Abstract
Under what conditions does the Empire decapitate its subjects? The gospel of Mark 6:18–29 shares with the other synoptic gospels (Matthew 14:3–12; Luke 9:7–9) the most gruesome murder – the decapitation of John the Baptist. Using a postcolonial optic, this article has the following tasks: firstly, looking into the ways the story has been framed by the redactor and, secondly, accenting the hegemonic presence and role of the Roman Empire and its insatiable desire for power under the false pretext of peace – pax romana. Given that imperial practices of control, power, violence and murder are common throughout history, the article reinterprets the decapitation of John as a typical postcolonial narrative that illuminates and sheds light on the imperial practice of decapitation and its treatment of subjects in general. By juxtaposing the practices of the Roman Empire during the 1st-century Palestinian region to that of African colonial settings, the article argues that the decapitation of John fits into typical patterns of hegemony and control by imperial and colonial regimes.
Intradisciplinary and/or interdisciplinary implications: This article contributes to comparing practices of decapitation in antiquity with colonial practices of hegemony and control.
Keywords: postcolonialism; John the Baptist; decapitation; colonialism; African heroes/heroine.
Introduction
Empire and framing of the story
Scholars in postcolonialism and cultural studies alert us to ways the imperial discourse of power frames epistemology and representation. Imperial discourse is interested in how meaning is understood from the perspective of those in power. For example, in Orientalism, Edward Said (2016) argues that, because of the West’s monopoly over instruments ofrepresentation, regions such as the South1 and the Middle East, inparticular, have been framed and represented based on Westernideals. For example, typically, the West is depicted as representing technological and cultural progress, intellectualism and social order. In contrast, the rest of the world is portrayed as backward, chaotic and disorderly. From a cultural studies perspective, Stuart Hall argues that discourse informs representation (Hall 1997:17). Plausibly, this perspective is fruitful as a lens for looking into the story concerning the decapitation of John the Baptist in Mark 6:18–29. It makes us ask concerning whose discourse informs the manner in which the story was told.
Thus, pertaining to the story about Herod Antipas and John the Baptist, how does the narrator represent the characters, and what meaning does the redactor seek to present? Noticeably, the scene unfolded at the palace and a prison where John was imprisoned seemingly for criticising Herod Antipas for marrying his brother’s wife. However, scholars noted several historical inaccuracies which I shall not investigate further.2 However, that John was imprisoned has been a contentious issue for scholars. On the surface, because of the Levirate marriage regulations, John criticised Herod for marrying his deceased brother’s wife (see Lv 18:163, Lv 20:21) (Collins & Attridge 2007:307). Does such a seemingly domestic dispute based on religious conviction warrant being imprisoned or death? This raises the question concerning why Herod Antipas – a representative of the Roman Empire – killed John.
Are we dealing with the case of scapegoating or shifting the blame? If not, why does it seem like the redactor wants us to focus on the scene about Herodias and her daughter as the direct reason for John’s death? Noticing the narrative inconsistency, I concur with Adela Collins, who poignantly states that the passage ‘stands in tension with the account of the arrest of John and Antipas’ reasons for having him arrested in vv. 17–18’ (Collins & Attridge 2007:307). If John was merely an irritant Galilean preacher, as the story seemingly suggests, killing him because of an irrational request seems implausible. Equally, Mary Ann Beavis is perplexed, saying, ‘although the death of John is at issue, the prophet remains offstage’ (Beavis 2011:102). The shift could be because, for a while, the story has been told alongside that of Jezebel (1 Ki 16:29–34), whereby Herodias was seen as a type of Jezebel (Horsley 2010:104). This agrees with the assertion by postcolonial theorists such as Musa Dube, who poignantly remarks that, typically, imperial literature exonerates the Empire by blaming women or representing its crimes as merely unfortunate collateral incidences (Dube 2012:60). Similarly, Kennedy Dane says that Western historiography or textuality is an extension of the imperial metropole’s ideology (Kennedy 1996:345). If the story concerning Herodias and her dancing daughter camouflages the real story about John’s decapitation, how should this story be read?
