Author: Daan Nijssen

In 853 BCE, on the plains near Qarqar, the armies of Assyria met a coalition of kings unlike anything seen before in the Near East. Shalmaneser III, king of Assyria, boasted that he faced twelve rulers united against him: Ben-Hadad of Damascus, Irhuleni of Hamath, Ahab of Israel, and a string of Phoenician, Transjordanian, and even Arabian allies. The Assyrian king, true to form, claimed a sweeping victory: rivers dammed with corpses, tens of thousands cut down. Yet Damascus and Hamath survived, Israel endured, and Shalmaneser was forced to return again and again in later years to campaign in the west.

The contradiction is striking: if Assyria truly triumphed at Qarqar, why did the Levant remain independent for decades afterward? The answer lies not only in the battle itself, but in the long-drawn conflict over the Levantine trade system. The battle of Qarqar was no accident, nor a desperate last stand. It was a clash between two ambitious projects: Assyria’s bid to extend its authority over the western trade routes and the Levantine states’ determination to keep that system in their own hands.

Continue reading “Qarqar (853 BCE): a battle for the Levantine trade system”

Imagine opening your inbox to find a message from the Assyrian king Sargon II (r. 722–705 BCE) himself. It begins reassuringly — “I am well, Assyria is well: you can be glad” — but quickly turns into a barrage of instructions: how to reply to Phrygia’s king, how to handle a rival vassal’s land-grab, how to manage a succession dispute, even how to stage the symbolic humiliation of local rulers. It was just another day at the office. For Aššur-šarru-uṣur, the Assyrian governor of Que — a former kingdom on the Cilician plain, now reduced to provincial status — diplomacy, intelligence, and administration were part of the same job description.

A letter like this is not only a fascinating glimpse into daily imperial business; it is also a crash course in how the Assyrian Empire managed its fragile seams. To appreciate it fully, we need to look at the wider historical and geopolitical context.

Continue reading “An Assyrian governor’s inbox”

When we think of the Assyrian Empire at its height, we often imagine an unstoppable war machine. The royal inscriptions of kings like Esarhaddon certainly encourage this picture: Assyria is always victorious, its enemies always crushed or submissive, its rulers described as the unquestioned masters of the Near East. Yet if we shift our gaze away from the official record and look instead at other genres of texts, a different story emerges. One in which Assyria’s supremacy was far from guaranteed and local rulers in the empire’s periphery could pose serious challenges.

Nowhere was this more apparent than in the Zagros mountains to Assyria’s east. This rugged region in western Iran was home to dozens of small city-states and tribal groups, each ruled by a local “city-lord” (bēl āli). These rulers were technically Assyrian vassals, bound by treaty to provide troops, tribute, and loyalty. In reality, however, their allegiances were fluid. Some cooperated when it served their interests, others plotted behind the empire’s back, and rivalries among them often flared into violence. To complicate matters further, the Zagros served as a corridor for nomadic powers such as the Cimmerians and Scythians, whose raids could destabilize the region overnight. For Esarhaddon, holding the loyalty of these eastern vassals meant navigating a web of ambitions, rivalries, and external threats.

Continue reading “Kaštaritu of Karkaššî: a rebel in the king’s imagination”

When we last left King Hezekiah of Judah, he was emerging as one of the most powerful rulers of the Southern Levant. Unlike many of his neighbors, he dared to test the patience of the Assyrian empire. Hezekiah strengthened his kingdom militarily, reformed its religious practices, and looked for openings in the power struggles of the wider Near East. In a world where most local rulers were cautious to the point of submission, Hezekiah stood out for his boldness.

That boldness would soon bring him into direct conflict with Sennacherib, king of Assyria.

Continue reading “Hezekiah of Judah: “caged bird” or thorn in the side?”

Hezekiah of Judah was the king of a country the size of Luxembourg. His realm consisted mainly of rugged hill country, with just enough farmland to feed its people. The fertile plains of the Shephelah and the wealthy Philistine ports lay tantalizingly close, but just out of reach.

By today’s standards Judah seems tiny. But in its own time it was not unusually small. Most of its neighbors – Ammon, Moab, Edom, the Philistine cities, even Israel – were similar in scale. Their armies were modest, their ambitions restrained by geography, and their prospects for expansion slim. None could grow much larger without outside help.

