Latest news with #GreatFireofRome
IOL News
18-07-2025
- Entertainment
- IOL News
Madiba is born and ties the knot 80 years later
On this day in history, July 18 In this video grab, Nelson Mandela and his new bride, Graca Machel, leave the wedding venue shortly after their nuptials on this 80th birthday. 64AD The Great Fire of Rome begins. It destroys 70% of the city, but Nero never did fiddle while Rome burned, he did dilly-dally. 1914 Mohandas Gandhi, after successfully leading a passive resistance in this country, leaves Cape Town for India. 1915 The Second Battle of Isonzo, between the Austro-Hungarian and Italian armies, begins. There are 80 000 casualties. 1918 Rholihlahla Mandela is born into the Thembu royal family in Mvezo, Transkei. The world comes to know him as Nelson Mandela. 1925 Adolf Hitler publishes Mein Kampf. The first title was the more catchy Four and a Half Years Against Lies, Stupidity and Cowardice. 1926 Author and journalist Herman Charles Bosman (Herman Malan) shoots and kills his stepbrother, David Russell, during a quarrel. 1936 The Spanish Civil War begins. 1938 Douglas 'Wrong Way' Corrigan arrives in Ireland – he had left New York for California. 1976 Nadia Comăneci becomes the first person in Olympic Games history to score a perfect 10 in gymnastics. 1988 Terrorists kill 9 people on a cruise ship. 1992 A picture of Les Horribles Cernettes (The Horrible CERN Girls – an all-female parody pop group) is taken, it becomes the first photo posted to the World Wide Web. 1997 SA's diminutive 'Baby Jake' Matlala wins the IBA world junior flyweight boxing title. 1996 At the Battle of Mullaitivu, the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam capture a Sri Lankan Army base, killing over 1 200 soldiers. 1998 President Nelson Mandela marries Graça Machel on his 80th birthday. 1999 SA breaststroke swimmer Penny Heyns sets the first two of four world records in two days in southern California. 2018 Elon Musk apologises for calling a British cave diver in Thai rescue, 'pedo guy' after criticism and a fall in Tesla stock price. 2019 The children's songs, Baby Shark and Raining Tacos, are used by the City of West Palm Beach, Florida, to drive away homeless people from the waterfront (presumably everyone else as well). 2019 One of world's earliest mosques, 1 200 years old, is discovered in Israel's Negev Desert. DAILY NEWS
Washington Post
31-01-2025
- General
- Washington Post
Three lessons from three great fires
Across centuries and continents, formidable fires once threatened to destroy three major cities: Rome, London and Chicago. Today, they remain landmark destinations. As Los Angeles approaches its own daunting rebuild, three historians reflect on lessons from history's greatest urban fires. Anthony Barrett is an emeritus professor of classics at the University of British Columbia in Vancouver and the author of 'Rome is Burning: Nero and the Fire That Ended a Dynasty.' It is hardly known that the emperor who 'fiddled while Rome burned' actually tried to douse the flames. The Great Fire of Rome, a week-long July blaze that devastated the city in 64 A.D., is inexorably linked to the tale of one man: the infamous Emperor Nero. Nero remains a perpetual figure of corrupt leadership. When the fire broke out, rumors quickly spread that Nero had started it and deployed agents to help it along. After the blaze subsided, the embattled leader didn't help his case. He allegedly shifted the blame onto the small Christian community and subjected them to horrific punishments. No one can deny that Nero was a deplorable ruler. He was a pampered playboy prone to arbitrary cruelty, who — among other atrocities — murdered his own mother. But a fairer examination of the historical evidence reveals that his conduct during and after the fire was uncharacteristically statesmanlike. For starters, Nero did not merely fiddle while his city burned. In fact, he was hands-on in fighting the blaze, exposing himself to personal danger as he rushed among the burning buildings. Admittedly, he had little success; in antiquity, once a fire had taken serious hold, there was little that could be done to stop it. Nero had his finest hour in the aftermath. The emperor set up shelters inside his properties to accommodate people made homeless and shouldered the expense of removing debris and recovering bodies. Nero also possessed a strong vision for the capital's future: To encourage rebuilding, he introduced a system of government-investor partnerships, in which grants were provided to private citizens to fund the reconstruction of their homes. Nero also bought up many of the devastated sites and commissioned a stunning palace complex to be erected in their place, his 'Golden