, or reflections — are rarely foregrounded. The focus lies instead on maintaining divine and political order. The individual is present, but not introspective in a way that feels familiar to a modern reader.

This observation led Julian Jaynes to a radical conclusion: early humans, including the Mesopotamians, did not possess an “inner life” at all. Consciousness, in his view, emerged only in the late second millennium BCE, when the “voices of the gods” went quiet following the turmoil of the Late Bronze Age collapse. This shift can be detected in texts such as the Epic of Gilgamesh, Ludlul bēl nēmeqi, and the Erra Epic, where characters reflect on their suffering and question the divine order.

As I have argued before, Jaynes’ conclusion goes too far. Mesopotamians clearly thought, interpreted, and made decisions. Yet the pattern he identified is real. Something changes in the literature: a growing interest in the experience of the individual, in suffering, uncertainty, and the limits of human understanding. Even in prayers, we find devotees lamenting the silence of the gods.

Continue reading “The inward turn in Mesopotamian literature”

In the previous post, I argued that the difference between ancient and modern thought is not a matter of capacity, but of orientation: a shift from an externally framed experience of thought to a more internalized one. But what does such a shift look like in practice? One place where we can see this process unfold is Mesopotamia, where the relationship between humans, gods, and thought itself was worked out in strikingly concrete ways.

Ancient Mesopotamians believed they could “read” the world around them like a book. Nothing happened in isolation. The movement of the stars, the shape of a sheep’s liver, a sudden storm, an unusual birth, a dream in the night: each of these could reveal something about what lay ahead. The universe was seen as a dense web of connections in which the will of the gods was always present.

To modern readers, this may look like a system of “messages” sent by the gods. But that is slightly misleading. These signs were not so much messages as they were symptoms: visible expressions of deeper processes in a world where everything was connected. The task of the diviner was not to receive a message, but to interpret a pattern.

Continue reading “Reading the gods in uncertain times”

In my previous post, I explored Julian Jaynes’ bicameral mind hypothesis on its own terms. Taken seriously, it offers a strikingly coherent picture: ancient humans did not experience their thoughts as their own, but as the voices of gods. Seen through that lens, a wide range of otherwise puzzling features of ancient literature fall neatly into place. Divine commands, the absence of introspection, and the suspicion of acting “on one’s own” all begin to look less like metaphor and more like a fundamentally different way of experiencing thought.

That explanatory power is precisely what makes the hypothesis so attractive. But it is also a reason for caution. A theory that seems to explain everything risks explaining too much. Once adopted, it becomes easy to reinterpret any piece of evidence — any text, silence, or ambiguity — as confirmation. In that sense, it bears a resemblance to the ancient aliens “theory”, where the framework is so flexible that it becomes difficult to falsify.

Continue reading “Genius or rubbish? Jaynes revisited”

When reading ancient Mesopotamian literature, one is struck by a remarkable feature: the gods are not merely distant or hypothetical beings, they constantly appear to humans and speak to them directly. Mesopotamian texts abound with accounts of gods commanding kings to go on campaign, warning of impending disasters, prescribing in detail how temples should be built, dictating laws, or appearing in dreams. Likewise, when kings reflect on their achievements, they do not attribute them to their own judgment or skill, but to the will of a deity who guided them. To act “of one’s own design,” without consulting the gods, is not portrayed as admirable independence, but as a dangerous deviation.

Modern readers tend to treat such passages as rhetorical. Of course the king did not literally hear a god, he merely expressed his decision in religious language. Yet the consistency and seriousness of these accounts raise a more unsettling possibility: what if this was not just a way of speaking, but a way of experiencing? More specifically, what if the thoughts behind these decisions were not experienced as belonging to the individual in the way we assume our own thoughts belong to us?

Continue reading “When the gods spoke to us”

It is by now almost a cliché to say that climate change is one of the defining challenges of our time. Rising sea levels threaten coastal communities, increasingly frequent heatwaves place pressure on public health systems, prolonged droughts devastate agricultural output, melting glaciers destabilize mountain ecosystems, coral bleaching undermines marine biodiversity, shifting weather patterns disrupt global supply chains, wildfires consume forests at unprecedented rates, permafrost thaw releases methane into the atmosphere, vector-borne diseases expand into new regions, and even the humble European beech tree now finds itself under existential stress in soils that are just slightly too dry, just slightly too warm, and just slightly too unpredictable to sustain its centuries-old rhythms.

And yet — if one may be permitted a moment of deeply irresponsible optimism — climate change has at least one unexpected advantage: as rivers dry up, they occasionally give back what they have hidden for millennia. Such is the case with the Euphrates. Over the past months, an unusually severe drop in water levels has exposed large stretches of the riverbed in southern Iraq. While this in itself is alarming for both ecological and humanitarian reasons, it has also allowed archaeologists to access areas that have long been considered unreachable. And it is here — beneath layers of silt, clay, and the slow accumulation of time — that a discovery has been made which, if confirmed, may fundamentally reshape our understanding of Mesopotamian history. A tomb. Not just any tomb, but one that archaeologists are now cautiously — but increasingly confidently — attributing to the semi-legendary king of Uruk: Gilgamesh.

