Utterly interesting

In the spring of 1958, a quiet ship’s doctor aboard a British merchant vessel received a telegram that would expose a secret he had kept for fifteen years. The message, from a London newspaper, bluntly asked whether he intended to claim his aristocratic title “since your change-over.” The doctor was Dr Laurence Michael Dillon, the first known transgender man to undergo a phalloplasty, a writer, Buddhist monk, and physician who had quietly transformed both his body and his life long before the world knew his name. For Dillon, the telegram marked a collision between privacy and public curiosity. By then, he had studied Greats at Oxford, qualified in medicine at Trinity College Dublin, worked as a ship’s surgeon, written an early ethical study of gender medicine, and become a novice monk in a Tibetan monastery. His life was a series of transitions, not only between genders but between faiths, professions, and continents. Early Years and the Sense of Self Laurence Michael Dillon was born in 1915 in Ladbroke Gardens, Kensington, into a family bound by privilege and tragedy. His father, Robert Arthur Dillon, a former Royal Navy officer and heir to the Irish baronetcy of Lismullen, struggled with alcoholism and instability. His mother, Laura Maude McCliver, died of sepsis less than two weeks after Michael’s birth. By the time he was ten, both parents were gone, and he and his elder brother Bobby were sent to be raised by two aunts in Folkestone. (L-R) Dillon as a Scout, whith his brother and Dillon in his teenage years The aunts were wealthy yet austere, steeped in Edwardian social propriety and conscious of class boundaries. Summers were spent in County Meath at the family estate, burned down by Sinn Féin in 1922 but later rebuilt, where Dillon learned to fish, shoot, and love the quiet logic of the countryside. But even as a child, he felt a fundamental dissonance between how others saw him and how he saw himself. Educated at Brampton Down Girls’ School, Dillon excelled academically and developed an early interest in theology. Local vicars encouraged his curiosity about spirituality and ethics, subjects that would shape his later life. But he also gravitated toward physical and traditionally masculine activities, asking for his hair to be cut like his brother’s and joining in boys’ games when he could. He once recalled realising, when a boy held a gate open for him as if for a lady, that the world viewed him differently than he felt inside. He even tried binding his chest with a belt, only to be warned by a classmate of the danger. The discomfort was physical, but it was also existential. Oxford Discipline and Bristol Decisions Encouraged by a sympathetic clergyman, Dillon entered the Society of Oxford Home Students (now St Anne’s College) in 1934, initially to study theology. Before long, he switched to Greats (classics, philosophy, and history) persuading the college to support his change in course. Dillon in the press [St Anne's College Archive] At Oxford, he discovered rowing, which offered both physical freedom and a measure of equality. Dillon became president of the Oxford University Women’s Boat Club and campaigned tirelessly to make women’s rowing match the men’s in discipline and recognition. He fought for women to row upstream, to wear suitable clothing, and to race against each other rather than merely against the clock. His efforts were rewarded with sporting “blues” in 1935 and 1936, and in 1937 the Daily Mail  featured his photograph with the caption, “How unlike a woman!” The irony was not lost on him. During his time at Oxford, Dillon also began to adopt a more masculine appearance: smoking a pipe, riding a motorbike, and wearing his hair cropped short. He confided in a close friend who helped him buy men’s clothing and sneak into all-male boxing matches. Though he felt isolated, he later remembered his university days fondly, describing himself simply as “an Oxford man.” He graduated in 1938, quietly determined to live as one. Bristol and the Beginnings of Transition After Oxford, Dillon took a laboratory job in Bristol dissecting human brains, work that deepened his interest in the physical and psychological connections of the body. When war broke out, he briefly volunteered for the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force but withdrew after learning he would be housed exclusively with women. It was in Bristol that Dillon learned of Dr George Foss, who was experimenting with testosterone to treat severe menstrual pain. The hormone, newly synthesised, produced masculinising effects, and Dillon saw in it a possible path to becoming the person he already knew himself to be. Foss agreed to prescribe testosterone after a psychiatric evaluation, and Dillon became, so far as records show, the first person to take the hormone specifically for gender affirmation. But confidentiality was breached: a psychiatrist disclosed Dillon’s treatment to colleagues, and soon the gossip spread. Forced to leave the laboratory, he found work as a petrol pump attendant at College Motors in central Bristol. There, among the smell of oil and petrol, Dillon began to live more openly as male. The transition was gradual but visible. Testosterone deepened his voice and changed his physique, and within a few years, both colleagues and customers accepted him as “Michael.” Although the work was far from ideal, and his co-workers offered little but senseless bullying, Dillon was able to form a friendship with a young man named Gilbert Barrow.  Barrow worked alongside Dillon for only a short time before he was called to serve in the Navy, but Dillon remembers that time fondly: “Then I asked him if he knew since he had never given any sign but always treated me as if I were another fellow. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘They told me the first day, but I told them I would knock the block off anyone who tried to be funny about you. I also said you really were a man and that had them puzzled. They didn’t know what to believe then.’ ‘A faithful friend is a strong defense and he that hath found one hath found a treasure.’ So said Solomon in his wisdom. My debt to G. [Gilbert] for this loyalty in my darkest hour could never be repaid although I did my best in later years.” – Out of the Ordinary, pg. 93 During long nights as the garage’s firewatcher during wartime air raids, Dillon began writing Self: A Study in Ethics and Endocrinology , a philosophical treatise arguing for compassion and scientific understanding toward those seeking to change sex. He did not disclose his own situation in the text but wrote from the standpoint of reason and empathy. Published in 1946, it would become a pioneering work of transgender ethics. His physical transition continued. Suffering from hypoglycaemia, Dillon was hospitalised in 1942 at the Bristol Royal Infirmary, where a sympathetic surgeon performed a double mastectomy. The same surgeon encouraged him to change his legal documents and told him of the renowned plastic surgeon Sir Harold Gillies, who had developed genital reconstructive techniques while treating soldiers wounded in the First World War. Dillon wrote to Gillies, and a correspondence began that would transform his life. Trinity College and the Surgeries at Rooksdown House In 1944, Dillon legally changed his name to Laurence Michael Dillon. With the help of an Oxford tutor who quietly altered his academic records to reflect attendance at Brasenose College (then a men’s institution) he was able to enrol in medicine at Trinity College Dublin in 1945. During university holidays, Dillon travelled to Rooksdown House in Basingstoke, where Sir Harold Gillies and his team had developed a clinic for reconstructive surgery. There, beginning in 1946, he underwent a series of complex operations, staged phalloplasty procedures using grafts of skin from his leg and abdomen. Gillies falsified medical notes to protect Dillon’s privacy, recording the diagnosis as “severe hypospadias.” Despite infections and painful recoveries, Dillon described his time at Rooksdown as deeply affirming. He joined in ward life, even serving as master of ceremonies at Christmas parties, and for the first time felt that his physical reality matched his inner sense of self. At Trinity, he was again a distinguished rower, competing for the men’s team and likely becoming the first person in Oxford or Dublin history to earn sporting honours as both male and female. His aunts accepted him as their nephew, though his brother never did, forbidding him from publicly associating with the family title. Roberta Cowell and the Ethics of Early Transition Dillon’s Self  brought him into contact with Roberta Cowell, a race-car driver and former RAF pilot seeking gender-affirming surgery. Their friendship grew through letters and meetings in London. In 1950, with her consent, Dillon performed an illegal orchiectomy on Cowell, an operation that enabled her to pursue further surgery with Gillies and legally register as female, making her Britain’s first known trans woman to do so. Roberta Cowell Dillon’s affection for Cowell deepened into romantic hope. He wrote love letters and proposed marriage after his medical graduation, but Cowell declined, writing later, “Although I liked and respected him very much as a person, there was no possible way I could ever think of marrying him.” Their relationship, though short-lived, symbolised the fragile network of trust between early trans patients and the few doctors willing to help them. Both would later be recognised as pioneers, though their paths diverged dramatically. Medicine, the Merchant Navy, and a Search for Meaning After qualifying as a doctor in 1951, Dillon worked briefly in a Dublin hospital, where he introduced humane practices like occupational therapy, picnics, and patient libraries, echoes of Gillies’s holistic philosophy. He also donated a tenth of his salary to a fund for poor students. In 1952 he joined the Merchant Navy, serving as a ship’s surgeon for six years on voyages to Africa, Asia, and the Pacific. The sea suited him: it offered discipline, anonymity, and constant movement. Yet even aboard ship, Dillon’s reading turned inward. He discovered the writings of mystics like George Gurdjieff and Tuesday Lobsang Rampa and began studying Buddhism seriously. When his ship docked in India, Dillon travelled inland to Bodh Gaya and Sarnath, sites sacred to Buddhists. The simplicity of monastic life and the intellectual depth of Buddhist philosophy appealed to him more than the frenetic pace of postwar Britain. Gradually, he came to see medicine as only one kind of healing. The Cable, the Title, and the Choice to Leave For years Dillon had lived quietly as a man. But when he applied to correct the genealogical record in Debrett’s Peerage , noting his proper name as the younger brother of the baronet, a discrepancy arose. Burke’s Peerage  still listed his birth name and sex. Journalists spotted the inconsistency, and in May 1958 the Daily Express  confronted him while his ship was docked in Baltimore. The Daily Express article that outed Dillon The ensuing headlines outed him to the world. Time  magazine noted the contradiction between the peerage books and quoted the editor of Debrett’s : “I have always been of the opinion that a person has all rights and privileges of the sex that is, at a given moment, recognised.” Dillon maintained a polite fiction, telling reporters he had been born with a congenital condition corrected by surgery. But the intrusion shattered his privacy. He retreated into solitude, contemplated suicide, and finally resolved to disappear from public life altogether. He resigned his commission and booked passage back to India. Buddhism and the Conquest of the Mind In India, Dillon adopted a new name: Lobzang Jivaka, after the Buddha’s own physician. He donated his inheritance to charity and began living as a wandering scholar, first joining a Theravada monastery under an English monk, Sangharakshita. Their relationship soured, yet Jivaka produced important essays arguing that Buddhist monastic rules unfairly excluded so-called “third sex” individuals and that compassion demanded inclusion. His A Critical Study of the Vinaya  (1960) was both scholarship and autobiography in disguise. When Theravada monasteries rejected his ordination, Tibetan Buddhists in Ladakh proved more welcoming. In 1960, with the approval of Kushok Bakula, a Ladakhi prince, Jivaka entered the remote Rizong Monastery and became the first Westerner to be ordained there as a novice monk. Life was austere: the air thin, the food sparse, but the peace profound. “At home among strangers who were no strangers at all,” he wrote. After three months, visa restrictions forced him to leave Ladakh. He returned to Sarnath, gravely undernourished and ill with typhoid fever, yet continued writing. His final work, Out of the Ordinary , an autobiography of gender and spiritual transformation, was completed on his forty-seventh birthday and posted to his literary agent. Dillon after his name change to Lobzang Jivaka Death and Legacy Two weeks later, on 15 May 1962, Michael Dillon collapsed while travelling in northern India and died in a small hospital in Dalhousie. The cause was likely typhoid and malnutrition. His body was cremated in a Buddhist ceremony. His brother wanted the manuscript of Out of the Ordinary  destroyed, but Dillon’s agent preserved it. It remained unseen until discovered decades later by journalist Liz Hodgkinson, who used it for her 1989 biography Michael née Laura . In 2007, Pagan Kennedy drew on the same material for The First Man-Made Man . The autobiography itself was finally published in 2016 as Out of the Ordinary: A Life of Gender and Spiritual Transitions , restoring Dillon’s voice to the historical record. His story reached television audiences in 2015 through Channel 4’s Sex Change Spitfire Ace , which chronicled the intertwined lives of Dillon and Cowell. In 2020, St Anne’s College, Oxford, launched the annual Michael Dillon LGBT+ Lectures  to honour its former student and his contributions to science, ethics, and identity. Dillon’s life bridged two kinds of healing — medical and spiritual — and his writings anticipated modern ideas about bodily autonomy and empathy in care. In the end, his journey from Oxford to Ladakh was less about transformation than about reconciliation: learning to live at peace in a world slow to understand. Sources Liz Hodgkinson, Michael née Laura  (1989) — www.lizhodgkinson.com Pagan Kennedy, The First Man-Made Man  (2007) — archive.org/details/firstmanmademans00paga Laurence Michael Dillon, Out of the Ordinary: A Life of Gender and Spiritual Transitions  (2016) — Amazon UK Time  Magazine (1958), “Change of Heir” — content.time.com St Anne’s College Oxford (2020) — st-annes.ox.ac.uk Channel 4, Sex Change Spitfire Ace  (2015) — imdb.com/title/tt6123958/ Scientific American, “The Surprisingly Old Science of Living as Transgender” — scientificamerican.com/blog/voices/the-surprisingly-old-science-of-living-as-transgender/