House.' While the palace contained some designated private spaces, it was largely open to the public for their recreation and enjoyment. One operation in particular speaks to Nero's superb management. Once ships were able to resume the transportation of much-needed grain from Rome's main port of Ostia Antica, Nero elected that on the return journey, the ships were to be loaded with debris, which would be used to fill the Ostian marshes. Similarly, Nero demonstrated his executive acumen by introducing new fire regulations. Moving forward, new Roman streets were to be professionally surveyed, with wide lanes and prescribed open areas. Height restrictions were mandated on apartment blocks (notorious fire traps) and, at his own expense, Nero ordered that such blocks have sheltered porticos for emergency exit. Most impactful, the use of wood in construction was discouraged: new buildings were to make maximum use of stone. Rome recovered with remarkable speed. By the time of Nero's death four years later, Rome was once again a functioning city; its public buildings were in regular use and everyday life was more or less back to normal. But the emperor's efforts did little to improve his reputation. The fire became highly politicized: The elite senatorial class whose mansions were destroyed held the emperor responsible, and their lingering resentment played a role in Nero's downfall. Nero's interventions also proved to lack longevity. The short-term aid provided to lower-class citizens made homeless by the fire was not renewed; imperial Rome felt that the problems of the needy were best handled by wealthy private patrons rather than by the government. Nero's munificent assistance was viewed as an act of a generous emperor, rather than the state carrying out its responsibilities. Further, ancient Rome lacked the political infrastructure to enshrine Nero's enlightened fire protocols into law; despite his attempt to make high-rises safer, Emperor Trajan, one of Nero's successors, introduced similar height restrictions roughly 40 years later — suggesting that Nero's were ignored. Successive emperors, eager to distance themselves from the disgraced leader, buried much of Nero's spectacular Golden House under new construction. Nero's evil reputation survived the aftermath of the fire, while his few good deeds burned with the ancient city. What also survived, too, was imperial Rome's resistance to stabilizing its volatile shifts of power, which could inflict damage equal to any great fire. Anthony Barrett is an emeritus professor of classics at the University of British Columbia in Vancouver and the author of 'Rome is Burning: Nero and the Fire That Ended a Dynasty.' It is hardly known that the emperor who 'fiddled while Rome burned' actually tried to douse the flames. The Great Fire of Rome, a week-long July blaze that devastated the city in 64 A.D., is inexorably linked to the tale of one man: the infamous Emperor Nero. Nero remains a perpetual figure of corrupt leadership. When the fire broke out, rumors quickly spread that Nero had started it and deployed agents to help it along. After the blaze subsided, the embattled leader didn't help his case. He allegedly shifted the blame onto the small Christian community and subjected them to horrific punishments. No one can deny that Nero was a deplorable ruler. He was a pampered playboy prone to arbitrary cruelty, who — among other atrocities — murdered his own mother. But a fairer examination of the historical evidence reveals that his conduct during and after the fire was uncharacteristically statesmanlike. For starters, Nero did not merely fiddle while his city burned. In fact, he was hands-on in fighting the blaze, exposing himself to personal danger as he rushed among the burning buildings. Admittedly, he had little success; in antiquity, once a fire had taken serious hold, there was little that could be done to stop it. Nero had his finest hour in the aftermath. The emperor set up shelters inside his properties to accommodate people made homeless and shouldered the expense of removing debris and recovering bodies. Nero also possessed a strong vision for the capital's future: To encourage rebuilding, he introduced a system of government-investor partnerships, in which grants were provided to private citizens to fund the reconstruction of their homes. Nero also bought up many of the devastated sites and commissioned a stunning palace complex to be erected in their place, his 'Golden House.' While the palace contained some designated private spaces, it was largely open to the public for their recreation and enjoyment. One operation in particular speaks to Nero's superb management. Once ships were able to resume the transportation