When you think of medieval princesses, what comes to mind is probably some beauty locked in a tower, waiting around for a prince to show up. Well, Anna Komnene would have rolled her eyes at that stereotype. This 11th-century Byzantine princess had better things to do than wait for rescue—she was busy writing one of history’s most important chronicles!

Born in 1083 to Emperor Alexios I Komnenos, Anna grew up in the heart of the Byzantine Empire during one of its most turbulent periods. Instead of learning needlework like most girls her age, she was reading Homer and studying philosophy. Her parents, surprisingly ahead of their time, decided their daughter deserved a real education, something that was normally reserved for the male offspring. And when we say education, we don’t mean just the basics—we’re talking about advanced studies in history, mathematics, medicine, and literature.

This education paid off in ways nobody could have predicted.

Anna Komnene was more than Daddy’s little Princess

Anna’s masterpiece, the Alexiad, is her marvellous creation that chronicles her father’s reign with the kind of detail that makes historians rub their eyes from tears of joy. She was there for everything: the First Crusade (imagine those rough Western knights showing up at your doorstep), the Norman invasions, the constant political drama and machinations that kept the empire on the verge of falling apart.

Now, let’s be honest, once someone reads her chronicle, it is more than obvious that Anna worshipped her father. Reading the Alexiad, you’d think Alexios could walk on water. But even accounting for her obvious bias, the work is incredibly valuable to us all today. She provides simply unparalleled insights into Byzantine court life, military strategy, and cultural dynamics.

Her descriptions of the Crusaders are particularly entertaining, too. She thought these Western “barbarians” were crude and uncivilized, but she also recognized their military effectiveness and value when it came to battlefields. It’s like getting a sophisticated gossip column about one of history’s most significant events. That’s what her Chronicles feels like to scholars.

Anna Komnene wrote her way into history

What makes Anna truly remarkable isn’t that she wrote a good book—it’s that she dared to write it at all by herself. You see, medieval women weren’t supposed to be historians. They certainly weren’t supposed to have opinions about military campaigns or imperial policy.

Anna didn’t care about “supposed to.”

The Alexiad is bold, confident, and sometimes brutally honest about her era. She criticizes incompetent officials, praises effective leadership, and offers her analysis of complex political situations. It was serious scholarship demanding to be taken seriously, and it worked. The Alexiad became one of the most important sources for understanding this period of Byzantine history. Scholars today still cite her work, debate her interpretations, and marvel at her accomplishments.

Anna Komnene’s life wasn’t all intellectual triumph, though. After her father died, she found herself increasingly sidelined by those in court. She had hoped to see her husband become emperor, but politics didn’t work out in her favor. Writing the Alexiad partly became a way to preserve her family’s legacy and partly a way to assert her own importance in a world that preferred women to remain silent rather than take on the role of a protagonist in the Empire’s political affairs.

It is easy to understand her frustration coming through the text sometimes. Here was this brilliant, educated woman who understood imperial politics better than most of the men making decisions, and she was expected to just… fade into the background after her father passed away.

So, instead of remaining silent, she picked up her pen and made sure her voice would be heard for centuries.

Why Anna Komnene’s attitude is still relevant

Anna Komnene proved something that seems obvious now but was revolutionary at the time: women could be serious scholars, thoughtful historians, and compelling writers. She opened a door that had been firmly shut and wedged it open for everyone who came after. Every time a woman publishes a memoir, writes a historical analysis, or offers her perspective on current events, she follows the path that Anna Komnene created. Not that Anna gets credit for it—most people have never heard of her. But the precedent she set matters.

The Alexiad remains in print today, nearly 1,000 years later. Students still read it in history classes. Scholars still argue about her interpretations. That’s not bad for someone who was supposed to stay in her (luxurious) room and let the men handle the important issues.

She had something to say, and she said it. In a world that preferred women to stay silent, that was pretty revolutionary.

The very air we breathe here in Greece, the same air that ancient philosophers inhaled, often seems to carry ideas that still intrigue modern minds. And among them, few are as stubbornly persistent and as profoundly unsettling as that ancient riddle that became known by Epicurus.

The question that has endured throughout millennia, posing a challenge to both theologians and laypeople, is referred to as the Epicurean paradox, more commonly recognized as the Problem of Evil. It asks, plainly and simply, how a truly good, all-powerful God can exist alongside a world so utterly overflowing with suffering.