Between 1918 and 1924, a quiet Austrian priest named Martin Gusinde undertook a journey to the farthest reaches of the inhabited world. His destination was Tierra del Fuego, the windswept archipelago at the southern tip of South America, where three Indigenous groups—the Selk’nam (also known as Ona), the Yamana (or Yaghan), and the Kawésqar (Alacalufe)—were living out their final generations of traditional life. By the time Gusinde arrived, these societies had already been decimated by colonial expansion, disease, and displacement. What he captured during his four journeys between 1918 and 1924, however, would become one of the most important ethnographic records of its kind: a collection of over 1,200 photographs, songs, and detailed notes that offered the last comprehensive window into these unique cultures. His story is not merely that of a missionary encountering distant peoples. It is also one of profound cultural immersion, empathy, and documentation carried out at the edge of the modern world, an attempt to preserve what colonial modernity had almost entirely erased. A young Martin Gusinde Early Life and Calling Martin Gusinde was born in Breslau (then part of the German Empire, now Wrocław, Poland) in 1886. In 1900, at just fourteen years old, he joined the Society of the Divine Word , a missionary order with a strong emphasis on linguistics, ethnology, and cross-cultural education. He began higher studies in 1905 at St. Gabriel’s Mission House in Mödling, near Vienna, a centre known for training missionary scholars in anthropology and linguistics. Ordained in 1911, Gusinde was sent to Chile, a destination that would shape the course of his life’s work. Initially, he served as a teacher, but by 1913 he had joined the Ethnographic Museum in Santiago under the direction of the eminent German archaeologist Max Uhle. The museum, at the time, was one of Latin America’s most dynamic institutions for ethnological study, documenting the vast diversity of the continent’s Indigenous cultures. By 1918, Gusinde had become head of the museum’s ethnology department. But while many scholars were content to study artefacts and specimens from afar, he was drawn to the field itself—to the people whose traditions were on the brink of extinction. The Call to Tierra del Fuego The islands of Tierra del Fuego had long held a near-mythical status among Europeans: a land of perpetual cold and isolation, where seafaring tribes navigated channels in canoes and where elaborate rituals honoured ancestral spirits. The Fuegians, as they were called by outsiders, had been described by Charles Darwin during the voyage of the Beagle  as “the most curious and interesting inhabitants of the world.” But by the early 20th century, their numbers had been devastated by waves of colonisation and the violent expansion of sheep farming. Martin Gusinde postulating at the Yamaha initiation ceremony, the Ciéxaus, 1920. By 1880, the Selk’nam were being systematically hunted by ranchers and bounty hunters, their lands seized for grazing. Diseases brought by Europeans (measles, tuberculosis, and influenza) further decimated the population. Missionary records from the late 19th century spoke of entire families dying within weeks of contact. By the time Gusinde made his first journey south in 1918, the Selk’nam and Yamana were cultural remnants, their languages and rituals clinging to survival among a few dozen elders. It was into this world that Gusinde ventured, determined to learn, record, and understand. Four Journeys at the End of the Earth Over six years, Gusinde made four expeditions to Tierra del Fuego, spending a total of twenty-two months in the field. His approach was one of deep immersion rather than distant observation. He lived among the people he studied, learned their languages, participated in their ceremonies, and, remarkably, was initiated into the Selk’nam Hain —a sacred male initiation ritual few outsiders had ever witnessed. “Halahaches O Kotaix”, Selkman, Patagonia - 1923 The Hain  was not merely a rite of passage but a complex theatrical ceremony embodying the cosmology and social order of Selk’nam life. Participants, painted in striking geometric body patterns and masked as ancestral spirits, re-enacted the mythological struggles that defined their universe. Gusinde’s participation was unprecedented. His acceptance into the ritual testified to his humility and willingness to live as they did—sharing their food, enduring the same weather, and respecting their beliefs. His photographs from this period are extraordinary. They show men painted head to toe in white, black, and red, transformed into spirits with elongated faces and haunting expressions. Others depict women and children at the margins of these ceremonies, and scenes of daily life—canoes, camps, and gatherings, that reveal a community still bound by ancestral tradition despite colonial pressures. “Kterrnen”, Selkman, Patagonia Gusinde’s photography stands apart from most missionary or colonial imagery of the era. Rather than portraying the Fuegians as curiosities or as vanishing primitives, he captured them as individuals—dignified, expressive, and fully human. His portraits convey a sense of collaboration: subjects look directly at the camera, aware of their participation in a shared project of memory. A Missionary Ethnologist Though a missionary by training, Gusinde’s ethnographic work was guided less by conversion than by comprehension. He believed that understanding human diversity deepened faith rather than threatened it. “Every people,” he wrote, “bears within itself a reflection of the divine image.” His academic rigour set him apart from many contemporaries. Working on behalf of the Berlin Phonogram Archive, he made some of the earliest sound recordings of Yamana and Selk’nam songs—chants of creation, healing, and mourning—preserving voices that would soon be silenced. These wax cylinder recordings, still housed in European archives, are among the few surviving traces of these languages spoken fluently. “Shoort Subordinado”, Selkman, Patagonia Upon returning to Vienna, Gusinde completed his doctorate in anthropology in 1926. He continued to collaborate internationally, helping edit and publish a Yamana-English dictionary based on the manuscript of Reverend Thomas Bridges, an Anglican missionary who had lived among the Yamana in the late 19th century. The dictionary, published in 1933 with Ferdinand Hestermann, became a cornerstone for later linguistic revival efforts. From South America to Africa and Oceania Gusinde’s ethnographic curiosity did not end in South America. During the 1930s, he travelled to the Congo to study the Mbuti and other forest-dwelling peoples, at a time when European anthropology was increasingly turning toward questions of human origins and physical variation. His field notes and comparative analyses contributed to early discussions of cultural adaptation to environment, a theme that would later inform ecological anthropology. After the Second World War, Gusinde’s career took him across continents. Between 1949 and 1957, he taught at The Catholic University of America in Washington, D.C., where he shared his insights into cross-cultural understanding and religious anthropology. Even in his sixties, his fieldwork continued: in 1956, he led an expedition to New Guinea to study the Ayom pygmies, again emphasising the importance of first-hand engagement. Later, between 1959 and 1960, he taught at Nanzan University in Nagoya, Japan, further extending his influence as a teacher and scholar. Eventually, he returned to Austria, where he lived at the Mission St. Gabriel in Maria Enzersdorf, continuing to write and teach until his death in 1969. The Photographs as Testament The 1,200 photographs Gusinde brought back from Tierra del Fuego remain some of the most significant ethnographic images ever taken. Preserved today in European archives and exhibited in museums, they offer an irreplaceable record of cultures that were already on the brink of disappearance when he encountered them. “Ulen”, Selkman, Patagonia Among the most haunting are the images from the Hain  ceremony, in which figures painted in elaborate designs represent spirits such as Xalpen  and Halaháches . These photographs, often staged with the cooperation of the participants, blend ethnography with artistry. The visual compositions, figures emerging from shadow, faces framed by the landscape, convey both the beauty and fragility of a world soon to be lost. In later years, critics would debate whether Gusinde’s work could truly escape the colonial gaze of its era. Yet his field diaries suggest an unusual degree of respect. He often expressed sorrow at the suffering he witnessed, describing the Selk’nam as “a noble people reduced to despair.” He condemned the violence inflicted by settlers and the indifference of the Chilean state. His tone was not that of a conqueror or collector, but of a witness attempting to record the last echo of a vanishing humanity. A Legacy of Preservation and Reflection By the time Gusinde published his major ethnographic studies in the 1930s and 1940s, the peoples of Tierra del Fuego had nearly disappeared as distinct societies. Yet his work became a foundation for future generations of anthropologists and ethnomusicologists. The linguistic, musical, and visual records he left behind have since informed cultural revival efforts in southern Chile and Argentina, where descendants of the Yamana and Selk’nam continue to reclaim their heritage. In 2015, the Chilean government officially recognised the Selk’nam as one of the country’s Indigenous peoples, a symbolic act of survival that owes much to the historical evidence Gusinde helped preserve. His approach also anticipated what would later be termed “participant observation,” a method that became central to modern anthropology. By living among the people he studied rather than merely observing them, he set a precedent for empathy-driven research. The Singular Vision of Martin Gusinde What makes Gusinde’s work stand out, even today, is the singularity of his approach. He travelled to one of the most remote regions on Earth, at a time when communication with Europe took months, and immersed himself completely in a culture that no longer exists in its original form. His isolation, spiritual as much as geographical, gave his work a profound sense of purpose. While many early ethnographers sought to classify or “civilise,” Gusinde sought to understand. His mission, paradoxically, was not to convert but to conserve. The beauty of his photographs lies in this tension: the missionary who came to spread the Word instead ended up preserving the voices of those who would otherwise have been silenced. Final Years and Reflection After returning permanently to Austria, Gusinde lived quietly at St. Gabriel’s, surrounded by the notes, wax cylinders, and photographs that bore witness to his life’s work. He never married and remained devoted to teaching and writing until his death on 10 October 1969 in Mödling. His collections now reside in archives such as the Anthropos Institute and the Martin Gusinde Museum in Puerto Williams, Chile, the southernmost museum in the world. These institutions ensure that the cultures he documented are not forgotten, even as the winds of Tierra del Fuego continue to sweep across the lands where the Yamana once built their canoes and the Selk’nam painted their bodies for the Hain . Legacy and Influence Martin Gusinde’s work endures as both a scientific achievement and a moral document. His meticulous ethnographies—blending theology, anthropology, and photography—reveal a scholar profoundly committed to human diversity. Today, exhibitions of his photographs, such as The Lost Tribes of Tierra del Fuego  shown in major European museums, continue to captivate audiences, not for their exoticism but for their humanity. In an age when Indigenous cultures across the world face new forms of displacement and erasure, Gusinde’s efforts remind us of the importance of witness. He once wrote that “the beauty of man lies in his multiplicity, in his capacity to reflect God in countless forms.” Through his lens and his pen, he preserved some of those forms for all time. Sources: “Martin Gusinde.” Ethnological Museum of Berlin . https://www.smb.museum/en/museums-institutions/ethnologisches-museum/ Gusinde, Martin. The Yamana: The Life and Thought of the Water Nomads of Cape Horn . Smithsonian Institution Press, 1991. Bridges, Thomas. Yamana-English Dictionary , edited by Martin Gusinde and Ferdinand Hestermann, 1933. Lenz, Hans. Gusinde, el Misionero Etnólogo . Santiago de Chile, 1969. Museo Antropológico Martin Gusinde, Puerto Williams, Chile. https://www.museogusinde.cl/

Few names evoke as much dread in modern Iraqi history as that of Uday Hussein. Born into privilege as the eldest son of Saddam Hussein, Uday could have led a life of diplomacy or governance. Instead, he chose a path of unchecked brutality, making even his father’s brutal regime appear, by comparison, coldly pragmatic rather than maniacally sadistic. For Iraqis, the name Uday came to symbolise more than corruption or power—it stood for sadism, violence, and terror. So just how evil was Uday Hussein? The answer lies in a long and deeply disturbing list of crimes, many of them against defenceless victims. He was not merely a playboy prince with too much power—he was a violent, sadistic predator whose capacity for cruelty shocked even members of Saddam’s inner circle. The Playboy Turned Predator: Who Was Uday Hussein? Born in 1964, Uday Saddam Hussein was educated in elite institutions both in Iraq and abroad. He officially held multiple powerful positions: head of the Iraqi Olympic Committee, president of the Iraq Football Association, and senior figure in the Fedayeen Saddam paramilitary organisation. Behind these titles, however, was a man infamous for arbitrary violence, torture, rape, and murder. Despite being groomed as his father’s successor, Uday’s erratic behaviour and viciousness made even Saddam wary. At one point, Saddam allegedly considered replacing Uday with his younger, more restrained son, Qusay. That moment may have marked a shift in Uday’s already unstable psyche, further fuelling a campaign of violence designed not only to assert control but to satisfy increasingly twisted personal urges. Torturing Athletes for Losing In 1984, after Uday graduated from university, Saddam appointed him chairman of the Iraqi Olympic Committee and the Iraq Football Association. In the former role, he tortured athletes who failed to win. According to Latif Yahia, Uday's alleged body double, "The word that defines him is sadistic. I think Saddam Hussein was more human than Uday. The Olympic Committee was not a sports center, it was Uday's world". Raed Ahmed, an Iraqi athlete who defected to the United States, said: "During training, he would watch all the athletes closely, and put pressure on the coaches to push the athletes even more. If he was not happy with the results, he would have coaches and athletes put in his private prison in the Olympic Committee building. The punishment was Uday's private prison where they tortured people. Some athletes, including the best ones, started quitting the sport once Uday took over the Committee ... I always managed not to be punished. I made sure not to promise anything. There is a strong possibility of always being beaten. But when I won, Uday would be very happy." In 2005, a video of Uday questioning Raed's family was released. They were then reportedly transported by car to a prison, where they remained for 16 days in poor conditions. Ex-player and coach, Ammo Baba , whose football teams won 18 tournaments and participated in three Olympics, said that Uday's punishment destroyed players' athletic abilities. Baba said that half of the Iraqi athletes had left the country, and many had feigned illness before playing against strong competitors; he reportedly told his friends that if he died suddenly, they would know the reason. Maad Ibrahim Hamid, assistant coach of the national football team, said that Uday rewarded players financially for winning and threatened them with imprisonment if they lost. According to Hamid, athletes were not tortured; they were arrested for immoral behaviour, (including adultery and addiction to alcohol) and for playing poorly. One player, Ahmed Radhi said that after he was unwilling to join the new Al-Rasheed club, he was kidnapped at midnight by Uday's men, beaten and accused of harassment; he accepted Uday's offer when he was threatened with death. International footballer Saad Qais said that Uday was angry with him because he was sent off during a 1997 match against Turkmenistan . His "discipline" was administered by jailers (known as "teachers") in a closed section of a detention facility for athletes and journalists in Radwaniyah Palace . According to Qais, "Uday established the Rashid team and forced the best Iraqi players to play in it, and forced me to leave my beloved team, and he honoured us with gifts after every win, but he also punished us after every loss." Crimes Against Women: Rape, Abduction, and Murder Perhaps the most horrifying aspect of Uday Hussein’s reign of terror was his treatment of women. Numerous reports from survivors, defectors, and investigations describe how Uday routinely abducted women off the streets of Baghdad, particularly targeting young schoolgirls and brides. His bodyguards would scout out women, often during wedding celebrations or in public places, and bring them to one of his many palatial residences. Among Uday Hussein’s most disturbing crimes were those committed against women and girls, many of them teenagers, some younger. These were not isolated incidents, but a sustained campaign of sexual violence, coercion, and psychological abuse. In 1987, Uday reportedly raped the 15-year-old daughter of his father’s mistress. Although Saddam briefly ordered him imprisoned, he was quickly released. When the girl refused to remain silent, Uday’s bodyguards tortured her with electric batons while he watched. Throughout the 1990s and early 2000s, Uday maintained a lifestyle built around predation. Former classmates described how female university students would hide in bathrooms when he arrived on campus, knowing that he might select one of them for a “private meeting.” Zainab Salbi, daughter of Saddam’s private pilot, recalled how Uday’s presence caused visible panic among women, who were all too aware of his reputation. Former staff confirmed that Uday’s guards regularly abducted women—some from the street, others from weddings or schools. These women were taken to private residences or to venues like the Baghdad Boat Club, where Uday hosted weekly parties. There, he would drink heavily, dance, and then choose who would be taken to his quarters. An ex-butler claimed he never slept with the same woman more than three times. Those who resisted or showed hesitation were often humiliated or beaten. In one reported case, a bride was taken from her own wedding celebration and raped; she later died by suicide, and her husband was executed for “insulting the president.” Some victims were burned with cigarettes or even branded with a heated horseshoe to mark them with a U-shaped scar. Saddam’s family doctor later confirmed treating women for such injuries. As late as 2003, a 13-year-old girl alleged she was raped by Uday after being taken from the Jadriea Equestrian Club. She was given a small amount of money and told