of much-needed grain from Rome's main port of Ostia Antica, Nero elected that on the return journey, the ships were to be loaded with debris, which would be used to fill the Ostian marshes. Similarly, Nero demonstrated his executive acumen by introducing new fire regulations. Moving forward, new Roman streets were to be professionally surveyed, with wide lanes and prescribed open areas. Height restrictions were mandated on apartment blocks (notorious fire traps) and, at his own expense, Nero ordered that such blocks have sheltered porticos for emergency exit. Most impactful, the use of wood in construction was discouraged: new buildings were to make maximum use of stone. Rome recovered with remarkable speed. By the time of Nero's death four years later, Rome was once again a functioning city; its public buildings were in regular use and everyday life was more or less back to normal. But the emperor's efforts did little to improve his reputation. The fire became highly politicized: The elite senatorial class whose mansions were destroyed held the emperor responsible, and their lingering resentment played a role in Nero's downfall. Nero's interventions also proved to lack longevity. The short-term aid provided to lower-class citizens made homeless by the fire was not renewed; imperial Rome felt that the problems of the needy were best handled by wealthy private patrons rather than by the government. Nero's munificent assistance was viewed as an act of a generous emperor, rather than the state carrying out its responsibilities. Further, ancient Rome lacked the political infrastructure to enshrine Nero's enlightened fire protocols into law; despite his attempt to make high-rises safer, Emperor Trajan, one of Nero's successors, introduced similar height restrictions roughly 40 years later — suggesting that Nero's were ignored. Successive emperors, eager to distance themselves from the disgraced leader, buried much of Nero's spectacular Golden House under new construction. Nero's evil reputation survived the aftermath of the fire, while his few good deeds burned with the ancient city. What also survived, too, was imperial Rome's resistance to stabilizing its volatile shifts of power, which could inflict damage equal to any great fire. Adrian Tinniswood is an adjunct professor of history at Maynooth University and the author of 'By Permission of Heaven: The Story of the Great Fire of London.' In early September 1666, while London's Great Fire was still burning, the city's most prominent citizens gathered — not to lament their losses, but to discuss what shape the new capital should take. They agreed upon elements of a reimagined London: buildings crafted from brick and stone instead of combustible timber. Elegant streets, wide enough to prevent the rapid spread of fire. As the flames flattened the city, diarist John Evelyn captured the moment of opportunity. 'Truly there was never a more glorious Phoenix upon Earth,' he wrote, 'if it do at last emerge out of the cinders.' Evelyn had his own scheme for rebuilding London. So did just about every courtier and country squire. The triumphant proposal came from a young University of Oxford professor named Christopher Wren, who presented King Charles II with a visionary layout of wide avenues, radial vistas and open piazzas just nine days after the fire broke out. The king approved, but things weren't that simple. A major redesign would involve decades of litigation, establishing property ownership (there was no register of lands) and buying out thousands of leaseholds and freeholds. By the time everything was worked out, London would have lost its place as the commercial capital of the kingdom. 'The merchants and wealthiest of the citizens would alter their course of life and trade and remove themselves,' declared Parliament, 'and so the City would remain miserable for ever.' So, to retain its wealthy merchants, the city opted for a swift return to business as usual. The burned-out population of London moved back and built sheds in the basements of their ruined houses. They received no government aid, there was no such thing as fire insurance and, in theory, landlords could hold tenants liable for any damage. Yet, within a few short years, most Londoners returned and miraculously the city was functioning as before, though many of the most important civic buildings remained unfinished. Still, the new London was very different from the city lost in 1666. A series of rebuilding acts widened streets. The houses, or at least their facades, were now constructed of brick or stone. The city resurrected its political and commercial hearts in the form of the new Guildhall, Royal Exchange and Custom House. London settled quickly