Typically, and with reference to the 19th-century British Empire, Bernard Porter remarks that metropole writers rarely place power as a major lens through which the Empire controls public narrative or discourse (Porter 2004:2). Arguably, the lack of imperial power perspectives could mean that a majority of Western scholars are blind to the ways imperial power influences the way the story is presented (Porter 2004:2). For example, a majority of Western scholars framed the story around the theme of the context of Christology, thus seeing John’s fateful demise as a typology of Jesus. For example, John Hughes uses chronology or time as a perspective to frame John as the forerunner who preludes the arrival of the messiah (Hughes 1972:191). This is supported by the fact that the story is sandwiched between the larger story about Jesus sending the disciples. Upon noticing that the activities of Jesus were similar to those of John, the narrator inserted the narrative about the unfortunate murder of John the Baptist. Consequently, some scholars, such as Ann Bavis and Morna Hooker, suggest that the redactor views the death of John as a prefiguration of the fate of Jesus (Beavis 2011:102; Hooker 1991:158). Similarly, John Meier remarks that a common characteristic of all four gospel accounts is that John is the forerunner of Jesus and the disciples (Meier 1980:384).
While a majority of scholars focus on the Christological link between John and Jesus, others such as T.W. Mason read the story from a sociological perspective, focusing on whether John’s ministry overlapped with that of Jesus or if it was a distinct early Christian movement (Manson 1954:397).
In my view, Joan Tylor and Fredrico Adinolfi’s perspective is promising. They argue that John was killed because of a personal vendetta between John and Herod Antipas, who, despite reservations, was cornered into killing him after Herod made an irrevocable oath to Herodias’ daughter (Taylor & Adinolfi 2012:247). To probe further, what was the grudge about? I suggest using a postcolonial lens that explores the ways imperial representatives behave towards subjects as a plausible perspective.
As an evaluation, previous perspectives do not focus on the power dynamics embedded in this story. Two problems are associated with this framing. Firstly, by placing Herodias or her daughter at the centre of the story, these perspectives trivialise a murder case into a personal vendetta. As Laura Donalson observes, though part of the inner circle, imperial literature portrays women as sexual objects and/or as facilitators of its crime. Secondly, the previous literature hides away the real culprit – the Roman Empire and the puppet – Herod Antipas – from their complicity in the gruesome murder of John.
The presence of the Roman Empire in Palestine
Postcolonial theory is interested in investigating asymmetric power structures and discourses that maintain them. To have a deeper appreciation of this perspective, we need to understand the historical political realities behind this story. Because of the influence of Empire studies from the 1990s onwards, we witness a rise in literature that highlights the Roman Empire’s presence and hegemony over the 1st-century Palestinian region. Concerning this, Richard Horsley remarks saying, ‘The standard scheme of Christian origins tends to exclude recognition and exploration of the social context and political-economic relations evident in the Gospel sources as well as other sources’ (Horsley 2010:104).
After taking control of Palestine in 48 BCE, strategically, Caesar installed the Herodian family as authority over Palestine and instituted taxation over the local people. With the assistance of Roman mercenaries, Herod the Great secured victory against various military resistances in the region.4 The feuding Hasmonaean groups went silent after being awarded the high priesthood and positions in the Sanhedrin council. Using brute force, various villages such as Tarichaeae/Magdala were burnt to the ground. Herod embarked on an extensive building project of various cities and named them after Roman generals. In the west, Caesarea remained a military harbour, while Tiberias and Sipphoris were predominantly inhabited by Roman officials (Chancey & Porter 2001:164).
Besides military presence and in honour of Caesar, Herod actively promoted Roman culture through sport and games. Roman and Greek culture were presented as progressive, cosmopolitan and universal, while Jewish culture was seen as regional. Furthermore, the temple in Jerusalem was refurbished, and the Roman symbol – the eagle – was mounted at the entrance. Tribute was forced upon all subjects, and any resistance was regarded as a sign of resistance against the Roman rule (Horsley 2010:111).
Scholars such as Moshe Gil have conflicting appraisals of Herod’s tenure, with some seeing his political rule as disruptive by allowing settlement of retired Roman generals in the region (Gil 2006:285). However, some, such as Mark Chancey and Adam Porter, regard Herod as the facilitator of economic trade and agricultural innovation in the region (Chancey & Porter 2001:164). In my view, the revolts and turmoil characteristic of the region during the 1st century indicate that the Jews did not accept Herod’s rule, nor did they benefit from his political decisions.