And yet, within these narrow limits, Hezekiah became one of the most memorable figures of his age. For a brief, dramatic moment he strengthened his state, reshaped his people, and tested the patience of the greatest empire the world had ever seen.

Continue reading “Hezekiah of Judah: a small king in a big world”

In a previous blog, I traced the myth of the Garden of Eden back to its Mesopotamian roots. But this was just the beginning. Before long, Eden became more than just an ancient cautionary tale. It became a theological battleground, a mystical riddle, and a prophetic symbol of humanity’s ultimate destiny. As believers reinterpreted the garden, the myth of paradise stretched far beyond its Mesopotamian roots, reaching into doctrines of sin and salvation, mystical visions of union with God, and apocalyptic hopes for a new heaven and a new earth.

Continue reading “Paradise Regained: from original sin to the heavenly city”

What comes to mind when you hear the word Paradise? Perhaps you picture a lush garden filled with trees, flowers, and animals. This image is far older than our modern imaginations and has deep roots in the ancient world. In Mesopotamia, the ‘land between the rivers’, the ability to make the desert bloom through irrigation and hydraulics was seen as the very height of civilization. Kings even styled themselves as gardeners. Not hobbyists tending a backyard patch, but rulers who created vast, cultivated gardens within their cities as living symbols of their duty to uphold and restore the divine order.

Continue reading “Paradise Lost: from Mesopotamian gardens to the myth of Eden”

When the kings of ancient Assyria wanted to tell the world about their achievements, they didn’t publish press releases or give interviews. Instead, they had their deeds carved into stone and clay: lengthy texts that celebrated victories and praised the gods for granting them power. These are the Assyrian Royal Inscriptions: a huge body of texts that give us a direct line into how Assyrian rulers wanted to be remembered.

On the surface, these inscriptions can seem like straightforward historical accounts: the king marched to war, defeated his enemies, and brought back tribute. But it doesn’t take long to realize that they are far from neutral reports. They are propaganda, written to glorify the king and intimidate anyone who might think of resisting. Enemies are always crushed, cities are always captured, and rebellions are always put down. If you take the inscriptions at face value, Assyria looks unstoppable, its rulers larger than life.

And yet, that’s exactly what makes them so fascinating. Hidden behind the bombast are glimpses of the real political world the Assyrians lived in. Why did the king need to emphasize this particular victory? Why describe his enemy in such exaggerated terms? Why repeat certain stock phrases again and again? Reading these texts is a bit like doing a puzzle: you know the pieces are distorted, but with a little practice you can start to see what lies behind the spin.

In this blogpost, I want to share a few rules of thumb: simple strategies historians use to read between the lines of Assyrian propaganda. They won’t solve every mystery, but they can help you approach the inscriptions with a critical eye and appreciate both their artistry and their hidden messages.

Continue reading “A manual for deconstructing Assyrian propaganda”

You know those moments when you spend months developing an exciting new research idea, pour your heart and soul into a beautifully structured proposal, reread the instructions seventeen times, double-check every footnote — and then don’t get the grant?

Yeah, me too.

Earlier this year, I submitted a proposal for a PhD project called International Relations in the Near East during the Neo-Assyrian Period (c. 1000–609 BCE). The title alone was a page-turner, obviously. And while the proposal was ultimately rejected, I still think the idea is worth sharing — if only so you can see what kind of fascinating research didn’t make it through the system.

Continue reading “A bold new research project that did not get funded (but let me tell you about it anyway)”

What’s the best way to write about a world that no longer exists?

That question has followed me for years, from the first time I opened a book on Mesopotamian history to the moment I started sketching the outlines of my third (Dutch) book, now in the works. It’s a book about Babylon. Not the Babylon of clichés and popular imagination, but the real, messy, deeply human Babylon of the sixth century BCE: a city caught in political, religious, and emotional turmoil, where priests still whispered the names of the gods, omens were read in the liver of a sheep, and rumours moved faster than armies.

But how do you write about such a world? How do you bring it to life without flattening it into a simple story or drowning your reader in footnotes?

That’s the challenge I’ve set for myself, and if you’ll indulge me, I’d like to tell you a bit about the road I’ve taken to try and solve it.

Continue reading “Writing Babylon: on the search for a new form”