back into the familiar pattern of life it had known before the fire. There were some unexpected legacies: The catastrophe spawned a new literature of loss as poets (and many who were clearly not poets) rushed to memorialize it in verse. And less creditably, a baseless but persistent rumor that the fire had been an act of terrorism perpetrated by Roman Catholics meant it was used as ammunition whenever there was a wave of anti-Catholic feeling in the country. For nearly 150 years, a plaque near the original site of the fire declared that 'Hell broke loose upon this Protestant city from the malicious hearts of barbarous Papists.' A happier legacy was the arrival of fire insurance: London's first insurance company, named the Fire Office, opened in 1680. The restoration's crowning jewel was St. Paul's Cathedral. Wren might have been denied the chance to design a new London, but his consolation prize was a commission for a new cathedral. St. Paul's, once described as 'the parish church of Empire,' remains one of Britain's architectural wonders, the place where Brits marry our princes and bury our heroes. One day, Wren was laying out the site of the new cathedral when he asked a laborer to bring him a flat stone to use as a marker. The man sorted through a pile of rubble and came back with a fragment from a gravestone, with nothing left of the inscription except one word: resurgam. 'I shall rise again.' And that is just what London did. Adrian Tinniswood is an adjunct professor of history at Maynooth University and the author of 'By Permission of Heaven: The Story of the Great Fire of London.' In early September 1666, while London's Great Fire was still burning, the city's most prominent citizens gathered — not to lament their losses, but to discuss what shape the new capital should take. They agreed upon elements of a reimagined London: buildings crafted from brick and stone instead of combustible timber. Elegant streets, wide enough to prevent the rapid spread of fire. As the flames flattened the city, diarist John Evelyn captured the moment of opportunity. 'Truly there was never a more glorious Phoenix upon Earth,' he wrote, 'if it do at last emerge out of the cinders.' Evelyn had his own scheme for rebuilding London. So did just about every courtier and country squire. The triumphant proposal came from a young University of Oxford professor named Christopher Wren, who presented King Charles II with a visionary layout of wide avenues, radial vistas and open piazzas just nine days after the fire broke out. The king approved, but things weren't that simple. A major redesign would involve decades of litigation, establishing property ownership (there was no register of lands) and buying out thousands of leaseholds and freeholds. By the time everything was worked out, London would have lost its place as the commercial capital of the kingdom. 'The merchants and wealthiest of the citizens would alter their course of life and trade and remove themselves,' declared Parliament, 'and so the City would remain miserable for ever.' So, to retain its wealthy merchants, the city opted for a swift return to business as usual. The burned-out population of London moved back and built sheds in the basements of their ruined houses. They received no government aid, there was no such thing as fire insurance and, in theory, landlords could hold tenants liable for any damage. Yet, within a few short years, most Londoners returned and miraculously the city was functioning as before, though many of the most important civic buildings remained unfinished. Still, the new London was very different from the city lost in 1666. A series of rebuilding acts widened streets. The houses, or at least their facades, were now constructed of brick or stone. The city resurrected its political and commercial hearts in the form of the new Guildhall, Royal Exchange and Custom House. London settled quickly back into the familiar pattern of life it had known before the fire. There were some unexpected legacies: The catastrophe spawned a new literature of loss as poets (and many who were clearly not poets) rushed to memorialize it in verse. And less creditably, a baseless but persistent rumor that the fire had been an act of terrorism perpetrated by Roman Catholics meant it was used as ammunition whenever there was a wave of anti-Catholic feeling in the country. For nearly 150 years, a plaque near the original site of the fire declared that 'Hell broke loose upon this Protestant city from the malicious hearts of barbarous Papists.' A happier legacy was the arrival of fire insurance: London's first insurance company, named the Fire Office, opened in 1680. The restoration's crowning jewel was St. Paul's Cathedral. Wren might have been denied the chance to design a new London, but his consolation prize was a commission for a new cathedral. St. Paul's, once described as 'the parish church of Empire,' remains one of Britain's architectural wonders, the place where Brits marry our princes and bury our heroes. One day, Wren was laying out the site of the new cathedral when he asked a laborer to bring him a flat stone to use as a marker. The man sorted through a pile of rubble and came back with a fragment from a gravestone, with nothing left of the inscription except one word: resurgam. 