to keep quiet. His alleged body double, Latif Yahia, claimed to have witnessed these crimes first-hand and recounted even darker incidents: the rape and murder of a deaf girl in Nineveh, the abduction of Miss Iraq (Ilham Ali al-Aazami), and the continued practice of forced branding of women. In several cases, Uday had his victims killed or spread rumours to destroy their reputations. These accounts, drawn from ex-staff, victims, defectors, and memoirs, form part of the wider historical record of Iraq under Saddam—where even the most heinous personal crimes could go unpunished if committed by those close to power. In October 1988, at a party in hono ur of Suzanne Mubarak, wife of Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak, Uday murdered his father's personal valet and food taster, Kamel Hana Gegeo, possibly at the request of his mother. Before an assemblage of horrified guests, an intoxicated Uday bludgeoned Gegeo and repeatedly stabbed him with an electric carving knife. Gegeo had recently introduced Saddam to a younger woman, Samira Shahbandar, who had become Saddam's second wife in 1986. Uday considered his father's relationship with Shahbandar an insult to his mother. Shahbandar's oldest son fled to Jordan because of the harassment by Uday after the marriage. Uday also may have feared losing succession to Gegeo, whose loyalty to Saddam Hussein was unquestioned. As punishment for the murder, Saddam briefly imprisoned Uday. Once released, Uday was sent to Switzerland to act as the assistant to the Iraqi ambassador there. He was expelled by the Swiss government in 1990, after he was repeatedly arreste d for fighting. Uday's vast car collection was burned by his father after the Gegeo incident. Arbitrary Violence and Murder Beyond his structured roles, Uday often committed violence for sport. He was known to cruise Baghdad in luxury cars, armed with automatic weapons, shooting pedestrians or motorists for minor slights—if they honked at his convoy or didn’t move quickly enough. One of the most notorious episodes involved Uday murdering an army officer simply because the man refused to let Uday dance with his wife at a party. According to accounts, Uday shot him on the spot, then assaulted the woman. His cruelty extended even to staff and servants. Palace employees spoke of beatings and torture over small mistakes. Those who served in his inner circle described a climate of fear where even loyal followers were expendable. The Use of Fedayeen Saddam and Secret Police Uday was deeply involved in the operations of the Fedayeen Saddam, a paramilitary force that enforced Saddam’s will with extreme brutality. Although his brother Qusay held more formal control over Iraqi intelligence, Uday used the Fedayeen and his own secret police to carry out abductions, assassinations, and intimidation campaigns. These units were implicated in mass executions and in the suppression of uprisings in the south and north of Iraq. Uday is believed to have had a hand in orchestrating several purges within the Ba’ath Party ranks, eliminating perceived rivals or threats. An Obsession with Sadism: The Personal Archives After the fall of Baghdad in 2003, American soldiers discovered Uday’s private archives, which included thousands of video recordings of parties, tortures, and sexual assaults. These archives confirmed what many Iraqis had long whispered about: that Uday not only committed these acts but enjoyed watching them repeatedly. His homes were filled with luxury items, fast cars, and weapons—testaments to his wealth and power—but also to his warped mind. In one of his villas, investigators found a fully equipped torture chamber. His Death: The End of a Reign of Terror In July 2003, during the Iraq War, Uday Hussein and his brother Qusay were located in Mosul after Saddam’s former aide Abid Hamid Mahmud revealed that the pair had unsuccessfully attempted to flee to Syria. They were eventually sheltered by Nawaf al-Zaidan, who, lured by the $30 million bounty, informed U.S. forces of their location. On 22 July 2003, U.S. Special Operations Task Force 20, supported by the 101st Airborne Division, surrounded a villa in Mosul. When Uday, Qusay, and Qusay’s 14-year-old son Mustafa refused to surrender, a fierce gunfight erupted. The siege lasted nearly five hours, during which heavy weapons, including TOW missiles, were used to overcome resistance. All three, along with a bodyguard, were killed in the confrontation. Uday and Qusay had reportedly armed themselves with AK-47s and grenades, resisting multiple entry attempts by American troops. Mustafa, the last to die, continued firing even after his father and uncle had fallen. Four U.S. soldiers were wounded in the battle. Saddam Hussein, in a later audio message, praised his sons for their “martyrdom,” framing their deaths as part of a holy struggle. Interrogation records later revealed that Saddam showed no remorse but claimed pride in their deaths, though he grew visibly irritated when pressed about Uday’s crimes. Following the battle, the U.S. released graphic photographs of their bodies to confirm their identities. Uday’s distinctive injuries, including a metal rod in his leg from a 1996 assassination attempt, helped verify the remains. Both men had altered their appearances in an attempt to avoid detection, with Uday shaving his head and growing a beard. Uday Hussein's corpse photographed after the US military onslaught Speculation surrounded how Uday and Qusay were discovered. While Nawaf al-Zaidan received credit for tipping off U.S. forces, some reports claimed that Uday’s mobile phone use had been tracked by the CIA. Shortly after the raid, Nawaf’s brother was murdered, and Nawaf reportedly fled Iraq. In Uday’s possession at the time were around $100 million in cash, along with personal items consisted of Viagra, numerous bottles of cologne, unopened packages of men's underwear, dress shirts, a silk tie and a single condom Uday was buried in his hometown of Al-Awja, near Tikrit, alongside Qusay and Qusay’s son Mustafa. In 2017, a claim by Uday’s son Massoud suggested that Iran had stolen his father’s body, though no evidence has ever supported this. How Evil Was Uday Hussein? Evil is a word often overused, but in Uday Hussein’s case, it fits with chilling precision. He was not a product of political necessity or cultural circumstance. His was a personal, self-directed campaign of violence driven by sadism, entitlement, and impunity. From raping and murdering schoolgirls to torturing football players, to shooting men for minor slights, Uday was a man who found pleasure in human suffering. Though the world remembers Saddam Hussein as a dictator who ruled Iraq with an iron fist, Uday stands out as something arguably more terrifying—a man with power, wealth, and absolute immunity, who used every one of those advantages to commit some of the most heinous acts imaginable. Sources “Crimes of Saddam’s Son,” BBC News ( http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/3028585.stm ) “Uday Hussein: The Monster of Baghdad,” The Guardian ( https://www.theguardian.com/world/2003/jul/23/iraq.julianborger ) “Iraq’s Dirty Dozen,” Human Rights Watch ( https://www.hrw.org/news/2002/08/14/iraqs-dirty-dozen ) “The Torturer of Baghdad,” The Independent ( https://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/middle-east/iraq-s-torturer-in-chief-8216562.html ) “Saddam’s Son Uday and the Fall of a Sadistic Prince,” Time Magazine Archive ( https://content.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,474054,00.html )

If you had wandered into New Orleans on a hot Sunday in August 1931, you could have followed the sound of a trumpet to find the real celebration. Brass lines rolled across the levee, laughter rose from the stands, and somewhere behind second base a man already a legend in jazz picked up a baseball and grinned like a boy. August 16, 1931, was Louis Armstrong Day, a homecoming holiday that mixed music with sport and placed a sandlot team in crisp white uniforms at the centre of the city’s attention. The team had a name you could chant from the bleachers. The Secret Nine. Armstrong was only thirty, already famous enough to draw crowds on reputation alone, and yet still restless. He had just made his first film and his records were selling better than those of white stars who had once dominated the market. Ricky Riccardi, Director of Research Collections at the Louis Armstrong House Museum, later explained that there was a bidding war for Satchmo’s future because he had crossed over from so-called race records to mainstream pop. In the middle of this new success he returned home for the first time in nine years, partly to play a string of sold-out shows at the Suburban Gardens, and partly because life elsewhere had grown dangerous. His manager, Johnny Collins, had gone back on a deal with a Harlem nightclub owned by the mob. The result was a gangster walking into Armstrong’s dressing room before a show in Chicago, holding him at gunpoint, and warning him to stay away from New York. Collins summed it up in simple terms. “We have to stay away from Chicago, we have to stay away from New York, it’s too hot. Let’s go on tour.” Louis Armstrong attending a Mets game at Shea Stadium New Orleans, with its open windows and easy flow between pavement and stage, was the perfect place to catch his breath. He performed at a whites-only venue on the levee where the sound carried out into the night air. Armstrong liked to tell people that four or five thousand Black listeners stood outside the open windows every evening and heard every note for free. The streets became his second auditorium. Those nights set the mood for a civic celebration. If the city was going to honour its most famous son, it would do it with the two things he loved most. Music and baseball. Riccardi put it best. “He loved playing baseball. For the world’s greatest trumpet player to name that as his number two hobby, it says a lot.” Armstrong’s affection for the game was genuine. He had grown up playing it and followed it closely all his life. So he did something generous and entirely in character. He found a local club of friends and neighbours, likely connected with the Zulu Social Aid and Pleasure Club, and dressed them like champions. Out went the worn and mismatched kit that had earned them the nickname the Raggedy Nine. In came immaculate white uniforms with “Armstrong” stitched across the chest and bold numbers across the back. The players stood taller, the photographs shine brighter, and a modest sandlot side suddenly looked professional. The name changed too. They became the Secret Nine. Some called them the Smart Nine, a nod to how sharply they looked when they took the field. Their story was chronicled in the Louisiana Weekly, which marvelled that Armstrong’s boys were outfitted with everything a good ball club could possibly need, “from their baseball caps down to the mascot’s water bucket.” The new look gave them confidence but also one peculiar problem. The uniforms were so pristine that the men did not want to slide into bases and get them dirty. That reluctance became a running joke and later part of the team’s legend. As Armstrong himself wrote in a notebook, “Of course they lost, but I still say they wouldn’t have been beaten so badly if they hadn’t been too proudly to slide into the plate. Just because they had on their first baseball suits, and brand new ones at that. But it was all in fun, and a good time was had by all I know. I had myself a ball.” A holiday made to swing Louis Armstrong Day centred on Heinemann Park, home to both the New Orleans Pelicans and the New Orleans Black Pelicans. On that Sunday in August the Secret Nine prepared to face the professional Black Pelicans before a packed crowd. A comedy act took the field to warm up the spectators, Armstrong threw the first pitch, and then settled into the stands to watch his team. It did not go well for them. The Black Pelicans were sharper and won four-nothing. The newspapers said Armstrong’s team “couldn’t make the grade against Lucky Welsh’s Black Pelicans.” Riccardi later described the Secret Nine as “a glorified sandlot team,” friends who played together for fun and pride. They lost heavily, but their spirits stayed high. The team’s identity, though, remained an enduring mystery. For decades no one could say exactly who they were. Only in 2019 was the first player definitively identified. Researcher Ryan Whirty, working with New Orleans’ International House Hotel, traced one of the faces in Villard Paddio’s famous team photograph to Edward “Kid” Brown Sr., a local boxer and member of the Zulu Social Aid and Pleasure Club. His son recognised him when he saw the image reprinted in a newspaper, remembering that their family once had a copy before Hurricane Betsy destroyed it in 1965. Kid Brown stands in the back row, third from the left. The rest of the names are still unknown. From that single identification you can sense how local the story truly was. The Secret Nine were not professionals. They were ordinary men who loved the game and who took joy in their famous friend’s generosity. They played matches across the city that summer, scrimmaging against college and prison teams while Armstrong handled the first pitch and the publicity. For three months they were minor celebrities in their own right. Then, just as quickly, they disappeared from the papers. By 1932 the name no longer appeared in print. Their legend lived on only in the photograph and the bright memory of that holiday. When jazz met baseball The Secret Nine’s story also belongs to a wider tradition. Throughout the jazz and swing eras, bandleaders turned their orchestras into ball teams on their days off. Count Basie had one. Cab Calloway had another, complete with uniforms. Duke Ellington arranged pick-up games while touring. In those days a big band might travel with fifteen or sixteen musicians, just enough for a team. They played for charity or bragging rights, with no formal leagues or records, just the pleasure of competition. Baseball was the sport of jazz, as Riccardi puts it, a pastime that echoed the rhythm, improvisation, and timing that musicians understood instinctively. The Secret Nine were part of that same conversation between sport and sound. Duke Ellington and band members playing baseball in front of their segregated motel ("Astor Motel") while touring in Florida. Armstrong’s own love of the game only deepened over time. Earlier in his career, while playing cornet with King Oliver’s band, he had performed at a White Sox game in Chicago. Later he became an ardent Dodgers fan, drawn to the team by Jackie Robinson’s courage and talent. Inspired by a trip to Italy in 1949, Armstrong began making visual collages from magazine cuttings. In 1952 he created one devoted entirely to Robinson, carefully taping together photographs and headlines to tell the story of the first Black player in Major League Baseball. He befriended Dodgers stars Junior Gilliam and Don Newcombe, and his enthusiasm survived even after the team left Brooklyn. One recording from the Louis Armstrong House Museum captures him teasing his manager Joe Glaser about the Dodgers defeating Glaser’s White Sox in the 1959 World Series. He also kept a box at Yankee Stadium, though he rarely managed to attend games without being mobbed by autograph seekers. Years later, comedian Billy Crystal recalled that his first visit to Yankee Stadium had been in Armstrong’s seats, where he watched Mickey Mantle hit one of his most famous home runs. When the Mets arrived in the 1960s and built Shea Stadium only a few blocks from Armstrong’s home in Queens, he divided his loyalty between them and the Yankees. Friends remembered that he would watch the Mets on television while listening to the Yankees on the radio. He often invited players, including Cleon Jones, to his house after games. It was the same kind of hospitality he had shown the Secret Nine, half neighbourly pride and half fan’s delight. The summer the city listened What makes Louis Armstrong Day and the Secret Nine so memorable is the sense of public joy surrounding them. The people of New Orleans stood outside the Suburban Gardens to hear him play, and later filled Heinemann Park to see his team. The city’s Black residents may have been excluded from the dance halls but they were not excluded from the celebration. For one day, music and baseball joined forces in a gesture of shared pride. The Secret Nine remind us that the line between art and sport is thinner than it seems. Both depend on rhythm, improvisation, and courage. The team’s gleaming uniforms symbolised the power of presentation and the pleasure of being seen. The photograph by Villard Paddio captures that moment perfectly. Each man stands tall in his spotless whites, “Armstrong” emblazoned across his chest, proud even in defeat. Their performance that day was less about victory and more about visibility, about proving that a sandlot team could look like professionals if someone believed in them. After that summer Armstrong left for Europe, the Secret Nine returned to their regular lives, and the story faded into legend. Decades later, researchers and family members revived their memory, and the Louis Armstrong House Museum continues to share new discoveries about them. Modern tributes have recreated their jerseys, honouring the same spirit of friendship and generosity that inspired the originals. Armstrong once said that he liked to take the things that interested him, “piece them together and make a little story of my own.” Louis Armstrong Day in 1931 was exactly that: a collage of music, sport, friendship, and joy. He may have been a global celebrity, but on that field in New Orleans he was simply one of the boys, grinning as he threw the first pitch and watching his team play under his name. Sources MLB.com – Louis Armstrong and the Secret Nine Baseball Team https://www.mlb.com/news/louis-armstrong-secret-nine-baseball-team SABR – Ryan Whirty, “Who Were the Secret Nine on Louis Armstrong’s Baseball Team?” https://sabr.org/latest/whirty-who-were-the-secret-9-on-louis-armstrongs-baseball-team Home Plate Don’t Move – “Satchmo’s Secret Nine: A Name Behind a Face” https://homeplatedontmove.com/2019/12/18/satchmos-secret-9-a-name-behind-a-face Louis Armstrong House Museum – Virtual Exhibits https://www.louisarmstronghouse.org/virtual-exhibits/louie-my-darling-zing-inside-alpha-smiths-1926-1931-scrapbook Verite News – “Louis Armstrong’s Secret 9: Baseball, Jazz, and New Orleans” https://veritenews.org/2024/06/05/bitd-louis-armstrong-secret-9-baseball-jazz New Orleans 100 – “Louis Armstrong’s Baseball Team” https://theneworleans100.com/history/new-orleans-history/2019/11/22/louis-armstrong-baseball/16023 Grateful Web – “Swingin’ with the All Stars: Louis Armstrong and Baseball” https://www.gratefulweb.com/articles/swingin-with-the-all-stars-louis-armstrong-baseball Yogi Berra Museum – “Discover Greatness: Jackie Robinson” https://yogiberramuseum.org/visit/exhibits/discover-greatness/part5/