This conundrum has sparked numerous theological and philosophical debates, challenging us to confront its deeply significant implications.

The Epicurean paradox is a challenge to the divine

Now, while we often attribute this to Epicurus, the exact words we use—”Either God wants to abolish evil and cannot; or he can and does not want to. Or he wants to and can, and he is good. So, where does evil come from?” These were put down much later by a Christian man named Lactantius.

He was only trying to sum up what he understood of Epicurean thought. But you can bet your last drachma that the core of the problem, that uneasy tension between divine attributes and human experience, absolutely resonated within the Lyceum and the Academy of Athens, two of the most famous philosophical schools of Ancient Greece. Just imagine, if you will, those heated debates under the Athenian sun, where bright young minds wrestled with the implications of a whole pantheon of powerful, often quite moody, gods and the undeniable reality of plague, famine, and all-out war. This was truly a fascinating time to be alive.

How, then, could you possibly square the benevolent side of gods like Zeus, the protector of justice, with the glaring injustices you saw all around you? The Epicurean paradox, therefore, wasn’t just a logic puzzle; it was a full-blown existential crisis, a question that cut right to the very core of how Ancient Greeks understood the universe and their tiny place within it.

Wrestling with the Epicurean paradox from Ancient Greece to modern thought

Fast forward a few centuries, and this problem intensified with the arrival of monotheistic religions, especially Christianity, which, of course, posits a single, all-loving, all-powerful God. This really made the intellectual and emotional burden of The Epicurean paradox even bigger. If God truly is omnipotent, capable of absolutely anything, and omnibenevolent, desiring nothing but good, then why do we still witness such unspeakable horrors around the globe? Why the gut-wrenching agony of a child, the sheer devastation of a natural disaster, the creeping, insidious grip of disease, the unfathomable destruction of war?

Think about the Lisbon earthquake of 1755, a cataclysm that shook Enlightenment Europe to its core, inspiring Voltaire to write his biting satire Candide, which skewered the overly optimistic philosophies of the day. That earthquake, a seemingly random act of immense suffering, became a crucial symbol of the problem of evil, forcing thinkers around Europe to stare down the uncomfortable truth that even in an age of supposed reason, the existence of suffering remained a massive issue for anyone who believed in a good and powerful God. The entire debate, in essence, shifted from the sometimes whimsical nature of many gods to the unsettling feeling of indifference or impotence from just one.

Why the problem of evil still resonates

Even today, in our supposedly secular age, the Epicurean paradox continues to provoke debates worldwide. While most people might not frame it in theological terms, that fundamental question just won’t leave humanity alone: why is there so much suffering in the world? We see it every day in the news, in the quiet struggles of individuals, and in the grand, sweeping stories of human history across civilizations.

The “New Atheists” of our time often brandish the problem of evil like a sword against religious belief, arguing that the mere existence of suffering is an insurmountable logical contradiction for any benevolent, omnipotent God. And yet, religious thinkers, from ancient Church Fathers like Augustine right up to modern theologians, have offered a dazzling array of “theodicies”—attempts to make sense of God’s attributes in light of evil. Some argue that suffering is simply the unfortunate consequence of free will, a necessary price for genuine moral agency.

Others suggest it serves some greater, grander, perhaps utterly inscrutable, divine plan, maybe to foster compassion or spiritual growth. Still, others just admit that our tiny human brains can’t grasp the full scope of divine purpose. The true genius of these arguments, however, isn’t that they definitively solve the paradox, but rather that they wrestle with it, reflecting humanity’s endless, sometimes heartbreaking, efforts to find meaning in a world that often seems utterly devoid of it.

Ultimately, the Epicurean paradox, whether debated by Ancient Greeks who argued about their gods or by modern minds contemplating a singular deity, remains relevant today. It’s a question that forces us to squarely face the uncomfortable realities of existence, to grapple with the limits of our understanding, and constantly re-think our place in a world that is both beautiful and, at times, heartbreakingly cruel.

So, the next time you are wandering through some ancient ruins in Greece or elsewhere, or even just scrolling through the daily headlines of current affairs, take a moment to consider the power of Epicurus’ ancient challenge. It’s a question that, far from offering easy answers, invites us all into a profound and, quite frankly, ongoing conversation about faith, reason, and that beautiful, bewildering mystery we call life, suffering, and God.