Arguably, I concur with Richard Horseley that the arrest of John the Baptist should be understood within the broader context of protest and the need to tighten grip over the region. Horseley remarks that most of the peasant revolts in the region were inspired by the belief that Yahweh is the supreme ruler over Israel and not the Roman Empire. Thus, inspired by the memory of several Jewish prophets, the Jews yearned for divine intervention that, eventually, would overthrow the foreign rule (Horsley 2010:120). Plausibly, John the Baptist and Jesus should be understood within the broader context of revolt and protest against the Roman Empire (Bermejo-Rubio 2014:1; Engelhardt 2022:303). Seemingly, the story presents us with a paranoid Herod who, after noticing a similar oratory pattern in Jesus, feared that John the Baptist had risen from the dead (Mk 6:14).
Decapitation of John the Baptist – A postcolonial perspective
Edward Said defines postcolonialism as a broad theoretical perspective that investigates both the ways colonial literature justifies domination and also how the oppressed find ways of resisting it (Said 2012:191). Equally, Musa Dube provides strategies concerning reading colonial literature. She remarks that, in reading against colonial literature, a postcolonial theorist investigates ‘construction of characters, geography, travellers, gender constructions, and unspoken intentions to highlight how these work in justifying the domination of one by another’ (Dube 1997:11). Noticeably, concerning the killing of John, gender construction is clearly seen in the manner in which Herodias and her daughter are scapegoats in the murder scene, which shows how women are presented as facilitators of colonial crimes. On the other hand, though not illustrative in this particular story, postcolonialism also investigates strategies of survival, camouflaged resistance and/or outright protest (Bhabha 2012).
In what sense is the story about the decapitation of John a postcolonial narrative? Firstly, representing the subaltern, the silenced and oppressed voices, is John the Baptist. The story concerns the Roman Empire that had full monopoly over John’s body and his fate. In the story, John is behind the scenes, has no agency and is only referred to in the third person. The narrator states, saying, ‘For it was Herod who had sent and seized John and bound him in prison for the sake of Herodias, his brother Philip’s wife, because he had married her’ (Mk 6:17). The story further reveals that Herod was fond of John’s teachings and righteousness. That Herod was a righteous man who exhorted the Jews to lead upright lives is attested by Josephus (18.5.2) (Josephus 2006). From a postcolonial optic, John typifies postcolonial bodies who, despite their innocence, must constantly endure the imperial gaze and surveillance. Typical of colonial presence, John’s actions and words must be filtered and censured. Why would Herod, a Roman representative in the region, kill such a man?
Secondly, being a postcolonial narrative, the narrator has conflicting portrayals of Herod. For example, says:
[F]or Herod feared John, knowing that he was a righteous and holy man, and he kept him safe. When he heard him, he was greatly perplexed, and yet he heard him gladly. (Mk 6:20)
A postcolonial optic would make us ask questions such as, if John was harmless, why was Herod afraid of John? As mighty and with all imperial mandate, what warrants Herod’s fear of a Galilean preacher? In addition, it is mind-boggling to understand the meaning of the phrase, ‘and he kept him safe’ [καὶ συνετήρει αὐτόν]. Again, why would an imperial representative keep John safe and keep him safe from what or who? Presenting Herod as innocent is typical of postcolonial narratives which sought to present that Empire as magnanimous and harmless.
However, Flavius Josephus removed the mask off the Empire’s face, revealing its true intention and practice. Josephus argues that, knowing John’s eloquence and persuasive speech, Herod feared that John might lead an insurrection against the Roman Empire. Concerning this, Josephus (2006) explains, saying:
[…] for it looked as if they would be guided by John in everything they did. Herod decided that it would be better to strike first and be rid of him before his work led an uprising, than to wait for an upheaval […] (Ant 18.5.2)
I agree with Mary Ann Beavis’ (2011) poignant remark, saying:
Herod is more likely to have acted preemptively against John to forestall insurrection than to imprison the prophet for his own protection and to have him beheaded on a whim. (p. 103)
This shows that Empire uses a double strategy of persuasion and violence, and where persuasion fails, it unleashes its hegemony. In the case of John, to determine the nature of the threat posed by John, Herod drew closer, listening to his preaching with full curiosity, and determined that, though John seemed harmless, he commanded public support. This agrees with Michel Foucault’s observation that hegemonic systems operate similarly to a prison system that exerts constant surveillance over its subjects (Foucault 2008:2). Other synoptic gospels, such as Matthew, are explicit that the Galileans kept a keen interest in how Herod would treat John the Baptist. Matthew writes, saying, ‘Although Herod wanted to kill John, he was afraid of the people, because they regarded John as a prophet’ (Mt 14:5). If this is a more plausible political context under which John was beheaded, how does a postcolonial perspective help us reconstruct the involvement of Herodias and her daughter?