There is something quietly fascinating about how Marilyn Monroe rose to legendary status. Before the fame, before the name, there was a young woman called Norma Jeane Dougherty, trying to make a living in post war Hollywood. She was nineteen, alone, and looking for work. For a short time, she called herself “Mona Monroe” and took on modelling jobs that paid ten dollars an hour. In 1946, Hollywood was full of young women with dreams of becoming film stars. Norma Jeane was one of them, staying at the Hollywood Studio Club, a residence for aspiring actresses. Rent was due and she needed to find money quickly. At that point, she was not yet Marilyn Monroe . For the less glamorous modelling assignments, she used the name “Mona”. A Young Woman in Need of Work Norma Jeane’s early connection with modelling came during the war years. While working at the Radioplane Munitions Factory, she caught the attention of an army photographer documenting women at work for morale boosting publications. The photos led to some commercial work and small magazine shoots. By 1945, she was separated from her husband, Jim Dougherty, and living on her own. The glamour she dreamed of seemed distant. Acting lessons and rent both needed paying. She later recalled that time in simple, honest words: “It was at a time when I didn’t seem to have much future. I had no job and no money for the rent. I was living in the Hollywood Studio Club for Girls. I told them I’d get the rent somehow. So I phoned up Tom Kelley, and he took these two colour shots, one sitting up, the other lying down. I earned the fifty dollars that I needed. You’ll do it when you get hungry enough.” The Tom Kelley photographs she referred to would later become the famous nude images used in Playboy  in 1953. But even before that session, Norma Jeane had worked for one of America’s most popular pin up artists, Earl Moran. Earl Moran and the Hollywood Studio Years By the mid 1940s, Earl Moran was well known in the United States. His bright, idealised images of women appeared on calendars, posters and Esquire  magazine covers. His art combined a wholesome charm with a touch of glamour that reflected the mood of post war America. When Moran moved from Chicago to Hollywood, he hired models through Los Angeles agencies to pose for photographic reference material that he later turned into paintings. In 1946, one of those models was a young woman who introduced herself as “Mona Monroe”. She had auburn hair, a friendly manner, and an ability to hold poses naturally. For ten dollars an hour, she would pose in swimwear, lingerie or simple costumes, often smiling or laughing between takes. Moran’s aim was not to sell the photos but to use them as the basis for his paintings. Learning Confidence For Norma Jeane, the work with Moran was practical and steady. It was not glamorous, but it paid the bills and gave her valuable experience in front of the camera. Moran would later say that she was one of his best models. “She had a real sense of how to pose, how to move. There was an energy about her even when she was still.” Monroe later credited Moran with helping her confidence. She once said, “Earl made my legs look better than they ever were.” The two worked together for about four years, and the sessions became a regular source of income for her. During that time, she was taking acting classes and beginning to be noticed by agents. How the Images Were Used Like many pin up artists of the period, Moran often combined elements from different models to create one “ideal” woman in his paintings. It was common to use one model’s body and another’s face. This meant that although Norma Jeane’s body appeared in many of his works, her face was sometimes replaced or altered. Only years later, after she became famous, did collectors and historians connect Moran’s reference photographs with the future Marilyn Monroe. The photos were discovered in his archives after his death in 1984 and are now regarded as early, significant glimpses of her development as both a model and performer. Life at the Hollywood Studio Club The Hollywood Studio Club where she lived was a supervised residence for young women working in or hoping to enter the film industry. It offered affordable rooms, meals and a safe environment in a city known for its challenges. The Club was run by the YWCA and had strict rules. There were curfews, visitors were carefully monitored, and no men were allowed upstairs. It was designed to help women build careers in a respectable environment at a time when Hollywood could be unforgiving to those without connections. Many future stars passed through its doors, including Kim Novak, Donna Reed, and Barbara Eden. Residents described the atmosphere as supportive, with shared meals and long conversations about auditions, scripts, and agents. Norma Jeane was known for her politeness and determination. She read constantly, studied film magazines, and practised her poses in front of mirrors. Actress Shelley Winters, who also stayed at the Club, later said, “Even then, she had something. You couldn’t take your eyes off her.” Her time there, supported by small jobs like modelling for Moran, allowed her to keep pursuing auditions and lessons that would lead to film opportunities. The World of Pin Up Art in the 1940s To understand the significance of Marilyn’s modelling work with Earl Moran, it helps to look at what pin up art represented in post war America. The 1940s saw the height of the pin up’s popularity. These images, often seen on calendars, posters, and aircraft nose art, offered a mix of glamour and familiarity. They were not photographs of movie stars but painted ideals of womanhood, created by artists such as Gil Elvgren, Alberto Vargas, George Petty and Earl Moran. Their work portrayed women as playful, self assured, and subtly suggestive, but rarely indecent. During the war, these images had become symbols of optimism for soldiers stationed abroad. They reminded men of home and of the life they were fighting to return to. After the war, the same style carried into popular culture, decorating everything from barbershops to service stations. Artists like Moran depended on real models to create these works. The women who posed were often ordinary workers or aspiring actresses looking for a steady income. They learned how to present themselves to the camera with charm and confidence, a skill that translated naturally to acting and film. For Norma Jeane, modelling for Moran was both a source of income and a subtle education in how to be seen. She learned how lighting shaped a mood, how to use her body to suggest movement and personality, and how to create connection through expression. The Beginning of “Marilyn Monroe” In 1946, while still modelling for Moran, Norma Jeane met talent agent Ben Lyon from Twentieth Century Fox. He saw her potential but suggested she needed a more memorable name. Together, they created “Marilyn Monroe”, borrowing “Marilyn” from Broadway actress Marilyn Miller and “Monroe” from Norma Jeane’s mother’s maiden name. By the end of that year, she had a new contract, a new name, and was beginning to appear in small film roles. The days of ten dollar modelling jobs were behind her, though she never distanced herself from them. When the nude photos resurfaced years later, she spoke openly about her reasons, saying, “I was broke. I needed the money. That’s all.” The Hidden Images When Earl Moran’s archives were examined after his death, many photographs of Monroe were found. They showed her in casual poses, sometimes playful, sometimes serious, and always with a natural presence. The photos were not taken for publicity or fashion; they were working images for painting reference. Today, those early photographs are valuable to collectors and art historians. They capture Monroe before fame, still using her first modelling name, learning how to move in front of a camera and discovering her visual power. In several of Moran’s finished pin ups, her posture, expression or figure is clearly recognisable, even when the face has been modified. These small details connect the anonymous model “Mona Monroe” to the woman the world would later know simply as Marilyn. After Earl Moran After 1950, as Monroe began gaining recognition in Hollywood , her time as a pin up model faded quietly into the background. Her work with Moran and other photographers had been purely practical, a way to earn money and experience. When Playboy  published the Tom Kelley photos in 1953, some studios worried about scandal. Monroe handled it with honesty and dignity, admitting she had posed out of necessity. Her openness only increased public affection for her. In later years, Moran’s works featuring her image became highly collectable. Auction houses like Heritage Auctions have sold prints and photographs for significant sums, and several museum exhibitions have included the Monroe sessions as part of studies on American pin up art. These rediscovered images remind viewers of the link between Hollywood glamour and mid century illustration. They show Monroe as part of a wider cultural moment, where art, advertising and film all drew from the same pool of visual ideas about femininity and charm. Finding Her Way The story of Mona Monroe is not a dramatic tale of scandal but a small and very human chapter in the life of a woman building a future. Those ten dollar sessions were practical choices made by a young person doing what she could to survive and to learn her craft. The work helped her understand light, posture and confidence. It also gave her a measure of independence at a time when women in Hollywood often struggled for control over their image. When later photographers such as Milton Greene or Bert Stern commented on how Monroe could instantly command attention on camera, that skill likely traced back to these early years when she was simply another model earning her living. The Legacy Of The Images Earl Moran’s pin up illustrations featuring Monroe are now among his most collected pieces. They represent not only a particular moment in American visual culture but also a glimpse of an unknown young woman who would later reshape ideas of beauty and fame. The photos from Moran’s studio show a person who had not yet learned to perform the part of Marilyn Monroe but who already had an ease and openness that translated effortlessly through the lens. As Monroe once said, “I wasn’t born with anything. Everything I have, I had to make myself.” That making began in small rooms, for ten dollars an hour, with an artist who saw something in her that others had not yet noticed. Sources Marilyn Monroe: The Biography  by Donald Spoto Goddess: The Secret Lives of Marilyn Monroe  by Anthony Summers Earl Moran archives, Heritage Auctions ( heritageauctions.com ) Playboy Magazine , December 1953 Marilyn: Her Life in Her Own Words  by George Barris and Marilyn Monroe Los Angeles Public Library, Hollywood Studio Club Collection

“Remember, remember, the Fifth of November, Gunpowder treason and plot…”The rhyme may sound like a nursery chant today, but in the winter of 1605 it was a solemn warning, a whispered echo of the day England almost lost its king, its Parliament, and perhaps its very identity. A Kingdom on Edge Imagine London before dawn on 5 November 1605. The fog settles over the Thames, and deep beneath the stone chambers of Westminster, a soldier waits. He stands surrounded by barrels hidden under piles of faggots and coal, listening for the bells of morning. The soldier’s name is Guy Fawkes, a Yorkshireman with years of warfare behind him. His orders are simple: guard the powder until the signal is given. Above his head, the King of England is preparing to open Parliament. Within hours, if the plan holds, King James I, the Lords, the bishops, and the country’s most powerful men will be blown skyward in a single deafening blast. But Fawkes never lights the fuse. Instead, footsteps echo down the stone passage. Lanterns flash. Hands seize him. And the most daring conspiracy in English history collapses in an instant. The Gunpowder Plot conspirators. The Seeds of Rebellion The Gunpowder Plot did not spring from madness. It was the desperate answer of men who felt that hope had betrayed them. For seventy years, England had been at war with itself over religion. Henry VIII had torn the nation from the Catholic Church. Elizabeth I had built a Protestant state that demanded allegiance to the Crown above all else. Catholics who refused to attend Anglican services were fined, imprisoned, even executed. When Elizabeth died in 1603, Catholics looked to her successor, James VI of Scotland, with cautious optimism. His mother, Mary Queen of Scots, had died for her faith, and many hoped her son might show mercy. James even promised to “not persecute any that will be quiet and give outward obedience to the law.” But the promise faded quickly. Within a year he reimposed recusancy fines, banished priests, and filled his court with Protestant ministers. The dream of tolerance curdled into resentment. Among those who felt the sting of betrayal was Robert Catesby, a charismatic Catholic gentleman, intelligent, educated, and disillusioned. He had once fought for Queen Elizabeth in her wars, but her successor’s policies hardened him. In 1603, he was involved in a small uprising that failed. Now, as he looked upon the unyielding state, he resolved on something that could not fail. “If we once conceive the deed,” he told his friend Thomas Wintour, “we may bring it to pass. Let us give the attempt, and where it faileth, pass no further.” The Gathering of the Plotters Catesby was the mind, but he needed hands. He gathered a small circle of trusted men—Thomas and Robert Wintour, John and Christopher Wright, Thomas Percy, and a soldier named Guy Fawkes, who had spent years fighting for Catholic Spain. Fawkes’s experience with gunpowder made him indispensable. The undercroft beneath the House of Lords, as illustrated in 1799. At about the same time it was described as 77 feet long, 24 feet and 4 inches wide, and 10 feet high In a quiet room in London in May 1604, the men swore an oath of secrecy on a prayer book while, in the next room, a priest named Father John Gerard said Mass. Their plan was to rent a storeroom beneath the House of Lords, fill it with barrels of powder, and detonate it when the King and Parliament gathered. As chaos tore through the city, they would seize the King’s daughter, nine-year-old Princess Elizabeth, and proclaim her queen under a Catholic protectorate. By March 1605, the conspirators had rented the undercroft below the House of Lords. It was an unused, dusty cellar filled with firewood, perfect cover for their barrels. Fawkes, using the name “John Johnson,” took charge of the storehouse, posing as Percy’s servant. Across the river, more barrels were ferried by night from a safe house at Lambeth. In all, thirty-six barrels of powder were rolled into place, enough to level the Palace of Westminster. A Crisis of Conscience As the plot took shape, doubts began to stir among the men of faith. Catesby asked Father Henry Garnet, the Jesuit superior in England, whether such a deed, killing the innocent with the guilty, could be justified. Garnet replied that it could “in no case be approved.” When another priest, Father Oswald Tesimond, heard of the plot in confession, he informed Garnet but refused to betray the secret. Garnet urged him to dissuade Catesby, but the young zealot would not be moved. The King, he argued, had broken his word. “Let the whole realm