Scythians
A long time ago, before Genghis Khan, there were women, on horses, known loosely as Scythians. They rode in small nomadic clans, and rode expertly, from the Black Sea to the Siberian steppes. We know they lived in the saddle, because their legs were bent like ships' bows, and because they were buried ceremoniously with well-used horse tack and excellent equines. We know they were fine hunters because they were buried with their falcons and decorated with their quarries’ fur, teeth, and claws.
They were also great warriors, judging by the amount of weaponry—spears, axes and bows—and by the offensive battle scars on their bones. Their fierce fighting was mythologized by the Greeks, who wrote about clashing with women they called "Amazons." Once, these women even sacked a heavily fortified Athens. But there's more: the Scythian warrior women were also mothers—their stretched pelvic bones prove it. There are tombs in which the whole family is buried, the parents tenderly cradling children.
How can we confirm so much about these women? Because their bodies and tools and garb were so perfectly preserved in tombs frozen in Siberian permafrost. But here's the thing: The permafrost is melting, thanks to climate chaos. The tombs are emerging—I mean Mother Earth is literally re-birthing them into the here and now. And oh, do the bodies have much to say, if we'd only listen. About women's ferocity, capability and tenacity. About what we'll do when our freedom is threatened. About what a mother will do to feed, warm, and protect her child.
There were Scythian men, too, who rode alongside the women. By every measure, it seems that the men were not threatened by their female comrades, but instead considered them equal in every way. Imagine that, would you? A society in which women were fully realized.
What I am saying is, we can do really hard things. In improbable, even impossible, circumstances. I'd say we don't even know yet what we're made of, but we're about to find out. I'd say we saddle up, armor up. But leave the heart exposed to the world. For what's ahead, hate can't possibly protect or sustain us.
Tomorrow, we ride.
AMY IRVINE is the co-author of Air Mail: Letters of Politics, Pandemics, and Place and the author of Trespass and other books. She lives in Norwood, Colorado.
The essay is an emotional blend of history, myth, and a call to modern self-reflection. It reveres the Scythians not only for their historical significance, but also for the timeless lessons they offer about equality, strength, geometry dash world and the human spirit.
Ride on, O Scythian women! And there will be some of us Scythian men riding alongside you as well.
We ride at dawn!