This was the world into which Manikarnika Tambe was born on Nov. 19, 1828. At the time, no one knew what a revolutionary force she would become.

Because of her mother’s death when she was only four years old, Manikarnika was raised primarily by her father and the Peshwa, a district minister, who employed him. They adored the young girl, calling her by the nickname Manu, and focused their attention on expanding her education. She took quickly to not only her mental activities, but her physical ones as well, which included shooting, fencing and horseback riding.

At 14 years old, she married the Maharaja of Jhansi – ever afterwards, she was called Rani Lakshmibai, after the Hindu Lakshmi. Tensions in Jhansi with the British were controlled, but always present. They came to a head over the matter of the Rani’s son.

The baby, Damodar Rao, died just four short months after his birth in 1851. The grieving royal couple never had another biological child, but adopted the Maharaja’s young second cousin, named Anand Rao. The Maharaja instructed that the boy was to be renamed Damodar and treated as his heir and that his wife, Rani Lakshmibai, was to govern Jhansi until her death.

However, the Maharaja died the day after the adoption and could not fend off the opportunistic East India Company. Governor-General Lord Dalhousie decreed that the adoption negated the boy’s claim to the throne, ignored the rulership of the Rani and began to try to annex Jhansi to EIC territories.

The Rani resisted this action quietly for three years, but in May 1857, the Indian Rebellion began, in which Indian soldiers – called “sepoys” – began to mutiny in their regiments. Lakshmibai needed to work cleverly and carefully to secure her kingdom. She persuaded the British political officer, Captain Alexander Skene, to allow her to raise an army for the purpose of her own protection.  Then, to rally her own people, she held the women’s ceremony of Haldi Kumkum to bolster her people’s spirits and fire their courage.

Within a few weeks, the fighting in Jhansi began in earnest. In June of 1857, a massacre of disarmed British troops by the rebelling sepoys was executed. The Rani’s involvement in the decision is still inconclusive, but following their departure from Jhansi, she assumed direct administration of the capital city. She explained her decision to Saugor division commissioner, Major Erskine, who instructed her to hold the district on behalf of the British until relief could arrive.

Lakshmibai was a phenomenal political negotiator. She retained control of her kingdom and had the British convinced that she was a loyal administrator. During the brief period of peace from August 1857-January 1858, the Rani and her advisors had committed themselves to gaining independence from the British.

When the British troops arrived in March 1858, they encountered a heavily defended fort and a people ready to fight. Commanding officer Sir Hugh Rose demanded the city’s surrender on pain of destruction.  

“We fight for independence. In the words of Lord Krishna, we will if we are victorious, enjoy the fruits of victory, if defeated and killed on the field of battle, we shall surely earn eternal glory and salvation,” the Rani proclaimed, defiant of his orders.

Lakshmibai and her forces were able to hold the city for two weeks, but the British forces were too much for both the defenders and the relief army sent by rebellion general Tantia Tope. The Rani had to make a choice: should she remain with her city and face capture, or should she flee with her son to keep fighting where she could?

Here, the legends tell that she placed her son on her back and rode, sword brandished, to freedom. However her daring escape may have been accomplished, she and her guards arrived at the city of Kalpi to aid the rebel forces there. The Rani and her fellow rebels braced the city for siege.

On May 22, the British attacked. The Rani herself, with great bravery and tactical skill, commanded the rebel troops. Sadly, once again, the rebel forces could not withstand the British might.

Lakshmibai and the rebel leaders had to move once more, this time to the kingdom of Gwalior. The Rani was ready to fight once more, but could not rally the other leaders to holding the fort. She had to take her troops elsewhere.

On June 17, 1858, the 8th King’s Royal Irish Hussars accosted the Rani’s soldiers as they tried to leave the area. Over 5,000 were killed, but the Rani refused to be captured. She donned a soldier’s uniform and went into the fray, gun and blade in hand, prepared to fight. After being wounded and unhorsed, a soldier that she had fought earlier found her bleeding on the roadside. She fired at him, missed, and was promptly killed by his blade.

She was buried under a tamarind tree at the Rock of Gwalior, and was promptly memorialized as a great Indian symbol of resistance. There are many statues, parks and schools that bear her name, as well as a women’s unit of the Indian National Army. She has inspired books, movies, TV shows, songs and poems for over a century, as the legend of the “rebel queen” continues to captivate new generations.

Even some Englishmen recognized her valor in the face of her unbearable circumstances.

“Whatever her faults in British eyes may have been, her countrymen will ever remember that she was driven by ill-treatment into rebellion, and that she lived and died for her country. We cannot forget her contribution for India,” wrote historian Colonel Malleson.

