"i teared up in pompeii'

Editorial Assistant Ella Barker reflects on a beautifully personal moment of love and passion for ancient history.

At 14 years old I was shy, bookish, and nerdy, so of course I became obsessed with history. I read and read and read everything I could about everything I could and fell in love with every corner of the past. Each nook and cranny of my soul still holds these corners close, so when I stood in the middle of the ruins of Pompeii, staring at Vesuvius, my shoulders bubbling under the sun, I teared up.

It’s not what I study (Egyptology). It’s not the corner I first fell in love with (the Middle Ages). It’s not a cultural thing (who knows for sure). But I teared up in Pompeii. I wasn’t even thinking about the victims (sorry!). I was thinking about being in my Year 12 ancient history class. It’s how I found my passion for ancient Egypt. But it wasn’t those units that made me decide I wanted to make a career out of ancient history; the Pompeii and Herculaneum unit is why I’m here right now.

It’s undeniably fascinating: two cities decimated by a significant natural disaster and standing the tests of time as a direct result of what destroyed them. Scattered primary sources of what the clouds looked like, the fragments of buildings that stayed upright, the terror etched onto faces preserved first by ash then by plaster (although, I once attended a lecture alleging that not all of these casts were authentic, so that’s something to keep in mind when you visit). The Bay of Naples has such a terrible, morbid, interesting moment forever with us. History is studied and preserved as a result of, in my opinion, the human desire to know and understand and feel. We are hungry to know what happened, to understand their final moments, to feel connected to our ancestors, even if they aren’t exactly ours. It’s why I study history, at least. My stomach grumbles for it every day.

So I cried. Only a little, but there were tears nonetheless. I had never felt so simultaneously small and big. Vesuvius was heavy on the eyes, the ruins caving in around me. I never wanted to leave. I wanted to sit on the stepping stones in the middle of each road and linger. To be cast alongside the victims of that day. Put me on display in your accompanying museum, and let me feel it 24/7. Working to preserve history is my be-all and end-all; it’s all I can do with myself. I don’t want to do anything else and I don’t think I can. Leave me to feel it all.

Everyone there with me that day felt it too. I don’t believe anyone else cried, but I could be wrong. I was there on Contiki, surrounded by strangers-turned-friends, in the middle of Euro Summer, further surrounded by strangers-kept-strangers. It was crowded, blindingly hot, and beautiful. I had never felt so comfortable amongst a crowd before. Following the provided tour guide, I listened intently, although I knew much of what was said. I knew the basics, I studied them intensely. I was no stranger to the city. I have a map of it somewhere in my wardrobe, being too sentimental to throw away any history-related sheet from any time in my life. I knew what each temple was called, I knew about the graffiti that littered the ruins, I knew that the carved penises meant a brothel was nearby. I listened anyway. Everyone listened, everyone learnt. Everyone felt it. We all made eye contact with the plaster cast bodies in the glass boxes. We felt it.

One of my Contiki friends said it was cute that I got emotional. I don’t know if that’s the word I would use (embarrassing, pathetic, loser-like…), but I do think it says so much about humans. Our passion for something can bring anything out of us, even what we don’t expect. When we find what we want we go for it, and we should be doing that. Why not? Why can’t we fall in love with our passions publicly? My love for Pompeii made me cry when I stood there for the first time. My passion for history pushed those tears out of my eyes. I wonder what I’ll be capable of when I eventually get to Egypt.