'I shall rise again.' And that is just what London did. Carl Smith is professor emeritus of English, American studies and history at Northwestern University and the author of 'Chicago's Great Fire: The Destruction and Resurrection of an Iconic American City.' The Great Chicago Fire of 1871 reduced the city's entire commercial center and adjoining residential neighborhoods to a smoking ruin. It killed an estimated 300 people and left about 90,000 homeless. The destruction did nothing to discourage Chicago's faith in itself. The city's response was to double down on the certainty that nothing could halt Chicago's progress. 'CHEER UP,' the Chicago Tribune shouted in an editorial a day after the fire ended, 'the people of this once beautiful city have resolved that CHICAGO SHALL RISE AGAIN.' Rise again it did, creating the broad outlines of the city we know today. The downtown wooden structures that burned so ferociously were replaced by buildings with fireproof exteriors of brick or stone. In the mid-1880s, these would begin to give way to metal-frame structures, including the first skyscrapers of 10 stories or more, for which the city is famous. The driving spirit that raised a new Chicago from the old predated the fire. Even before Chicago's incorporation as a city in 1837, the city's boosters declared it was destined to become America's great inland metropolis. Propelled by the railroad and telegraph revolutions, westward expansion and immigration, Chicago rapidly fulfilled that destiny. By 1850, it had a population of 30,000; 20 years later, the number was 300,000. Firmly established as the country's transportation hub and the world's marketplace for grain, lumber and livestock, Chicago was rapidly becoming a manufacturing colossus as well. The 'great rebuilding' after the fire was in keeping with Chicago's devotion to what has been called creative destruction, in which the restless present continuously displaces the status quo for the sake of a presumably bigger and better future. Chicago was always 'contriving and achieving new impossibilities,' Mark Twain marveled. The city was 'always a novelty' since it was 'never the Chicago you saw when you passed through the last time.' The disaster did not alter the direction of relentless transformation as much as speed up the pace of trends already in process. In the prefire downtown, wealthy and poor lived in close proximity amid a hodgepodge of offices, factories, stores and other businesses. Both the residents and factories were already leaving, and now the fire abruptly completed their removal. Many Chicagoans who lost their homes resettled in farther out neighborhoods and suburbs made increasingly accessible by expanding streetcar and commuter lines. Manufacturers such as the McCormick Reaper Works, seeking more space on cheaper land, assembled enormous plants in the undeveloped periphery, drawing their employees with them. Meanwhile, the new city center reorganized into more distinct financial and retail districts. The fire deepened social and political tensions in a community already divided along ethnic and class lines. In 1871, almost half of Chicagoans had been born in another country, mainly Germany and Ireland. They and their children constituted the great majority of its skilled and unskilled workers. Immigrants had built Chicago and would now rebuild it. These workers resented how wealthy 'American' businessmen wrested control of the aid sent to the devastated city and held wages down during the rebuilding. The resentments exploded into strikes and sometimes violent confrontations that persisted through the volatile economy of the next few decades. By 1889, thanks to the annexation of several surrounding towns, Chicago encompassed about 180 square miles, about five times the size of the city that burned. The 1890 Census counted over 1 million Chicagoans, second only to New York. Chicago became one of the rare places that celebrated its own destruction, which it had transformed into a story of heroic resilience. Chicago's hosting of the 1893 World's Columbian Exposition, one of the most successful of modern world's fairs, was the