Rani Lakshmibai stood up and fought when others might have surrendered, and her legacy will never diminish, as there are always tyrants to face and battles to fight. She will always be a hero and an inspiration. After all, she was a rebel queen.

Photo courtesy of Hindi Panda.

This mysterious woman is known to history as Murasaki Shikibu, author of the world’s first novel.

Some of the details of her life are obscured by the movement of time. For instance, we know that “Murasaki Shikibu” was not her given name. Court ladies often chose surnames referenced by the ranks or titles of male relatives; “Shikibu” thus referred to the ministry in which her father worked. “Murasaki” might have been derived from the name for the color of wisteria and a component of her family name. It is very likely that it was given to her by the court because of the main female character of The Tale of Genji.  

We do have some clue as to her given name – a diary of one of her prominent male relatives refers to a lady-in-waiting named Takako, who evidence suggests is Murasaki.  Whatever her actual name might have been, it is important to remember that Heian courtiers preferred to record themselves as they wanted to be remembered. Thus, as the name Murasaki Shikibu was most widely used for this remarkable woman, it is the name that history calls her.

She was born into the historically powerful Fujiwara family around 973 CE in Heian-kyō. By the time of her birth, the family’s court influence had waned, and its best strategy for regaining its place was to marry Fujiwara daughters into the imperial family. From a young age, this was the future that young Murasaki prepared for.

In this era of Japanese history, Murasaki should have been raised in her mother’s household. However, her mother’s early death meant that Murasaki and her siblings all grew up in her father’s house. Her unconventional childhood set her on the path to becoming an unconventional woman.

Heian Japanese men believed that women were largely unintelligent, or at least that it was improper for a lady to possess too much education and knowledge. Because of this, women were not taught the Chinese language that was the preferred system for government and scholarship. Instead, women were relegated to writing and speaking Japanese, a still underdeveloped system that was treated with little respect.

Because her father permitted her to accompany her younger brother Nobunori in his studies, Murasaki learned the classical Chinese language and literature alongside Japanese poetry and calligraphy. In fact, Murasaki was such a proficient scholar that, according to her diaries, her father often lamented “What a pity she was not born a man!”

As she grew in wisdom and grace, Murasaki began to write poetry in her father’s house. She stayed with him long past when most other noblewomen would have married, possibly into her thirties. Eventually, around 998, she married a friend of her father’s, Fujiwara no Nobutaka.

Their time together was quite short-lived, lasting a mere two years of her life. Not long after the birth of their only child, a daughter named Kenshi, Nobutaka succumbed to cholera. The widowed Murasaki sequestered herself at the Ishiyama Temple at Lake Biwa, where she began to exercise her writing skills to the fullest of her ability.

After a few years at the temple, Murasaki came to the imperial court at the request of distant male relative Fujiwara no Michinaga. His daughter Shōshi was poised to become empress, and Murasaki had already gained a reputation as a skilled writer. Who better to become a tutor and advisor to his young, impressionable daughter?

The Heian court was characterized by fairly strict gender divisions. Women lived their lives in almost complete seclusion from men, and thus wrote mostly to and for each other. It is, in fact, the works of these court ladies that began to solidify the growing Japanese language and literature, and Murasaki was at the very center of this movement.

At court, Murasaki kept comprehensive diaries, wrote many of her 128 published poems and worked tirelessly on her epic Tale of Genji. She worked closely with the young empress, even passing on her knowledge of Chinese, a closely guarded secret and later high scandal of the time.  

It is during this time that she first earned the nickname “The Lady of the Chronicles.” It was meant to be somewhat derogatory, as a rival lady in waiting had accused her of flaunting her knowledge of classical Chinese and of the Chronicles of Japan. Though in reality, Murasaki was a careful negotiator of court politics who mostly managed to keep out of the gossip cycles and out of suspicious gazes, she did seem to exhibit a fondness for this nickname that inadvertently acknowledged her brilliance.

After the death of Empress Shōshi’s husband in 1011 and her subsequent retirement from court life, Murasaki followed her to a country mansion in Biwa. Once again, Murasaki took solace in the Ishiyama Temple and wrote in peace. From this point, she is once again obscured by time’s passage – though it is likely she died in 1014, she may have lived until 1031.

Though her life was fairly short, Murasaki Shikibu established herself as one of the greatest writers in Japanese history and in world history as well. By the 1100s CE, she was considered a classical writer and was required study for all serious scholars. Her work was constantly reprinted, illustrated, and distributed. By the 17th Century, scenes from The Tale of Genji were vital Japanese imagery that decorated everything from screens to wedding dowries.

