History, as the adage goes, is written by the victors. From imperial chronicles etched into stone to modern state-sponsored textbooks, the telling of the past has long been a prerogative of those who prevailed in the political and military arenas. The vanquished, when given voice at all, are often consigned to the footnotes of history — if not erased altogether.
Yet there exists a third, more elusive narrator in the grand chronicle of civilization: the ordinary person. The farmer whose grain fed empires, the weaver whose textiles clothed kings, the soldier who marched for causes he did not choose. Their lives shaped the world as profoundly as any monarch's edict, yet their stories remain the most underrepresented — rarely told in their own voice, often mediated through the lens of ideology.
In the last century, Marxist and leftist historians have positioned themselves as champions of the voiceless. They promised a historiography rooted in the lived experiences of the working class, the oppressed, and the colonized — a “history from below.” Yet the irony is striking: while seeking to subvert elite narratives, many of these works fall into their own hierarchy of abstraction. Revolutions are told through the speeches of Lenin, Mao, or Castro. Labor struggles are described in terms of party resolutions and strike statistics. The workers, ironically, remain nameless — symbolic placeholders in a broader ideological argument.
It is in this context that Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States (1980) arrived like a thunderclap. With an opening salvo that declared, “I will try to tell the history of the United States as seen by the victims of the system,” Zinn set out not merely to revise American history, but to fundamentally reorient its vantage point. Gone were the paeans to founding fathers and frontier heroes. In their place stood the Cherokee driven from their land, the African slave resisting dehumanization, the Lowell mill girl writing poetry in defiance, the Vietnam War protester, the labor organizer, the civil rights marcher.
Zinn's narrative is not concerned with neutrality. He makes no pretensions of being above the fray. “There is no such thing as a pure fact, innocent of interpretation,” he reminds the reader. His allegiance is unapologetically with the oppressed. And yet, even as he shatters the myth of benevolent empire, Zinn occasionally erects new myths of his own — idealizing Indigenous societies or downplaying the internal contradictions of resistance movements. The risk, as some critics have noted, is that he sometimes replaces the great man theory of history with the “noble victim” theory — flattening complexity in service of moral clarity.
Nonetheless, Zinn’s achievement is profound. He reframes American history not as a march of progress, but as a contested terrain of power, violence, and defiance. His chapter titles alone — “Columbus, the Indians, and Human Progress,” “The Intimately Oppressed,” “Robber Barons and Rebels” — signal a deliberate inversion of traditional narrative frames. This was not merely a history book; it was a cultural intervention.
Following in Zinn’s footsteps, though on a far more ambitious scale, is Chris Harman’s A People’s History of the World (1999). Harman attempts the near-impossible: to tell the story of all human civilization — from hunter-gatherer tribes to the dawn of the 21st century — through the lens of class struggle. His is a world history stripped of kings and chronicles, peopled instead by those who toiled, rebelled, and resisted.
Yet here, the promise of a “history from below” encounters a paradox of its own. Harman, a prominent member of the British Socialist Workers Party and editor of Socialist Review, wears his Marxist commitments on his sleeve. His prose, while passionate and erudite, lacks the narrative vigor that made Zinn's work so widely read beyond academic and activist circles. Where Zinn painted in vivid, human strokes, Harman often delivers polemic. The result is a book that, while ideologically rigorous, sometimes reads more like a manifesto than a story.
His chapter on the fall of the Roman Empire, for example, is not a meditation on cultural decline or moral decay but a critique of overreliance on slavery and the parasitic nature of aristocratic power. When writing about feudalism, he focuses not on chivalric myth or castle intrigue, but on the surplus labor extracted from serfs. These are valid and important perspectives — yet they are delivered with such theoretical density that the reader may struggle to connect emotionally with the people whose lives the book seeks to illuminate.
Moreover, in applying the Marxist framework universally — even to prehistoric and tribal societies — Harman occasionally stretches the materialist analysis to the point of distortion. Not all historical events can be adequately explained through the binary of exploitation and revolt. Human motivations are messier: shaped by religion, kinship, love, fear, accident. Harman’s strict ideological lens sometimes leaves no room for these subtler forces.
However, Harman is aware of history's recurring cycles of rebellion and repression. He writes, “Again and again, the mass of people have shown their capacity to fight for a new and better world. But again and again they have been diverted, betrayed or crushed.” This refrain is a recognition that the historical agency of the masses, while often stifled, is never fully extinguished.
The comparison between Zinn and Harman reveals more than just differences in style or scope. It illustrates the tension inherent in writing history from below. Can such a history ever be free of ideology? Should it be? Must a people’s historian choose between emotional resonance and analytical rigor, between storytelling and structure?
Perhaps the answer lies in synthesis. Zinn's emotive storytelling can inspire, but needs anchoring in nuanced analysis. Harman’s intellectual scaffolding is fine, but cries out for the warmth of lived detail. The future of “people’s history” may well depend on the union of both: a commitment to truth without romanticism, to justice without dogma, to narrative without myth.
In an age of resurgent nationalism, culture wars, and contested memory, the question “Who gets to tell history?” has never been more urgent. The people’s history project — flawed, unfinished, and vital — remains one of the most important intellectual tasks of our time. As Zinn once wrote: “To be hopeful in bad times is not just foolishly romantic. It is based on the fact that human history is a history not only of cruelty, but also of compassion, sacrifice, courage, and kindness.”
The historian of the people must remember all of it.