be set aflame,” he said, “if only the true faith might rise from the ashes.” The Monteagle Letter By late October, everything was ready. The barrels lay waiting beneath Westminster. Fawkes would strike the spark, then escape across the Thames as Parliament vanished in a cloud of dust and flame. But fate, perhaps carelessness, intervened. On 26 October 1605, a mysterious letter was delivered to William Parker, fourth Baron Monteagle, a Catholic nobleman. Its warning was clear: “My Lord, out of the love I bear to some of your friends, I have a care of your preservation... For though there be no appearance of any stir, yet I say they shall receive a terrible blow this Parliament, and yet they shall not see who hurts them.” Monteagle, alarmed, took the letter straight to the King’s chief minister, Robert Cecil. When James himself read it, he seized upon the phrase “a terrible blow.” His father, Lord Darnley, had been murdered by gunpowder decades earlier. He recognised the danger instantly. An anonymous letter, sent to William Parker, 4th Baron Monteagle, was instrumental in exposing the plot. Its author's identity has never been reliably established, although Francis Tresham has long been a suspect. Monteagle himself has been considered responsible, as has Salisbury. The Discovery On the evening of 4 November, the King’s men began their search. At first, they found nothing but stacks of timber. But when Sir Thomas Knyvet returned around midnight, his men discovered a cloaked figure with a lantern, a pocket watch, and matches. Beneath the firewood lay the powder. Guy Fawkes was arrested on the spot. Brought before the King, he gave his name as “John Johnson” and showed no fear. “You would have blown me up, your King, and all my kingdom?” James asked. “Yes,” Fawkes answered calmly, “if I had but been within reach of the match.” The King, half in admiration, remarked on the prisoner’s “Roman resolution.” But the government wanted names. Fawkes was taken to the Tower of London and locked in a cold cell. A royal order authorised “gentler tortures first, and so by degrees to the worse.” Interrogation in the Tower The Tower of London was no stranger to pain. The lower vaults beneath the White Tower, with their dripping walls and manacles, were reserved for the accused of high treason. Fawkes was initially restrained by handcuffs and chains, deprived of sleep, and questioned for hours by candlelight. When he remained silent, the Lieutenant of the Tower produced the royal warrant signed by the King himself. Fawkes read it in silence, knowing what it meant. Over the next two days, he endured a series of interrogations. The rack, a wooden frame that stretched the body inch by inch, was used sparingly in England, but with royal permission, it was brought forth for Fawkes. Part of a confession by Guy Fawkes. His weak signature, made soon after his torture, is faintly visible under the word "good" (lower right). The guards recorded that after “a night of suffering,” his defiance faded. His signature on his first confession is a mere scrawl, barely a line, trembling and broken. In that confession, dated 7 November, he named his accomplices and described the cellar, the barrels, and the plan to crown Princess Elizabeth. His confession began: “After I was taken and examined, I confessed the intention was to have blown up the King and Parliament, and that my purpose was to have set fire to the powder with a match about long enough to have given me time to escape.” “Gentle tortures” had done what persuasion could not. His statements were published weeks later in The King’s Book , ensuring that every subject in England would read how divine providence had saved the realm from fire and ruin. A torture rack in the Tower of London The Flight and Final Stand While Fawkes languished in the Tower, Catesby and the others fled through the Midlands, hoping to rally a Catholic uprising. None came. Villagers shut their doors. Priests refused to bless them. At Holbeche House in Staffordshire, they made a last stand. In a desperate attempt to dry their damp powder, sparks from the hearth ignited it, wounding several. At dawn, the Sheriff of Worcestershire surrounded the house. Gunfire thundered across the courtyard. John and Christopher Wright fell first, then Rookwood. Catesby and Percy were struck by a single musket shot that pierced them both. As they lay dying, Catesby clutched a picture of the Virgin Mary to his chest and whispered, “We intended to do her service.” The Trial The surviving conspirators, Thomas and Robert Wintour, Ambrose Rookwood, Sir Everard Digby, Thomas Bates, Robert Keyes, and Guy Fawkes, were tried at Westminster Hall in January 1606. The King and royal family watched from behind a screen. Edward Coke conducted the interrogations of those thought to be involved with the conspiracy. Sir Edward Coke, the Attorney General, thundered that “I never yet knew a treason without a Romish priest; but in this there are very many Jesuits who have dealt and passed through the whole action.” The accused were condemned to die as traitors. Coke recited the ancient sentence in full, a piece of theatre as cruel as it was deliberate. He described how each man would be drawn backwards to his death, by a horse, his head near the ground. He was to be "put to death halfway between heaven and earth as unworthy of both". His genitals would be cut off and burnt before his eyes, and his bowels and heart then removed. Then he would be decapitated, and the dismembered parts of his body displayed so that they might become "prey for the fowls of the air" , and “put to death halfway between heaven and earth, as unworthy of both.” It was not only a punishment but a performance, a reminder of what awaited those who betrayed the Crown. The Executions On 30 January, four of the conspirators (Digby, Robert Wintour, John Grant, and Thomas Bates) were taken from the Tower to St Paul’s Churchyard. The following day, the rest (Thomas Wintour, Ambrose Rookwood, Robert Keyes, and Guy Fawkes) were brought to Old Palace Yard, within sight of the very building they had planned to destroy. A crowd pressed close as the prisoners arrived, some jeering, some praying. Digby asked forgiveness from the spectators and thanked God “that I die for the Catholic faith.” He was stripped of his clothing, and wearing only a shirt, climbed the ladder to place his head through the noose. He was quickly cut down, and while still fully conscious was castrated, disembowelled, and then quartered, along with the three other prisoners. The Execution of Guy Fawkes by George Cruikshank, Richard Bentley, William Harrison, Ainsworth - 1841 Guy Fawkes was the last to climb the scaffold. Weak and shaking from his weeks in the Tower, he steadied himself against the ladder. Witnesses said he faced the crowd without fear. One chronicler wrote, “He seemed to scorn the torment, as one whose courage failed him not even to the end.” Then, with one final act of defiance, he leapt from the platform, ensuring his neck broke instantly, sparing himself the lingering cruelty of what was to follow. The crowd gasped, and the Sheriff declared the law satisfied. The body of Guy Fawkes was quartered, his remains sent to the four corners of the kingdom as a warning. The others met similar ends. The government had not only avenged itself, it had written a lasting lesson in loyalty. Engraving of conspirators of the Gunpowder Plot being hanged, drawn and quartered in London Faith, Fire and Aftermath In the weeks that followed, England erupted in thanksgiving. Church bells rang across the land. Parliament passed the Observance of 5th November Act, declaring the day a perpetual celebration of divine deliverance. Henry Garnet, accused of knowing the plot in confession, was later captured, tried, and executed. When threatened with torture, he replied, “Minare ista pueris” —“Threaten that to boys.” His dignity impressed even his judges. For English Catholics, the Gunpowder Plot was a disaster beyond measure. Any remaining hopes for tolerance were extinguished. Catholics were now seen as traitors by association, and the harsh penalties for recusancy deepened. Bonfire Night and the Making of a Legend In 1606, just months after the executions, Parliament passed a new law to mark what it saw as divine deliverance. Officially titled “An Act for a Public Thanksgiving to Almighty God every Year on the Fifth Day of November,”  it demanded that every parish in England hold annual church services of thanksgiving and light great bonfires “in remembrance of the joyful day of deliverance.” This Act was passed by King James I after Guy Fawkes' failure to blow up the King, the Lords and the Commons at the Opening of Parliament. For two centuries afterwards, special church services were held to commemorate his failure, under the provisions of the Act. What began as a solemn ritual of national survival gradually turned into a celebration. Bonfires flared in city squares and village greens, fireworks lit the skies, and the day became known by many names — Guy Fawkes Night, Plot Night, Fireworks Night — each echoing the failed conspiracy that had almost ended the monarchy. Immortalising Fawkes Robert Catesby had been the leader of the Gunpowder Plot, but it was Guy Fawkes, the man caught in the act, lantern in hand, who became the face of it. His name lingered in English memory, twisted over centuries from villain to folk figure. By the late eighteenth century, Fawkes had taken on a new afterlife. Effigies of him were burned on bonfires as early as 1790, the flames transforming him from traitor to tradition. Crowds gathered to cheer, jeer, and toss straw “Guys” into the fire, a symbolic act of purging treason, or perhaps of keeping it alive in memory. “A Penny for the Guy” By the nineteenth century, children had made the story their own. In the days leading up to 5 November, they cobbled together figures of Fawkes from whatever they could find, old clothes stuffed with straw, pillows, newspapers, battered hats and boots. These homemade “Guys” were paraded through the streets on prams, barrows, or wooden carts while children called out, “Penny for the Guy?”  The coins collected were meant to buy fireworks, though often they went toward sweets or pocket money. When night fell, the effigies were fed to the flames. Smoke, sparks, and laughter filled the air — the ancient warning transformed into carnival. Though the custom has faded in many places, replaced by Halloween’s American imports, its echo remains in the glow of every bonfire that still burns on 5 November. From Villain to Anti-Hero Fawkes’s image softened over time. The turning point came with William Harrison Ainsworth’s 1841 historical novel Guy Fawkes: or, The Gunpowder Treason , which reimagined the conspirator not as a villain, but as a tragic, almost romantic figure, driven by faith, betrayed by fate. The novel’s success owed much to its vivid illustrations by George Cruikshank, the caricaturist who also worked with Charles Dickens. Cruikshank’s engravings brought to life the dungeon scenes, the plotting in shadowed chambers, and Fawkes’s defiant bearing under interrogation. Our collective imagination still borrows from those images, the dark cloaks, the coiled fuse, the watchful eyes in the gloom. Ainsworth’s version of Fawkes became a fixture of popular culture, inspiring plays, penny novels, and even early children’s books. He was no longer merely a traitor; he was a man at odds with power, misguided, perhaps, but recognisably human. A Symbol of Resistance Centuries later, the name “Guy Fawkes” would ignite once again, this time not in Westminster, but in art, film, and protest. In 1988, Alan Moore and illustrator David Lloyd created V for Vendetta , a graphic novel set in a dystopian Britain ruled by tyranny. Its hero, known only as “V,” dons a stylised Guy Fawkes mask to conceal his face as he fights against the state. The mask, with its faint smile and knowing eyes, was designed, in Lloyd’s words, “to adopt the persona and mission of Guy Fawkes, our great historical revolutionary.” The symbol caught fire. When the film adaptation was released in 2005, the mask became a global icon. Protesters from Occupy Wall Street to Anonymous rallies wore it as a badge of resistance — an emblem of defiance against corruption and control. In this strange afterlife, the man who failed to destroy Parliament became the face of rebellion against power itself. Four hundred years after his arrest, Guy Fawkes still stands in the flicker of firelight — not just as the man who was caught, but as the idea that refuses to burn away. Legacy of the Plot The Gunpowder Plot changed England forever. It reinforced the Crown’s authority, hardened anti-Catholic laws, and gave the state a myth of divine protection that endured for centuries. Shakespeare wrote Macbeth  soon after, weaving its unease into a line about “the equivocator, who committed treason enough for God’s sake.” John Milton later described the conspiracy as a “horror without a name.” Today, only the fireworks remain, a sparkling echo of the explosion that never came. But beneath the noise and the smoke lies the memory of a single night when England stood a breath away from catastrophe, and the calm, cold voice of a man in a cellar saying that, yes, he would have done it “if he had but been within reach of the match.” Sources: Encyclopaedia Britannica: Gunpowder Plot  – https://www.britannica.com/event/Gunpowder-Plot UK Parliament: The Gunpowder Plot of 1605  – https://www.parliament.uk/about/living-heritage/evolutionofparliament/parliamentary-authority/the-gunpowder-plot-of-1605/ Royal Museums Greenwich: Gunpowder Plot: What Is the History Behind Bonfire Night?  – https://www.rmg.co.uk/stories/topics/gunpowder-plot-history-bonfire-night The National Archives: Gunpowder Plot Resources  – https://www.nationalarchives.gov.uk/education/resources/gunpowder-plot/ British Library: The Monteagle Letter  – https://www.bl.uk/collection-items/the-monteagle-letter Oxford Dictionary of National Biography – Robert Catesby, Guy Fawkes, Henry Garnet

In the early 1960s, when science fiction was dreaming of cybernetic humans and mechanical men, real engineers in upstate New York were quietly working to make that dream a reality. At Cornell Aeronautical Laboratories (CAL) in Buffalo, a team of researchers began developing what they called the “Man Amplifier” — an early vision of the powered exoskeleton, decades before the term became mainstream. The project stemmed from a 1961 research grant aimed at exploring how machines could enhance human strength, endurance, and precision. Inspired by the biomechanics of the human body, the engineers at CAL hoped to build a mechanical framework that could augment natural movement — essentially, a wearable machine that would multiply a person’s power. Robert Wells’s 1966 book Bionics: Nature’s Ways for Man’s Machines  included striking photographs of these early experiments. The images show skeletal frames of aluminium and steel designed to be worn like armour, intended to respond to the wearer’s slightest movement. The idea was that electrical sensors and servomechanisms could detect muscle impulses and replicate them with added mechanical strength. Initial work at Cornell focused on theoretical papers and small experimental rigs. By the early 1960s, they were producing mock-ups — prototypes that hinted at future robotic exosuits. Although these early “man amplifiers” were never fully realised into functioning wearable machines, they marked a bold step towards what would later become modern robotics, prosthetics, and powered assistive suits. It was, in many ways, a product of its era. The Cold War had ignited a fascination with human–machine integration, as both the military and scientific communities imagined soldiers and astronauts whose capabilities could be extended through technology. CAL’s man amplifier was an early expression of that ambition — half engineering, half imagination. Today, when companies like Sarcos, Lockheed Martin, and DARPA unveil powered exoskeletons that help soldiers lift hundreds of pounds or allow paraplegics to walk again, they owe a quiet debt to those early Cornell experiments. The Man Amplifier  was not just a concept; it was the first serious attempt to make the fusion of biology and machinery a reality. Neil Mizen's patent for the Man-Amplifier POWERED EXOSKELETAL APPARATUS FOR AMPLIFYING HUMAN STRENGTH IN RESPONSE TO NORMAL BODY MOVEMENTS. Neil J. Mizen et al Patent number : 3449769 Filing date : Jun 27, 1966 Issue date : Jun 17, 1969 There are a few articles on Cornell's Exoskeleton. The pdf's are : 1. Preliminary Design of a Full-Scale, Wearable Exoskeletal Structure – Neil J. Mizen 1962. 2. Design and Test of a Full-Scale, Wearable Exoskeletal Structure – Neil J. Mizen 1964. 3. Exoskeleton  Man Amplifier – Popular Science Nov 1965. 4. Exoskeleton Man Amplifier – Mechanix Illustrated Dec 1961. 5. Machines With Strength – Science Journal Oct 1968. Sources: Wells, Robert. Bionics: Nature’s Ways for Man’s Machines.  New York: E. P. Dutton, 1966. Cornell Aeronautical Laboratories Research Reports, 1960–1963. “Man Amplifiers and Exoskeleton Concepts.” Popular Science , November 1963. DARPA archives on early bionic research, www.darpa.mil