Thirdly, the construction of Herodias and her daughter is typical of postcolonial literature whereby women serve three main functions: firstly, to legitimise and normalise the Empire as non-threatening and familial. Musa Dube and Laura Donaldson argue that, seldomly, colonial literature portrays pictures of women and children as a literary device to present its presence as familial and relatable (Donaldson 1992; Shomanah & Dube 2012:60). Secondly, typical of postcolonial literature, women are present only as a sight of imperial/patriarchal pleasure or gaze, seen in Herodias’ daughter dancing to the amusement of the crowd (Donaldson 1992; Shomanah & Dube 2012:60). Thirdly, as is the case in this story, women are a scapegoat seen in being blamed for devising a scheme that resulted in John’s death. Mark narrates, saying, ‘Herodias had a grudge against him and wanted to put him to death. But she could not’ (Mk 6:19). In shifting the blame, instead of Herod, who genuinely feared insurrection from John, Herodias is blamed. The story further narrates, saying, ‘And she went out and said to her mother, “For what should I ask?”’ And she said, “The head of John the Baptist”’ (Mk 6:24). Blaming women is a typical postcolonial literary strategy meant to portray the Empire’s hegemony as unintended and not of its own making. Concerning this, Musa Dube’s remarks that imperial literature, typically, portrays the Empire as magnanimous, generous and messianic, and the evils associated with its name are mere accidental or blamed on others (Dube 2012:60).
Because the imperial practice of hegemony, colonialism, imperialism, murder or rape are the same throughout regions and time, similar stories of colonial decapitation across Africa may shed light on this story. I argue that, instead of focusing on women as scapegoats, a postcolonial perspective brings fresh questions, such as, under what conditions does the Empire decapitate its subjects?
For example, one notable decapitation happened in West Africa whereby the anticolonial leader was King (Nana) Otumfo Baidoo Bonsue II, the leader of the Ahanta people who resisted Dutch colonialists in western Ghana and was beheaded by the Dutch settlers in 1838. With the help of the Ahanta people, Bonsue II courageously resisted and mobilised his people against colonial occupation. However, he lost the battle and was beheaded. Since 1938, his body was preserved in formaldehyde (liquid chemical) at Leiden University until recently, in 2012, when the Ahanta people demanded its repatriation to Ghana (Le Gall & Mboro 2019:2; Shehata & Abdel Wahab 2023:161).
In East Africa, Tanzania, two notable incidences of decapitation happened which are associated with the German occupation of East Africa. The first incident concerns Mangi Meli, the Chaga chief. Together with the 18 others, he was accused of plotting against the colonial German government. In response, the German colonial government decapitated him in 1900. Till today, his descendants are requesting for the return of his head from a German museum (Shehata & Abdel Wahab 2023:165).
A few years later, in 1906, the Ngoni people revolt against the German colonial forced labour practices by disrupting cotton production in the region. In response, the Germans rounded up villagers and forced them to witness the beheading of 60 war leaders. On the last day of executions, in a spectacular fashion, they hanged Songea Mbano, the military general, in full view of the entire village. He was decapitated, and his head was taken to Germany.5 Till today, his grandson is demanding the return of his grandfather’s head to conclude the burial rituals in accordance with the Ngoni traditions.
In Southern Africa, while pushing for the colonial land apportionment act policy in 1897, the British Southern African Company (BSAC), led by Cicil John Rhodes and with full mandate from the British government, forcibly evicted the local tribes of Zimbabwe from their land. However, after several previous successful encounters in 1897, the colonial government faced resistance from Mbuya Nehanda, a female warrior who resisted and viciously fought the colonial government. However, in 1897, unable to withstand colonial weaponry, she was caught and decapitated, and her head was taken to Britain (Le Gall & Mboro 2019:2).