Continue reading “Tomb of Gilgamesh discovered”

A case study in early Neo-Assyrian frontier governance

On Tuesday 24 March 2026, I presented a paper at the Oxford Postgraduate Conference in Assyriology as part of my PhD research. The paper examines the case of king Ammi-Baʾal of Bīt-Zamāni, who emerged as an important ally of the Assyrian king Tukulti-Ninurta II (r. 890–884 BCE). His violent demise early in the reign of Ashurnasirpal II (r. 883–859 BCE) would have far-reaching consequences for the region.

Continue reading “Ammi-Baʾal of Bīt-Zamāni”

In the second half of the ninth century BCE, the political landscape of the Near East was dominated by a single rising power: Assyria. Under kings such as Ashurnasirpal II (r. 883–859 BCE) and Shalmaneser III (r. 858–824 BCE), Assyria had re-established firm control over northern Mesopotamia. The lands east of the Euphrates were effectively under Assyrian authority, either as provinces or as closely supervised client states. From this secure base, Assyrian armies regularly crossed the Euphrates, campaigning across the Levant.

These western regions were politically fragmented. Instead of large territorial kingdoms, the landscape was dotted with small states: Neo-Hittite principalities such as Carchemish, Hamath, and Patina, alongside Aramaean kingdoms like Damascus and Bit-Agusi. Some resisted Assyrian expansion, others chose accommodation, many shifted between the two. Tributary relationships with Assyria became an increasingly common feature of the political order. It was within this environment that the small state of Bit-Gabbari, also known as Ya’diya, centred on the city of Samʾal (modern Zincirli in southern Turkey), emerged as a minor but interesting player.

Continue reading “Kilamuwa of Bit-Gabbari, the king who hired Assyria”

If you had travelled through northern Mesopotamia in the tenth century BCE, one thing would have stood out immediately: there was no central authority. The region was a political mosaic of small kingdoms, tribal confederations, and local strongmen controlling scattered territories along rivers and steppe margins. None was strong enough to dominate the others for long.

This fragmented landscape emerged in the aftermath of the Late Bronze Age collapse. Until the reign of Tiglath-Pileser I (r. 1114–1076 BCE), these lands had belonged to the Middle Assyrian kingdom. After his death, however, the structures that had once held northern Mesopotamia together gradually unraveled. Fortresses and farming settlements were abandoned, long-distance trade routes became less secure, and Aramaean tribal groups spread across much of the countryside.

In this environment, power rested largely on kinship and local loyalties. Instead of large territorial states, the region was dominated by smaller dynastic polities centred on ruling families and their followers. One of these was Bīt-Baḫiāni, an Aramaean kingdom along the Ḫābūr River whose capital was Guzana (modern Tell Halaf).

Continue reading “Bīt-Baḫiāni, the kingdom that thrived by aligning with Assyria”

Op donderdag 3 september verschijnt bij Uitgeverij Omniboek mijn nieuwe boek Een jaar in Babylon: portret van een eeuwenoude beschaving. Tijdens de presentatie van de zomeraanbieding op dinsdag 3 maart kreeg ik alvast de gelegenheid om iets over het boek te vertellen. Het gesprek vond plaats in de vorm van een Q&A. De uitgeverij had een aantal vragen voorbereid, die werden aangevuld met vragen van de verkopers die het boek straks bij de boekhandels onder de aandacht brengen.

Continue reading “Het verhaal achter mijn nieuwe boek ‘Een jaar in Babylon’”

In the spring of 894 BCE, the Assyrian king Adad-Nerari II (r. 911-891 BCE) marched west into the land of Hanigalbat (present-day Northeast Syria). City after city opened its gates. Rulers handed over tribute. Camps were pitched along the banks of the Ḫābūr River. The king crossed frontiers, entered capitals, and received chariots, horses, silver, and gold.

What is striking is not what happened, but what did not happen. There were no major sieges. No pitched battles. No dramatic massacres. Instead, the royal inscription (r. 97-119) presents a long procession of acknowledgments, negotiations, and submissions. For a tradition famous for celebrating violent conquest, this campaign reads almost like a diplomatic tour.

Why did so many rulers accept Assyrian authority without fighting? And what does this reveal about the nature of power in the early Neo-Assyrian period? To understand this unusual moment, we need to step back from the language of imperial inevitability and look at the political landscape through a slightly different lens: one inspired by International Relations (IR) theory.

Continue reading “The king goes on tour (894 BCE)”