“In a city that hid its pleasures behind lace curtains, E. J. Bellocq had a camera, and the trust of those who lived behind them.” When people think of New Orleans at the turn of the 20th century, they imagine jazz pouring out of smoky clubs, riverboats gliding along the Mississippi, and the heady scent of magnolias mixing with the salt air. But there was another side to the city – one that existed behind locked doors and velvet drapes. It was here, in Storyville’s brothels, that photographer Ernest Joseph Bellocq quietly documented a world of wealth, seduction, and the women who ruled it. From Wealthy Origins to Hidden Worlds Bellocq was born into a wealthy French Créole family in the French Quarter of New Orleans. In a city steeped in French heritage, old money, and strict social codes, Bellocq moved between two worlds – the respectable one of his upbringing, and the hidden, forbidden side he would later immortalise through his lens. Credit: E. J. Bellocq / Robert Mapplethorpe Foundation and Alfred Stieglitz Society Gifts, 2013 Early on, he became known locally as an amateur photographer before establishing himself professionally. His commercial work was respectable enough: photographic records of local landmarks, ships, and industrial machinery for companies along the Gulf Coast. He also worked on commissions for institutions such as the Louisiana State Museum. But Bellocq had a private passion for photographing subjects far outside polite society. He captured opium dens in the city’s Chinatown, and, most famously, the madams and prostitutes of Storyville, New Orleans’ legally sanctioned red-light district. Cre dit: E. J. Bellocq /  R obert Mapplethorpe Foundation and Alfred Stieglitz Society Gifts, 2013 Storyville – The City’s Licensed Vice District From 1897 to 1917, Storyville was both notorious and respectable in its own strange way. Created by city ordinance to regulate prostitution, it became a magnet for money, music, and scandal. The bordellos ranged from elegant parlours where wealthy clients entertained themselves with champagne and ragtime, to cramped rooms where working girls barely made ends meet. The madams of Storyville were entrepreneurs in their own right. They decorated their establishments with velvet curtains, gilt mirrors, and ornate furniture, projecting an image of luxury that reassured clients and intimidated rivals. Some were as wealthy as society ladies in the Garden District – and often better dressed. Cre dit: E. J. Bellocq /  Ro bert Mapplethorpe Foundation and Alfred Stieglitz Society Gifts, 2013 Bellocq’s photographs show this side of Storyville with unflinching intimacy. His portraits depict women lounging on ornate beds, sitting in front of heavy drapes, or standing half-undressed with the kind of casual confidence that comes from owning the space you’re in. There are no false glamour shots here – no over-posed studio theatrics. Instead, Bellocq’s work captures the frankness, humour, and sometimes boredom of women who were used to being looked at. Cre dit: E. J. Bellocq /  R obert Mapplethorpe Foundation and Alfred Stieglitz Society Gifts, 2013 The Mystery of the Damaged Negatives When Bellocq died in 1949, his reputation was mostly local, and his personal work was known to only a handful of friends. Most of his negatives and prints were destroyed after his death. But hidden away were a set of glass plate negatives – his Storyville photographs – that would later become legendary. Many of these negatives had been deliberately damaged. In some, the women’s faces had been scraped out of the emulsion. Whether Bellocq himself did this remains a mystery, but the damage was done while the plates were still wet – suggesting the act happened close to the moment of their creation. Credit: E. J. Bellocq /  Ro bert Mapplethorpe Foundation and Alfred Stieglitz Society Gifts, 2013 Some believe Bellocq may have been protecting the identities of the women, who, despite working in a legal red-light district, would have faced social ruin if exposed. Others have suggested a more personal reason – perhaps a falling out, or an aesthetic decision. The result is haunting: portraits where a woman’s body is perfectly rendered, but her face is a ghostly blank. Credit: E. J. Bellocq /  R obert Mapplethorpe Foundation and Alfred Stieglitz Society Gifts, 2013 Rediscovery and Acclaim The Storyville negatives eventually came into the possession of a young photographer, Lee Friedlander, who recognised their significance. In 1970, the Museum of Modern Art in New York mounted an exhibition of Friedlander’s prints from Bellocq’s 8 x 10 glass negatives, curated by John Szarkowski. The book Storyville Portraits  was published alongside the exhibition, bringing Bellocq’s work to a wider audience for the first time. Cred it: E. J. Bellocq /   Robert Mapplethorpe Foundation and Alfred Stieglitz Society Gifts, 2013 In 1996, a more extensive volume, Bellocq: Photographs from Storyville , was released with an introduction by Susan Sontag, who praised the photographs’ honesty and lack of sentimentality. The prints reveal more than just the women. They capture the interiors of the brothels – patterned wallpaper, plush chairs, lace tablecloths, and the small details that hint at lives lived between transactions. They are as much about place as they are about people. Credit : E. J. Bellocq /  Rober t Mapplethorpe Foundation and Alfred Stieglitz Society Gifts, 2013 The Dandy and the Eccentric Accounts from those who knew Bellocq paint a picture of a man who had been something of a dandy in his youth, dressing sharply and moving with quiet self-assurance. In later life, however, he became reclusive, living alone and developing a reputation for eccentricity and aloofness. Friends recalled that he showed little interest in anything other than photography. Credit: E. J. Bellocq /   Robert Mapplethorpe Foundation and Alfred Stieglitz Society Gifts, 2013 He never married, and his personal life remains almost as much of a mystery as his artistic motives. What is clear is that he was trusted by the women he photographed. These were not furtive snapshots but composed portraits – the kind that required time, patience, and cooperation. Legacy Today, Bellocq is celebrated not only for his skill as a photographer, but for documenting a slice of New Orleans history that might otherwise have been lost. Storyville was shut down in 1917, and much of its physical world demolished in the decades that followed. Credi t: E. J. Bellocq /   Robert Mapplethorpe Foundation and Alfred Stieglitz Society Gifts, 2013 The E. J. Bellocq Gallery of Photography at Louisiana Tech University bears his name, and his Storyville images continue to inspire debate among historians, artists, and viewers. Were they acts of quiet rebellion? Compassionate documentation? Or simply the work of a man fascinated by beauty in its raw, unvarnished form? Whatever the answer, Bellocq’s portraits remain a rare, honest record of the women who lived and worked in one of America’s most infamous districts – madams flashing their wealth, prostitutes posing semi-nude, and the intoxicating decadence of the bordellos of New Orleans. Sources: Friedlander, Lee. Storyville Portraits.  New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 1970. Sontag, Susan. Bellocq: Photographs from Storyville.  New York: Random House, 1996. Museum of Modern Art. “E. J. Bellocq: Storyville Portraits.” MoMA Exhibition Archive. https://www.moma.org/calendar/exhibitions/2435 Louisiana State Museum. “E. J. Bellocq and the Storyville Portraits.” https://louisianastatemuseum.org Raeburn, John. A Staggering Revolution: A Cultural History of Thirties Photography.  University of Illinois Press, 2006. Kennedy, Randy. “A Photographer’s Secret World of New Orleans Prostitutes.” The New York Times , April 21, 1998. https://www.nytimes.com/1998/04/21/arts/a-photographer-s-secret-world-of-new-orleans-prostitutes.html Historic New Orleans Collection. “Storyville: The Red-Light District of New Orleans.” https://www.hnoc.org

In the years when the Cold War was at its most uneasy, American skies became an unlikely stage for a peculiar form of political theatre. From the early 1960s through to the start of the 1970s, hijacking a passenger aircraft and demanding to be flown to Cuba became almost routine. The motives were often desperate. Some hijackers were fugitives seeking escape, others were self-proclaimed revolutionaries in search of asylum, and some were merely impulsive men yearning for a dramatic gesture. Whatever the reason, the result was the same: another aircraft diverted to Havana, another long night for air traffic controllers, and another diplomatic tangle for Washington. Between 1961 and 1973, more than one hundred and fifty American aircraft were hijacked, many bound for the Cuban capital. The demand was so common that some airlines began keeping maps of the Caribbean and Spanish phrasebooks in the cockpit. For passengers, the experience was exhausting but seldom fatal. They would land in Havana, watch the hijacker led away by Cuban soldiers, and fly back to Florida the following morning. An Unlikely Solution By the end of the decade, U.S. authorities had grown weary of the humiliation. The Federal Aviation Administration and the FBI were under pressure to halt the hijackings without resorting to mid-air gunfire or international incidents. They needed a way to outwit the hijackers without endangering passengers. Out of this frustration emerged a peculiar idea: if hijackers insisted on reaching Havana, perhaps they could be tricked into thinking they had done so — without ever leaving American soil. According to accounts from former officials and later investigations, federal agents quietly explored the possibility of creating a convincing illusion of Havana in southern Florida. The concept was both theatrical and pragmatic. When a hijacker demanded to go to Cuba, the pilot would instead divert to a prepared airfield where palm trees bordered the tarmac, Spanish signs could be quickly erected, and Spanish-speaking personnel stood ready to greet the plane. In some reports, Cuban music was even played through loudspeakers. The hope was simple: convince the hijacker he had arrived, let him lower his weapon, and arrest him before he realised his mistake. Evidence for the “Fake Havana” Plan This improbable strategy is not simply the stuff of Cold War legend. Contemporary and retrospective evidence confirms the idea was discussed seriously at the highest levels of American aviation security. The long-running design podcast 99% Invisible  documented the deliberations of the late 1960s, quoting FAA officials who recalled that “a phony Havana airport in south Florida” was proposed as a way to deceive hijackers before arresting them on U.S. soil. The Smithsonian’s Lemelson Center later cited former FAA Administrator John H. Shaffer, who admitted that the plan’s flaw was obvious: “A fake airport would work once — and that’s all.” The proposal also appears in mainstream histories of the hijacking epidemic. In The Skies Belong to Us  (2013), journalist Brendan I. Koerner traced the idea as part of a suite of unconventional responses explored before airport screening became mandatory. Wired  magazine, excerpting Koerner’s research, published photographs of the era alongside the anecdote, and Vox ’s 2016 retrospective confirmed that the plan was debated in earnest. Even Britannica ’s short entry on aviation security includes a reference to the proposed replica of Havana’s José Martí Airport. While no public record shows a fully executed operation complete with transcripts and visual documentation, the combined weight of these independent accounts (government recollections, journalistic histories, and institutional references) leaves little doubt that the “fake Havana” airport was more than an urban myth. It was a serious, if short-lived, attempt to bring stagecraft to the business of counter-terrorism. The 1971 “Fake Havana” Landing One story that persists, though lacking an official transcript, describes an Eastern Air Lines flight in November 1971. The aircraft, travelling from Newark to Miami, was seized by a lone hijacker who demanded to be taken to Cuba. Instead, the pilot diverted to Homestead Air Force Base, just south of Miami, which had been used for such experiments. As the plane came to a halt, Spanish-speaking officers and soldiers stood in view, and the hijacker, convinced he had reached Havana, surrendered his weapon. Whether this specific incident unfolded precisely as described remains uncertain, but it illustrates how the logic of deception fitted the crisis atmosphere of the time. Skyjacking Becomes a Crisis By the early 1970s, hijackings had become so frequent that newspapers joked grimly about “skyjacking season.” Pilots were advised to cooperate fully, airlines insured their aircraft against loss, and passengers often accepted their fate with weary resignation. Yet the government feared escalation. With political violence on the rise during the Vietnam era, officials worried that hijackers might soon turn to sabotage or use aircraft as weapons. It was in this anxious environment that more extreme proposals (including the fake-airport plan) briefly seemed rational. U.S. officials even considered constructing a permanent replica of Havana’s airport in Florida, though cost and practicality soon ended the idea. The very fact it was discussed speaks volumes about the surreal logic of Cold War crisis management. Southern Airways Flight 49 If deception was the clever option, the alternative was chaos. On 10 November 1972, three armed men commandeered Southern Airways Flight 49, a DC-9 carrying twenty-seven passengers. They demanded ten million dollars and threatened to crash into the Oak Ridge nuclear complex in Tennessee if refused. After thirty nerve-wracking hours zigzagging across the United States, the aircraft eventually flew to Cuba. In an ironic twist, the hijackers who had viewed the island as a revolutionary haven were promptly arrested by Fidel Castro’s government and imprisoned. The episode, along with the earlier deceptions, convinced Washington that improvisation was no longer enough. The following year, the United States introduced mandatory passenger and luggage screening nationwide. Within months, the age of routine hijackings was over. The End of an Era The story of America’s “fake Cuba” survives as one of the more unusual footnotes in Cold War aviation. It reflects an age when illusion and improvisation were used to navigate the fine line between security and diplomacy. Even if the plan was only partially realised, its existence captures the imagination: a moment when officials genuinely considered solving a crisis by building an imitation country on a Florida runway. It remains a reminder that, in times of tension, the boundary between theatre and policy can blur in surprising ways. Sources: 99% Invisible, Skyjacking  (2014) – https://99percentinvisible.org/episode/skyjacking/ Smithsonian (Lemelson Center), The Two Inventors Who Made Airline Travel Safer  (2021) – https://invention.si.edu/invention-stories/two-inventors-who-made-airline-travel-safer Vox , The US once had more than 130 hijackings in 4 years  (2016) – https://www.vox.com/2016/3/29/11326472/hijacking-airplanes-egyptair Wired, How Hijackers Commandeered Over 130 American Planes – In 5 Years  (2013) – https://www.wired.com/2013/06/love-and-terror-in-the-golden-age-of-hijacking Britannica, Why did the FAA consider building a fake airport?  (2023) – https://www.britannica.com/one-good-fact/why-did-the-faa-consider-building-a-fake-airport Now I Know, The Never-Built Airport That Was Never Intended to Be Used Anyway  (2017) – https://nowiknow.com/the-never-built-airport-that-was-never-intended-to-be-used-anyway/ Brendan I. Koerner, The Skies Belong to Us: Love and Terror in the Golden Age of Hijacking  (2013) – https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Skies_Belong_to_Us