Similarly, the Swakop camp in Namibia is a tale of German genocide of 1904–1908. Here, several Herero people were killed, and many of the victims’ heads were decapitated and transported to Germany as victory trophies. Recently, in 2018, through the advocacy of the AvaHerero Genocide foundation, a few of the heads have been repatriated (Le Gall & Mboro 2019:1).
The last example is that of Hintsa Kakhawuta (mthwecu Zanzolo zikhali), the Xhosa king who resisted the Cape colony government in South Africa. In 1835, Governor D’Urban tracked and shot and killed him at the Nqabara River. The captors extracted eyes and teeth and then decapitated him. His head was taken to Britain and only recently returned in 1996.6
A scrutiny into the imperial discourse of decapitation
I read the decapitation of John the Baptist alongside several similar stories across Africa. Noticeably, common among all examples of colonial brutality and decapitation is that the Empire hates insurrection. The Empire’s only response against resistance is killing. To develop this comparative reading, I am guided by Nathan Shedd, who states that decapitation is the final blow after other forms of violence such as flogging, dragging, mutation or crucifixion. As the final expression of the Empire’s nature, decapitation carries a deep imperial rhetorical meaning concerning itself and its perception of the subjects (Shedd 2019:103). Using Nathan Shedd, the following three imperial rhetorical strategies expressed through decapitation are important, and these are:
- Decapitation is linked to the rhetoric of memory erasure and disqualifying the victim from proper death rituals.
- Decapitation dishonours the memory of the dead and the living.
- Decapitation is rhetoric of imperial power.
Firstly, imperial decapitation is linked to the rhetoric of memory erasure and disqualifying the victim from proper death rituals. In most of the examples, such as that of King Hintsa of the Xhosa people and Sengoa Mbano of Tanzania, death rituals were concluded recently after the return of the missing head. As memory erasure and disqualifying the victim from proper death rituals, decapitation humiliates the victim during death and after death. This comparative understanding can be traced even to ancient Jewish and Greek societies, who believed that a corpse should be buried with all its limbs. In the unfortunate event of a missing body organ, this prevents the spirit from being accepted into the afterlife (Shedd 2019:103). For example, in Greek mythology, after his death Petrocus returned in spirit form, requesting Achilles for a proper burial to facilitate his welcome in the afterlife (Blume 2015:143).
I concur with Nathan Shedd’s remarks that decapitation saves two functions of (1) ‘tarnishing the social well-being of the victim past the point of death and (2) interrupting normal mortuary practices surrounding the deceased’ (Shedd 2019:103). Comparatively, in most African societies, the deceased person exists in the afterlife. Arguably, decapitation saves two imperial rhetorical functions: (1) it means continuous shame even in the afterlife, and (2) it makes the person unrecognisable, deformed and changed even in the afterlife. In evaluation, the common factor of shaming the body, making it unrecognisable even in death, is a plausible explanation for John’s account and for the stories regarding several African kings.
Secondly, given that the Empire surveils and determines which memory should be honoured, rhetorically, decapitation dishonours the memory of the dead and that of the living. The decapitation of John the Baptist is among several other similar stories of beheading. The Roman Empire decapitates high social-standing leaders. For example, Josephus narrates the decapitation of Servius Asinius Celer, a Roman senator and son of Gaius Asinius Gallus, by Emperor Claudius in 46 CE. Despite their prior friendship with the Emperor, he was accused of participating in a conspiracy to kill the Emperor (Shedd 2019:99). As a deterrent display of brute force, prior to his death, he was dragged across the city and later decapitated. Another notable person is Antigonus. After assuming power, Emperor Antony appointed Herod the Great as the imperial representative in Palestine. However, knowing that Herod’s rule will face challenges from the last Hasmonian king – Antigonus – Antony decapitated Antigonus. According to Josephus’ report, Anthony noticed the support that Antigonus enjoys from his people, and he decided that the only way to tarnish his honour and respect was to decapitate him and then install a king who is loyal to him (Shedd 2019:100). In ancient societies, after a prominent person has been decapitated, his head is displayed in a public area to shame the victim.