Murasaki’s contributions to Japanese and world literature are nearly priceless. Not only did she write the world’s first novel, giving life to a completely new genre of literature, but she kept detailed records of Heian court life. Much of our information about this period comes from her diaries. She was also instrumental in the development of the Japanese language into a national pride – many have called her a Shakespeare of Japan for the way that she bent language to her will. 

Her remarkable life is a testament to the fact that women have always been present and active in history. She was unconventional, and her unique brilliance made her unforgettable.

Cover photo courtesy of David Flore. 

These words belong to scholar, activist and feminist Anna Julia Cooper–and they are but a slight glimmer of the shining legacy she established for herself.

Cooper was born on Aug. 10, 1858 to Hannah Stanley Haywood. Her mother was enslaved by the wealthy Raleigh, North Carolina landowner George Washington Haywood – either Haywood or his brother was Anna’s father. Until emancipation in 1865, she worked as a servant in the household of her father or uncle, just as her older brothers Andrew and Rufus did.

Cooper was an extremely intelligent child and in the wake of the freed-persons’ benefits of the Reconstruction era, she received a scholarship to St. Augustine’s Normal and Collegiate Institute at age 9. The school’s aim was specifically to train teachers dedicated to the advancement of former slaves – thus, from a young age, she devoted herself to the education and elevation of African Americans.

Her mind was one of a rare breed. Cooper was a clear master of learning in both science and arts, excelling through her 14 years at the school to such a peak that she fought for and won the right from the administration to take high-level courses rather than remaining in the ladies’ track. Cooper began private tutoring and public instruction with St. Augustine’s, which marked the beginning of decades of educational service.

Sciences, arts and music were not the only things Cooper learned there. It was with a classmate that she also studied love. In 1877, she married medical doctor George A.C. Cooper. Loss also proved a valuable instructor – George A.C. Cooper died two short years later. She never remarried, choosing to pour her love for humanity into a life of passionate service and activism.

Anna J Cooper illustration by Audrey Mapes

Her next great academic leap was to Oberlin College, where she also pursued men’s studies over what the time’s society deemed appropriate for women. After a brief interlude of instructing at Wilberforce College, Cooper returned to Oberlin to complete a master’s degree in mathematics, conferred upon her in 1877. Wherever she happened to be, Cooper provided scholarly contributions to many of her intellectual fields of interest.

Upon moving to Washington D.C., Cooper began teaching at M Street High School, later becoming principal in 1901. There she experienced personal growth into feminism and political activism – not only did she develop a close personal friendship with Charlotte Grimké, but she also published her first book, an instructive and passionate political treatise on black feminism.

“A Voice from the South: By a Black Woman of the South” is powerful, compelling and foundational. This work established Cooper not only as an activist, but also in the minds of later scholars as the mother of black feminism.

In this treatise, she advocated for self-determination and self-improvement, specifically of black women, as she believed they were vital to the progress of black communities. She knew, and argued, that intellectual and physical communities were incomplete without the perspectives and voices of black women. Her essays explored the difficult and multi-layered circumstances of race, gender, racism, class, economics, religion and society in post-Civil War America.

After the publication of “A Voice”, Cooper spoke and presented essays at several high-profile activist conferences, including the World Congress of Representative Women and the first Pan-African Conference in London in 1900.

Middle age did nothing to slow Cooper down. At age 56, she started work on a doctoral thesis at Columbia University. At 57, her sister-in-law died, and she adopted all five of her half-brother’s children.  

She devoted as much care to the children as she did to her own continuing education – by 1925, she at last defended her thesis “The Attitude of France on the Question of Slavery Between 1789 and 1848”, and was conferred a Doctorate of Philosophy by the University of Paris-Sorbonne. This made her the fourth African-American woman in history to earn a PhD.

Cooper remained vibrant and dedicated to her causes throughout the rest of her life. She continued to write activist treatises, autobiographies and a biography of her friend Charlotte Grimké.

After 105 years amazingly spent, Dr. Anna Julia Cooper died on February 27, 1964. She overcame every possible obstacle of her time and never allowed her brilliance to be diminished, even by her most vocal detractors.  

She is the only woman memorialized in the United States Passport, and several learning institutions carry her name including a tuition-free private school in Richmond, Virginia called the Anna Julia Cooper Episcopal School and the Anna Julia Cooper Center on Gender, Race and Politics in the South, established at Wake Forest University.

Cooper knew that she had a powerful voice and that she could use it to change the world.

Cover photo courtesy of KCUR. 

She knew, well before jumping from her plane, that discovery meant certain death.  

As she descended into the trees, her chute got tangled in a branch. Her liaison, local Maquis Captain Henri Tardivat, appeared in the drop zone. With a sardonic twitch in his smile, he looked at the ensnared Wake and said, “I hope all the trees in France bear such beautiful fruit this year.”