On a chilly Sunday morning in Tehran, 4 November 1979, a crowd gathered outside the United States Embassy. What began as a protest turned into one of the longest hostage crises in modern history. By nightfall, more than sixty Americans were being held captive, blindfolded and bound, inside the sprawling embassy compound. Outside, thousands chanted “Death to America,” waving banners of Ayatollah Khomeini, the new spiritual leader of Iran’s Islamic Revolution. For 444 days, those hostages became unwilling players in a geopolitical drama that changed the course of U.S.–Iran relations forever. What made the event so shocking wasn’t just the violence, but what it represented: decades of resentment towards American involvement in Iran, boiling over after years of political interference. The story of the Iran Hostage Crisis is not one of simple villainy or heroism, but of revolution, miscalculation, and the enduring struggle between national pride and international power. After an initial, smaller group of students took control of the embassy, thousands more Iranians scaled the gates of the embassy grounds over the course of the day, many chanting “Death to America!” Setting the Stage: Iran Before the Storm To understand the events of November 1979, it helps to go back several decades. Iran in the mid-20th century was caught between tradition and modernity, between the desires of its people and the influence of foreign powers. In 1953, the United States and the United Kingdom orchestrated a coup to remove Iran’s democratically elected prime minister, Mohammad Mossadegh, after he tried to nationalise the country’s oil industry. The coup restored the young Shah, Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, to power — a move that left a deep scar on Iranian memory. The Shah, while hailed in the West as a moderniser, ruled as an autocrat. He repressed political opposition, crushed dissent through his secret police, SAVAK, and aligned himself closely with Washington. American advisors poured into Tehran to modernise the army, police, and economy. Iran’s oil money fuelled rapid growth, but the wealth was unevenly distributed, and the religious and working classes saw the Shah as a puppet of Western interests. In addition to the embassy’s diplomatic staff, a security detail of U.S. Marines was also captured. By the end of the day, students took 63 Americans hostage. By the late 1970s, revolution was in the air. Inflation, corruption, and authoritarian rule had driven the population to breaking point. When Ayatollah Khomeini, a cleric exiled for criticising the Shah, returned from France in early 1979, millions of Iranians greeted him as a saviour. Within weeks, the Shah fled the country. The Islamic Republic of Iran was born, and the once-powerful alliance between Tehran and Washington was in ruins. Under Khomeini’s direction, 13 of the hostages—five women and eight Black men—were released.  Humanitarian Decision That Ignited a Firestorm The immediate trigger for the hostage crisis came a few months later, when President Jimmy Carter agreed to allow the Shah, who was suffering from cancer, to enter the United States for medical treatment. To American eyes, it was a humanitarian gesture. But to the revolutionary leadership in Iran, it looked like history repeating itself — a reminder of 1953, when the CIA helped restore the Shah to the throne after his first exile. Anti-American demonstrations erupted in Tehran. Protesters accused Washington of plotting another coup to reinstall the Shah. The U.S. Embassy, long seen as a symbol of interference, became a target. On 4 November, a group of students calling themselves the “Muslim Student Followers of the Imam’s Line” gathered outside the embassy. One of the hostage-takers displays images of the hostages to international reporters What appeared to be a routine protest suddenly escalated. At around 10:30 a.m., several students scaled the embassy walls, tore down the American flag, and forced their way through the gates. They overpowered the guards and began rounding up diplomats, military attachés, and staff. The takeover was surprisingly swift and frighteningly well-organised. By the end of the day, 66 Americans were prisoners. Six American diplomats initially evaded capture by hiding with their Canadian colleagues. Here, the “Canadian Six” celebrate after being smuggled out of Iran via a joint CIA-Canadian government covert operation “You Are Our Guests”: The First Days of Captivity When the hostages were first seized, the students announced that the occupation would be temporary — a few days at most, to demand the Shah’s return for trial. But when Ayatollah Khomeini publicly endorsed their actions, everything changed. The embassy seizure was suddenly elevated from a student protest to a revolutionary act. One of the hostages later recalled, “They told us we were guests. Then they tied our hands, blindfolded us, and took us to the basement. That was when I realised this was no protest.” Over the coming days, the compound became a fortress. Armed guards patrolled the halls, and television crews were invited to film the captives, blindfolded and bound, as proof of Iran’s defiance. Outside, thousands of Iranians rallied in support. They saw the embassy as the “Den of Spies” — the heart of decades of political manipulation. Protesters burn an effigy of Shah Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, 1979 Life Inside the “Den of Spies” The conditions inside the embassy varied from cramped to unbearable. Hostages were kept in small rooms, often handcuffed or bound for long periods. Food was basic — rice, bread, and tea — and medical care was minimal. The worst part, most recalled, was the uncertainty. One hostage described being led into a room where guards cocked their weapons and counted down as if preparing to execute him — a mock execution designed purely to terrify. “It was the longest ten seconds of my life,” he said. “And it happened more than once.” Despite the cruelty, some captors showed moments of humanity, offering cigarettes or small talk. Yet the psychological toll was immense. Forbidden from speaking to one another, deprived of light and information, the hostages had no idea if they’d ever go home. Within weeks, 13 hostages were released — women, African Americans, and non-U.S. citizens. Khomeini justified their release by claiming they were already “oppressed” by the United States. Later, a fourteenth hostage with health issues was freed, leaving 52 Americans in captivity. Aftermath of Operation Eagle Claw, the rescue attempt on April 24-25, 1980 The Canadian Caper: A Daring Escape While the world watched the embassy siege, six other American diplomats had managed to slip out of the compound before it fell. They found refuge with Canadian diplomat John Sheardown and his wife, Zena, who sheltered them at great personal risk. The Canadian ambassador, Ken Taylor, soon became the centre of a covert operation known as the “Canadian Caper.” Working with the CIA, the Canadians created fake identities for the six Americans as part of a film crew scouting locations for a fictional science-fiction movie titled Argo.  Using counterfeit documents and Canadian passports, they walked through Tehran’s Mehrabad Airport on 27 January 1980 and boarded a flight to Zurich. Taylor later said, “It was nerve-racking. They were sitting in the departure lounge while guards were questioning foreigners about their purpose. One wrong word and it could have been over.” When news of the escape broke, Canada was celebrated internationally. The episode, later dramatised in the 2012 film Argo,  remains one of the most successful examples of Cold War-era cooperation. Operation Eagle Claw: The Failed Rescue Back in Washington, frustration was growing. Diplomatic negotiations were going nowhere, and President Carter faced enormous pressure to act. In April 1980, he authorised a top-secret military rescue mission: Operation Eagle Claw. The plan was ambitious. Elite Delta Force commandos would land at a remote desert site called “Desert One,” refuel, and then fly to Tehran to storm the embassy and free the hostages. But everything that could go wrong did. A severe sandstorm grounded two helicopters before reaching the rendezvous point. Another malfunctioned en route. With fewer aircraft than required, the mission was already compromised, but the team decided to continue. Then tragedy struck. A helicopter collided with a C-130 transport plane during refuelling, causing an explosion that killed eight American servicemen. The mission was aborted immediately. The charred remains of the aircraft, left behind in the desert, were paraded on Iranian television as a sign of divine favour for the revolution. For the United States, it was a national humiliation. Carter, visibly shaken, took full responsibility on television. The disaster dealt a fatal blow to his presidency. Politics, Propaganda, and the 1980 Election Throughout 1980, the crisis dominated American headlines. Night after night, television networks opened with footage of blindfolded hostages. The constant coverage became a grim ritual: “Day 200,” “Day 300,” “Day 400.” The crisis defined the final year of Jimmy Carter’s presidency. Meanwhile, the Iranian leadership used the hostages as a political tool. Revolutionary students demanded the return of the Shah and billions in assets. The U.S. froze Iranian funds, further deepening hostilities. During the 1980 presidential campaign, Ronald Reagan accused Carter of weakness and promised to restore America’s global authority. When Reagan won the election, rumours swirled that members of his campaign had secretly negotiated with Iran to delay the hostages’ release until after the vote — a claim never conclusively proven but widely debated. Freedom at Last On 20 January 1981, as Ronald Reagan took the oath of office, the world watched in disbelief as news broke that the hostages had finally been released. Minutes after Reagan’s inauguration, 52 Americans were freed. They boarded an Algerian aircraft and left Tehran after 444 days of captivity. President Carter, who had worked tirelessly in his final days to secure the release, greeted them in Germany. Though the timing seemed symbolic, Iran insisted the release was the result of months of negotiations, not a political gesture. For the hostages, homecoming was emotional and surreal. Many had spent more than a year in darkness and silence, emerging to a world they barely recognised. Several struggled for years with post-traumatic stress. One hostage later reflected, “You try to go back to normal life, but part of you stays in that basement forever.” The Fallout The Iran Hostage Crisis left deep scars on both nations. For the United States, it became a turning point — a moment of reckoning about its role abroad. It reinforced the idea that America’s global reach could be challenged and that diplomacy had limits in a revolutionary world. In Iran, the crisis cemented Khomeini’s power. It rallied the country around his anti-Western message and isolated moderates who had once sought improved relations with the West. The episode helped shape Iran’s foreign policy for decades, promoting the image of defiance that still defines its stance towards Washington today. The two countries severed diplomatic ties in 1980, and they have never been restored. Sources Britannica: Iran Hostage Crisis , www.britannica.com/event/Iran-hostage-crisis U.S. Department of State – Office of the Historian: The Iranian Hostage Crisis – Short History , history.state.gov/departmenthistory/short-history/iraniancrises Brookings Institution: How the Iran Hostage Crisis Shaped the U.S. Approach to Sanctions , www.brookings.edu/articles/how-the-iran-hostage-crisis-shaped-the-us-approach-to-sanctions National Archives: The Iran Hostage Crisis: Pieces of History , prologue.blogs.archives.gov/2021/11/29/the-iran-hostage-crisis Bill of Rights Institute: Jimmy Carter and the Iran Hostage Crisis , billofrightsinstitute.org/essays/jimmy-carter-and-the-iran-hostage-crisis The Guardian archives, 1980 election coverage, www.theguardian.com

In the golden age of rock and roll, rebellion was as much a part of the music as the beat itself. Sam Phillips’ Sun Records in Memphis was built on that energy. Johnny Cash, Elvis Presley, Carl Perkins and Jerry Lee Lewis all carried an aura of danger, defying convention and reshaping music in their own way. But even these icons, with their talk of prisons, heartache and sin, could not match the genuine outlaw status of one of Sun’s most unusual acts. The Prisonaires were not rock stars pretending to be rebels. They were real prisoners, serving time for serious crimes in Tennessee State Penitentiary. In 1953, they recorded a hauntingly beautiful doo-wop song called “Just Walkin’ in the Rain”, a tune that would make them famous far beyond the prison walls and forever etch their names into American music history. The musical group the Prisonaires performing for other inmates, Tennessee State Penitentiary, 1953. Born in Captivity The story began in Nashville in the early 1950s at the Tennessee State Penitentiary, a sprawling stone fortress that loomed like a monument to human misery. Inside its walls was Johnny Bragg, born February 26, 1925, a man with a voice so soulful that it carried through the cell blocks and into the hearts of everyone who heard it. Bragg had been locked up since 1943, when, at just 17 years old, he was convicted of six counts of rape. Years later, those convictions would be called into question as witnesses recanted their testimony, and many came to believe the charges had been falsified. But at the time, the teenage Bragg was handed an almost unimaginable sentence: 99 years in prison. Robert Riley, serving 10 to 16 years for housebreaking, sat in his cell composing music, Tennessee State Penitentiary, 1953. Riley co-wrote the hit song, “Just Walkin’ in the Rain.” Music became his escape. While incarcerated, he met two gospel singers, Ed Thurman and William Stewart, both serving 99 years for murder. Joining them were two other inmates, John Drue Jr., sentenced to three years for larceny, and Marcell Sanders, serving one to five years for involuntary manslaughter. Together, they found solace in harmony, forming a small group they called The Prisonaires. Bragg’s natural talent as a singer and songwriter soon became evident. His voice could shift from a tender croon to a mournful cry, and it carried a depth that only life behind bars could produce. In an environment built on punishment, their songs were filled with longing, hope, and the quiet dignity of survival. A Song from the Yard The group’s breakthrough came one rainy afternoon in the prison yard. Bragg, reflecting on lost chances and the simple act of walking freely, began humming a melody that seemed to mirror the rhythm of the rain. Another inmate, Robert Riley, helped him write lyrics to match the tune. Together, they created “Just Walkin’ in the Rain,” a song filled with melancholy and quiet resignation. “Just walkin’ in the rain,Gettin’ soaking wet,Torturin’ my heart,By tryin’ to forget.” It was a simple song, yet its meaning reached beyond prison walls. It was about loneliness, regret, and the aching human desire for redemption. Their talent might have stayed hidden forever if not for Joe Calloway, a Nashville radio producer preparing a broadcast from the prison. Hearing the men sing, he was struck by their harmonies and arranged for them to perform live on local radio. The broadcast caused a sensation. Listeners were astonished to learn that these beautiful voices belonged to convicted criminals. A Song from the Yard The group’s breakthrough came one rainy afternoon in the prison yard. Bragg, reflecting on lost chances and the simple act of walking freely, began humming a melody that seemed to mirror the rhythm of the rain. Another inmate, Robert Riley, helped him write lyrics to match the tune. Together, they created “Just Walkin’ in the Rain,” a song filled with melancholy and quiet resignation. “Just walkin’ in the rain, Gettin’ soaking wet, Torturin’ my heart, By tryin’ to forget.” It was a simple song, yet its meaning reached beyond prison walls. It was about loneliness, regret, and the aching human desire for redemption. Their talent might have stayed hidden forever if not for Joe Calloway, a Nashville radio producer preparing a broadcast from the prison. Hearing the men sing, he was struck by their harmonies and arranged for them to perform live on local radio. The broadcast caused a sensation. Listeners were astonished to learn that these beautiful voices belonged to convicted criminals. The Prisonaires performing at Tennessee State Penitentiary warden James Edwards’ home, Nashville, Tenn., 1953. Sun Records Steps In Word reached Sam Phillips, the visionary founder of Sun Records, who had a gift for recognising authentic emotion in music. Phillips was intrigued. He sought permission from the Tennessee Department of Corrections and arranged for the group to be transported under armed guard to Memphis to record at his studio. In July 1953, The Prisonaires walked into Sun Studio, their chains temporarily removed, and recorded “Just Walkin’ in the Rain.” The session was professional but tinged with poignancy. The guards stood by, rifles slung over their shoulders, while Bragg and his fellow inmates sang about the world beyond the walls. When the single was released, it became an unexpected hit, selling more than 250,000 copies. It was one of Sun Records’ earliest successes and a striking example of how music could transcend even the most unlikely circumstances. Prisonaire Johnny Bragg, Tennessee State Penitentiary, 1953. Out on Day Release As their popularity grew, The Prisonaires began to experience something almost unimaginable: partial freedom. With support from Governor Frank G. Clement and warden James Edwards, they were granted day passes to perform around Tennessee. They sang at churches, VFW halls, and charity events, always accompanied by guards. They even performed regularly at the governor’s mansion, becoming favourites of Governor Clement and his family. LIFE magazine photographer Robert W. Kelley captured these surreal moments in a series of 1953 photographs: the five prisoners in pressed suits, singing sweet love songs under the watchful eyes of armed guards. Audiences were fascinated by the contrast. Here were men convicted of murder, rape, and theft, harmonising about love and loss. Their sincerity and humility won over the public. The Prisonaires became living proof that music could reveal the humanity even in those society had cast aside. Lives