greatest celebration of all. The symbol of the fair was an image of Chicago as a beauteous young Amazon queen with the words 'I WILL' emblazoned on her breastplate. Nesting in her crown is the indomitable phoenix, the mythical emblem of continuous rebirth from the ashes, spreading its wings as it yet again takes flight. Carl Smith is professor emeritus of English, American studies and history at Northwestern University and the author of 'Chicago's Great Fire: The Destruction and Resurrection of an Iconic American City.' The Great Chicago Fire of 1871 reduced the city's entire commercial center and adjoining residential neighborhoods to a smoking ruin. It killed an estimated 300 people and left about 90,000 homeless. The destruction did nothing to discourage Chicago's faith in itself. The city's response was to double down on the certainty that nothing could halt Chicago's progress. 'CHEER UP,' the Chicago Tribune shouted in an editorial a day after the fire ended, 'the people of this once beautiful city have resolved that CHICAGO SHALL RISE AGAIN.' Rise again it did, creating the broad outlines of the city we know today. The downtown wooden structures that burned so ferociously were replaced by buildings with fireproof exteriors of brick or stone. In the mid-1880s, these would begin to give way to metal-frame structures, including the first skyscrapers of 10 stories or more, for which the city is famous. The driving spirit that raised a new Chicago from the old predated the fire. Even before Chicago's incorporation as a city in 1837, the city's boosters declared it was destined to become America's great inland metropolis. Propelled by the railroad and telegraph revolutions, westward expansion and immigration, Chicago rapidly fulfilled that destiny. By 1850, it had a population of 30,000; 20 years later, the number was 300,000. Firmly established as the country's transportation hub and the world's marketplace for grain, lumber and livestock, Chicago was rapidly becoming a manufacturing colossus as well. The 'great rebuilding' after the fire was in keeping with Chicago's devotion to what has been called creative destruction, in which the restless present continuously displaces the status quo for the sake of a presumably bigger and better future. Chicago was always 'contriving and achieving new impossibilities,' Mark Twain marveled. The city was 'always a novelty' since it was 'never the Chicago you saw when you passed through the last time.' The disaster did not alter the direction of relentless transformation as much as speed up the pace of trends already in process. In the prefire downtown, wealthy and poor lived in close proximity amid a hodgepodge of offices, factories, stores and other businesses. Both the residents and factories were already leaving, and now the fire abruptly completed their removal. Many Chicagoans who lost their homes resettled in farther out neighborhoods and suburbs made increasingly accessible by expanding streetcar and commuter lines. Manufacturers such as the McCormick Reaper Works, seeking more space on cheaper land, assembled enormous plants in the undeveloped periphery, drawing their employees with them. Meanwhile, the new city center reorganized into more distinct financial and retail districts. The fire deepened social and political tensions in a community already divided along ethnic and class lines. In 1871, almost half of Chicagoans had been born in another country, mainly Germany and Ireland. They and their children constituted the great majority of its skilled and unskilled workers. Immigrants had built Chicago and would now rebuild it. These workers resented how wealthy 'American' businessmen wrested control of the aid sent to the devastated city and held wages down during the rebuilding. The resentments exploded into strikes and sometimes violent confrontations that persisted through the volatile economy of the next few decades. By 1889, thanks to the annexation of several surrounding towns, Chicago encompassed about 180 square miles, about five times the size of the city that burned. The 1890 Census counted over 1 million Chicagoans, second only to New York. Chicago became one of the rare places that celebrated its own destruction, which it had transformed into a story of heroic resilience. Chicago's hosting of the 1893 World's Columbian Exposition, one of the most successful of modern world's fairs, was the greatest celebration of all. The symbol of the fair was an image of Chicago as a beauteous young Amazon queen with the words 'I WILL' emblazoned on her breastplate. Nesting in her crown is the indomitable phoenix, the mythical emblem of continuous rebirth from the ashes, spreading its wings as it yet again takes flight.