“Don’t give me that French shit,” Nancy growled back.

It sounds like something from a movie, but this is genuine history. It is one of many wild-but-true incidents from the life of Nancy Wake, one of the most invaluable intelligence officers of the Allied war effort.  

Wake was born in New Zealand on Aug. 30, 1912.  By 1914, her family had moved to Australia. Not long after, her father left her and her siblings in the sole care of their mother. At age 16, it was already clear that Nancy was going to be in charge of her own destiny.  She left home, became a nurse and worked her way across the globe, bouncing from Sydney to New York City to London. In London she trained herself and became a first-rate journalist.

Throughout the 30s, Wake worked in Paris as a correspondent for Hearst and reported as an eyewitness to the rise of Hitler’s power. She recorded with alarm how Nazi gangs were brutalizing Jewish men and women in the streets. From the very beginning Wake and her new husband, Henri Fiocca, were members of the French Resistance in Marseilles–she drove ambulances, carried covert messages and aided escape networks.  

Already, Wake infuriated the Gestapo. Her elusiveness earned her the moniker of “the White Mouse.” By Nov. 1942, there was a reward of 5 million francs for her capture.

Suddenly, the escape network was betrayed. Wake had to get out of France–she couldn’t afford to get caught, and she couldn’t afford to quit the resistance. Completely off the grid and by herself, Wake needed to find a way out of the country undetected.  

Her beloved Henri had to stay behind. Wake had no idea it would be the last time she would see him–Henri was quickly captured by the Gestapo. They tried in vain to torture him for her whereabouts, but his loyalty was unfailing. Wake would not know of his execution until after the war’s end–she blamed herself for the rest of her life.

After seven harrowing attempts, Wake made it through the Pyrenees to Spain. From Spain, Wake smuggled herself all the way to Britain, where she became an SOE officer. She trained extensively in the many skills she would need to re-infiltrate Vichy Regime France. From the time she was untangled from the parachute in the tree, she began recruiting and building the Maquis groups into effective resistance forces. At their peak, they listed over 7,500 agents.

Nancy Wake illustration by Audrey Mapes

No job was too big or too small for Captain Nancy Wake. She and her teams attacked infrastructure to cripple Nazi movements wherever possible. They blew up bridges, ripped railroad tracks and assaulted German troop convoys. Wake personally killed spies and sentries.

Wake was going to keep her Maquis safe and secretive, no matter the cost. Perhaps the most notable incident involved an SS sentry whom Wake actually killed with her bare hands–a well-placed judo chop to the man’s throat sealed his fate.

At the war’s end, Nancy was laden with great medals and honors: the United States Medal of Freedom, the French Médaille de la Résistance and the British George Medal.  Perhaps most impressively, Wake also received the Croix de Guerre not once, not twice but three times over. Wake continued to receive similar honors throughout her life.

After years of grueling war and resistance, many would probably like to spend the rest of their days living the quiet life, not Wake.

For decades, she ran as a liberal candidate in several Australian elections.  While many relied on their war-hero reputations to gain offices throughout the 50s and 60s, Wake was never able to unseat the incumbent male officials that were always her opponents.

Tired of a world that didn’t see her strength and intelligence, Wake and her second husband, former RAF officer John Forward, retired to Port Macquarie in 1985. There she published her autobiography, The White Mouse. By all accounts, Wake and Forward enjoyed some quiet and comfort together until his death in 1997. The couple had been together for 40 years–again, as so often, Wake was alone.

Without work left to do and without a family to support her in her old age, Wake ended up selling her medals.  

“There was no point in keeping them, I’ll probably go to hell and they’d melt anyway,” Wake said.  

In 2001, Wake returned to London, taking residence at the Stafford Hotel in St. James’ Place. In 2003, she moved to a retirement home for ex-service members.

On a balmy Sunday evening in Aug. 2011, Wake died of a chest infection at Kingston Hospital, after 98 story-filled years of living. She didn’t have much family left to remember her, but the world wouldn’t soon forget. Books, movies, TV series and even portraits have memorialized Wake and her phenomenal life.

I find often, when discussing women’s contributions to the Allied war effort, people never hesitate to celebrate the factory workers that built guns and planes far from the front. Certainly, it is important to note and examine this mass movement of women into the public working sphere.  

But you don’t often hear about the women in the fray. The women who risked everything to sneak through enemy lines.  The women who killed in the name of freedom. The women who bombed bridges and smuggled codes. These women matter just as much.

Women like Nancy Wake have always been a part of humanity’s story, but they have not always been given their space in the history books. It is time to see them as they deserve to be seen.

Cover photo courtesy of National Portrait Gallery.