and Crimes Each member of the group carried a dark history, and their crimes shaped both their music and the public’s perception of them. Johnny Bragg , convicted on six counts of rape at 17, maintained his innocence until his death, with later reports suggesting the charges were falsified. His sentence was eventually commuted in 1956. Ed Thurman  and William Stewart  were both convicted of murder and sentenced to 99 years each. They had been gospel singers before their imprisonment, their voices lending depth and gravity to the group’s harmonies. John Drue Jr. , serving three years for larceny, brought a lighter, youthful energy to the group. Marcell Sanders , convicted of involuntary manslaughter, completed his term not long after the band’s formation. For a while, The Prisonaires seemed to be living a second life. They were proof that something beautiful could emerge from violence and despair. Fame Beyond the Walls Their success caught the attention of artists and producers far beyond Tennessee. In 1956, Johnnie Ray recorded his own version of “Just Walkin’ in the Rain,” turning it into an international hit. Ray’s version reached #2 on the Billboard charts and #1 in the UK, selli ng more than eight times as many copies as the original. Yet even as Ray’s version climbed the charts, many music fans still remembered where it began. Ray later credited Bragg for the song’s emotional depth, saying, “It was born behind bars, but it spoke to everyone who ever made a mistake.” Second Chances and Setbacks In 1956, Johnny Bragg’s sentence was commuted, and he finally walked free after 13 years in prison. He quickly formed a new group with Hal Hebb, Willy Wilson, Al Brooks, and Henry “Dishrag” Jones, performing first as The Sunbeams before rebranding as The Marigolds. The Marigolds found modest success, scoring a hit with “Rollin’ Stone” on Decca Records, which reached #8 on the US R&B chart. For a brief time, Bragg seemed to have escaped the shadow of his past. But in 1960, tragedy and injustice struck again. Bragg was sent back to prison on what he described as trumped-up charges, spending another six and a half years behind bars. During that time, he formed another group of inmates under The Prisonaires name, though they never recorded new material. After his release, Bragg lived quietly in Nashville, working in a cemetery and occasionally performing at local events. Despite the hardships, he remained proud of what he had achieved, telling one journalist, “We sang to stay alive. Every song was a piece of freedom.” The Final Chorus The years that followed saw the gradual fading of The Prisonaires’ story. Their members met tragic ends: William Stewart  died of a drug overdose in a Florida motel in 1959. Marcell Sanders  passed away in the late 1960s. Ed Thurman  was killed in an accident in 1973. John Drue Jr.  died of cancer in 1977. Johnny Bragg  succumbed to cancer in 2004, aged 79. Though they never achieved the long-lasting fame of Sun’s more famous stars, The Prisonaires left a legacy that was both musical and moral. Their story challenged public attitudes toward prisoners and redemption, showing that talent could thrive even in the harshest of circumstances. Legacy and Meaning Today, The Prisonaires stand as one of the most extraordinary acts in American music history. Their existence was improbable, their journey unprecedented, and their voices unforgettable. “Just Walkin’ in the Rain” remains their greatest legacy, a timeless reminder that beauty can emerge from the bleakest places. In a world that loves to romanticise the outlaw, few stories are as real as this one. The Prisonaires were not play-acting at rebellion. They lived it, endured it, and somehow turned it into harmony. Listening to their recordings today, the music still sounds soft and sorrowful, but also full of defiance. It is the sound of men who found a way to be free, if only for three minutes at a time. The Prisonaires under the watchful eyes of guards, Nashville, Tenn., 1953. Sources A Real-Life Kind of ‘Jailhouse Rock’ – CultureSonar https:// www.culturesonar.com/a-real-life-kind-of-jailhouse-rock/ The Prisonaires: The Murderers Who Pioneered Rock ’n’ Roll – Far Out Magazine https:// faroutmagazine.co.uk/the-prisonaires-murderers-who-pioneered-rock-n-roll/ We Need to Talk About Johnny Bragg (Inside, Looking Out) – Elsewhere https:// www.elsewhere.co.nz/weneedtotalkabout/9685/we-need-to-talk-about-johnny-bragg-inside-looking-out-then-out-and-in-again/ Just Walkin’ in the Rain – The Life of a Song – Financial Times https:// ig.ft.com/life-of-a-song/walkin-in-the-rain.html Sam Phillips: The Man Who Invented Rock ’n’ Roll – Peter Guralnickhttps:// www.littlebrown.com/titles/peter-guralnick/sam-phillips/9780316206778/ Tennessee State Penitentiary Historical Records – Nashville Archiveshttps:// tsla.tn.gov/

When people think of the Olympic Games, they picture sleek stadiums, elite athletes, and international glory. What they probably don’t imagine is a dusty, chaotic marathon run through choking air, wild dogs chasing barefoot runners, a Cuban postman snatching peaches from passing cars, and a winner fuelled by brandy, egg whites, and rat poison. Yet this was precisely the spectacle that unfolded at the 1904 Olympics in St. Louis. It was America’s first time hosting the Games—and it very nearly became its last. The event was supposed to celebrate a century of progress since the Louisiana Purchase, a grand union of sport and spectacle held alongside the Louisiana Purchase Exposition, better known as the St. Louis World’s Fair. The fair itself was a monumental display of American innovation and pride. But it was also steeped in imperialism, with exhibits designed to promote the supposed superiority of Western civilisation. The Olympics, absorbed into this environment, became less a celebration of athletic prowess and more a sideshow amid the fanfare of brass bands, Ferris wheels, and carnival barkers. The French historian Pierre de Coubertin, who had revived the modern Olympics less than a decade earlier, later called the St. Louis Games a “disaster.” His dream of international unity through sport had been reduced to a provincial spectacle where nationalism trumped fair play, and where even the most serious events were treated as entertainment. Javelin contest during the Anthropology Days. A Fair Overshadowing a Dream The World’s Fair dominated every aspect of the 1904 Olympics. Visitors who came for the Games found themselves wandering past scientific demonstrations, mechanical wonders, and grotesque colonial exhibitions. The organisers had blurred the line between anthropology and show business. Nowhere was this more apparent than in the so-called “Anthropology Days,” during which organisers recruited men from the fair’s “ethnic villages”—including Indigenous Americans, Africans, and Filipinos—to compete in pseudo-athletic contests like greased-pole climbing, mud slinging, and “native dancing.” The intent, of course, was to amuse white spectators and reinforce stereotypes of “primitive” peoples. Pierre de Coubertin, watching from afar, was horrified. “As for that outrageous charade,” he said, “it will of course lose its appeal when black men, red men and yellow men learn to run, jump and throw, and leave the white men behind them.” His words would prove prophetic. Cuban marathoner (and former postman) Félix Carbajal The Marathon Begins The marathon was meant to be the highlight of the Games, an homage to ancient Greece and a test of endurance worthy of legend. But what took place on 30 August 1904 in St. Louis was closer to a circus act than a competition. The race began at 3:03 p.m.—the hottest part of the day—with the temperature climbing above 90°F (32°C) and humidity so thick it seemed to cling to the lungs. The 24.85-mile course snaked across rutted country roads coated in dust, weaving between trolley tracks, railway crossings, and open countryside. Cars carrying officials and coaches followed the runners, throwing up thick clouds of dust that made breathing almost impossible. One race official later described the course as “the most difficult a human being was ever asked to run over.” Félix Carbajal in his modified street clothes James E. Sullivan, chief organiser of the Games, believed that limiting access to water would make the event more “scientific.” He wanted to study the effects of dehydration, so runners were only allowed to drink at two points along the route—one at six miles, the other at twelve. It was a dangerous experiment that would leave several men hospitalised. Fred Lorz ran across the finishing line and nearly accepted the gold medal until his deception was uncovered. A Line-up of Characters The starting line was filled with an assortment of athletes and adventurers. Among them were five experienced American marathoners: Sam Mellor, A.L. Newton, John Lordon, Michael Spring, and Thomas Hicks. They were joined by Frederick Lorz, a 19-year-old bricklayer who trained by running at night after long shifts at work. There was also Félix Carvajal, a diminutive Cuban mailman who had spent months running across his homeland to raise travel money, only to lose it all in a New Orleans gambling hall. Undeterred, he hitchhiked his way to St. Louis, arriving in tattered dress shoes, a long-sleeved shirt, and a beret. A fellow runner took pity on him and cut his trousers into makeshift shorts. Ten Greek entrants arrived with little to no marathon experience, and two men from the Tswana tribe of South Africa appeared barefoot. They had been brought to the fair as part of an exhibit on the Boer War and had never run such a race before. Yet, as history would show, they would outlast many of their better-equipped competitors. Into the Dust When the starting pistol fired, the runners dashed into a choking cloud of dust. Within minutes, the heat and fumes took their toll. William Garcia of California collapsed on the roadside with severe haemorrhaging; the dust had torn his stomach lining. He was rushed to hospital and nearly died. Sam Mellor led briefly, but cramps forced him to stop. John Lordon vomited and gave up. Fred Lorz, overcome by exhaustion, decided to quit. But then, spotting one of the official cars, he climbed in and rode for eleven miles, waving at spectators along the way. Meanwhile, the South African runner Len Taunyane was chased a mile off course by a pack of wild dogs. Félix Carvajal, on the other hand, seemed in good spirits. He jogged steadily, chatting with spectators in broken English, even pausing to steal a couple of peaches from a car when refused one politely. Later he stopped at an orchard and snacked on apples, which unfortunately turned out to be rotten. Doubled over with cramps, he lay down by the roadside and took a short nap before resuming the race. Thomas Hicks, assisted by his trainers. Strychnine and Brandy Thomas Hicks, one of the race favourites, was enduring his own ordeal. At the ten-mile mark he begged his trainers for water. They refused and instead sponged his mouth with warm distilled water. Seven miles from the finish, his support team prepared a concoction of egg whites mixed with a small dose of strychnine—a rat poison that, in tiny quantities, acts as a stimulant. This was the first recorded use of performance-enhancing drugs in Olympic history. They also carried French brandy, which they rationed carefully. Hicks reaches the 20-mile mark. As Hicks staggered forward, the effects of the poison and heat took hold. His face turned ashen; his vision blurred. Yet when his trainers told him that Fred Lorz had been disqualified, he rallied and forced himself onward. They gave him another dose of strychnine, this time washed down with brandy. Hicks’s body was failing but his will was ferocious. One race official wrote that he ran “mechanically, like a well-oiled piece of machinery,” his knees stiff, his eyes vacant, his arms swinging heavily at his sides. He began hallucinating, at one point believing the finish line was still twenty miles away. As he entered the stadium, Hicks tried to sprint but could not. His trainers, walking beside him, lifted him partially off the ground, carrying him over the finish line as his legs moved weakly beneath him. He had to be treated by four doctors before he could even speak. He had lost eight pounds during the race and later said, “Never in my life have I run such a tough course. The terrific hills simply tear a man to pieces.” Len Tau (left) placed ninth in the marathon after he was chased off course by angry dogs. The Fake Victory While Hicks was being revived, Fred Lorz—the man who had ridden in the car—crossed the finish line earlier and was initially hailed as the victor. The crowd roared as he entered the stadium. President Theodore Roosevelt’s daughter, Alice, placed a wreath on his head and was about to hand him the gold medal when someone shouted that Lorz had cheated. The cheers turned to jeers. Lorz smiled sheepishly and insisted that it had been “a joke,” but the Amateur Athletic Union banned him for life. The ban was later lifted when he apologised, and he went on to win the Boston Marathon the following year Italian Dorando Pietri was disqualified in 1908 after Olympic officials helped him up when he stumbled at the finish line Survival, Scandal and Lessons Only fourteen of the thirty-two starters finished the race. Those who did staggered across the line in varying states of collapse. Len Taunyane, despite being chased off course by dogs, managed to come ninth. Félix Carvajal, after his ill-fated fruit feast, finished fourth. Thomas Hicks was declared the official winner—but only just. James E. Sullivan, the man responsible for organising the event, later admitted that the experiment had gone too far. “A twenty-five mile run,” he told reporters, “is asking too much of human endurance… it is indefensible on any ground but historic.” He suggested that the marathon might be dropped from future Games. That, of course, did not happen. Instead, the 1904 fiasco became a cautionary tale. When the next Olympics were held in London in 1908, organisers standardised the marathon distance at 26 miles and 385 yards, introduced more water stations, and implemented stricter rules about outside assistance. It was a direct response to the debacle in St. Louis. The World’s Fair Legacy The 1904 Olympics cannot be separated from the context of the World’s Fair that hosted them. The fair itself drew nearly twenty million visitors and presented a vision of American modernity. But it also mirrored the racial hierarchies and colonial thinking of its time. Anthropology Days, in particular, have become infamous as an early example of how science and spectacle were used to justify imperialism. For the athletes who competed in the Games, it was a world in flux. The two Tswana runners were effectively participants in a colonial display rather than invited Olympians. Félix Carvajal, a working-class mailman, symbolised the rise of sport as something that could transcend class boundaries. And Thomas Hicks, with his dangerous mix of stimulants, marked the start of a conversation about ethics and endurance that would echo through Olympic history. The Aftermath For many of the runners, the 1904 marathon was life-changing. Hicks retired soon after, admitting that the experience had nearly killed him. Fred Lorz redeemed himself a year later. Félix Carvajal became a folk hero in Cuba and was later sponsored by his government to run in Athens in 1906. When he failed to appear, newspapers published his obituary. He surprised everyone when he returned to Havana months later, having simply taken longer to travel home. The marathon itself survived, as did the Games. But the lessons of 1904 reshaped the Olympic movement. From that chaotic beginning grew the modern tradition we know today—one built on stricter organisation, fairness, and respect for the athlete’s welfare. America’s Strangest Olympics Looking back, it is hard not to see the 1904 Games as both a product and a parody of their time. They reflected a young nation trying to prove itself on the world stage, tangled in the contradictions of empire, innovation, and spectacle. What should have been a noble sporting celebration turned into a dust-choked endurance test that nearly destroyed the marathon as an Olympic event. Yet from its absurdities came progress. The 1904 Olympics remain a fascinating chapter in history—a reminder that the road to greatness is often littered with mistakes, misjudgements, and, occasionally, wild dogs. Sources Smithsonian Magazine – “How the 1904 Marathon Became One of the Weirdest Olympic Events of All Time” https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/how-the-1904-marathon-became-one-of-the-weirdest-olympic-events-of-all-time-14910747/ Olympics.com – “The Strange Case of the St. Louis 1904 Marathon” https://www.olympics.com/en/news/the-strange-case-of-the-st-louis-1904-marathon Explore The Archive – “The Disastrous 1904 Olympic Marathon” https://explorethearchive.com/1904-olympic-marathon Populous Magazine – “The Bizarre Tale of the 1904 St. Louis Marathon” https://populous.com/article/the-bizarre-tale-of-the-1904-st-louis-marathon Marathon Handbook – “The Marathon from Hell: The 1904 St. Louis Olympics” https://marathonhandbook.com/the-marathon-from-hell/