Arguably, similar strategies are noticeable with the public hanging of Saddam Hussein or in the killing of Gaddafi. Rhetorically, the public display of the diseased body is to shame and dishonour the memory of the diseased.
There is a connection between the rhetoric of shaming and Achille Mbembe’s notion of necropolitics, which is the subjugation of life to death (Mbembe 2003:29). From this perspective, while the decapitation of John and several African leaders appears as single and random events, they speak to the general imperial rhetoric of seeing its subjects as disposable, inferior and shamed. By killing the community leaders or suffocating the lives of the ordinary people, rhetorically, the Empire makes a strong statement that its memory, history and presence matter more than that of its subjects.
Lastly, decapitation is a rhetoric of power. Martin Zimmerman remarks that violence was an important aspect of Roman existence, seen in its victories against its enemies and, importantly, its internal order (Zimmermann 2006:345). As a deterrent mechanism, decapitation sends a strong, loud message to the onlookers that a similar fate awaits those who dare stand against the Empire. This was clearly illustrated through Songea Mbano, who was decapitated in full view of his people. Aptly, Nathan Shedd (2019) says that:
[B]y beheading or displaying the severed heads of criminals and revolutionaries, Rome not only prevented culprits from repeating offences, but also sought to quell current insurgencies, dissuade future revolutionaries, and thus to restore social order and control. (p. 111)
Conclusion
One aspect of postcolonial studies is the idea about the ‘contact zone’, a space where the Empire comes in direct contact or interaction with the culture of its subjects. Plausibly, the story about the decapitation of John is a typical contact-zone narrative which gives a glimpse into how the Empire daily interacts with its subjects. Arguably, the story is about power and close surveillance over the subjects. Thus, reducing the story to mere petty jealousy is committing hermeneutical injustice, and, thus, perpetuates imperial self-justification, anticonquest or victim blaming. As a typical contact zone narrative, the story makes us ask questions regarding the Empire and its relation to truth. That is, can the Empire self-introspect concerning its actions? Does it have a conscience or can it be corrected? Unfortunately, the story of John and those about the African leaders who were killed while demanding justice and truth are clear examples of the fact that the Empire is allergic to truth. To tell the truth or attempt to extract humaneness from the Empire is tantamount to being a rebel. Given its lack of conscience or humaneness, the Empire mistakes the demand for justice as a revolt. Consequently, its response is that of violence.
The second concluding remark is that the Empire does allow for plural memories; and the memory – architecture of the subaltern core – exists with that of the Empire. Unfortunately, the decapitation of John is a dramatic expression of memory erasure, a refusal to have competing memory. To the Empire, the only memory worthy of keeping is that of the Empire, and any other memories or personalities must be silenced, trashed or humiliated. Plausibly, the decapitation of John and that of the several African kings are imperial rhetoric practices that visibly summarise the Empire’s self-reflection as a violent, brutal soulless entity. Furthermore, it signifies the Empire’s perception of its subjects as disposable beings – or as Achille Mbembe says, it’s a visible expression of necropolitics.
Acknowledgements
Competing interests
The author declares that no financial or personal relationships inappropriately influenced the writing of this article.
Author’s contribution
Z.D. is the sole author of this research article.
Ethical considerations
This article followed all ethical standards for research without direct contact with human or animal subjects.
Funding information
This research received no specific grant from any funding agency in the public, commercial or not-for-profit sectors.
Data availability
The author confirms that the data supporting this study and its findings are available within the article and its listed references.
Disclaimer
The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and are the product of professional research. It does not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of any affiliated institution, funder, agency, or that of the publisher. The author is responsible for this article’s findings, and content.
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Footnotes
1. Here the term ‘South’ is used to refer to regions that have been colonised by the West or those countries that are pejoratively referred to as 3rd world countries.
2. For more detail see Beavis, Mark, Commentary of the New Testament, p. 102. Also see Collins and Attridge (2007:307).
3. Leviticus 18:16 says, ‘You must not have sexual relations with your brother’s wife; that would shame your brother’.
4. See Josephus, War 2.290, 294
5. Makosi Zulu Gama.
6. LeGall.
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