Who Writes Our History—And Who Gets Left Out Of The Story?

I remember flipping through my school history textbook, clean columns of dates, confident declarations of victory, and chapter titles that made it seem like the past was neatly resolved. It felt like truth carved in stone.

But something always felt… off.

Who decided what got included? Where were the voices of ordinary people who lived through history but didn’t make it to the footnotes? That lingering doubt stayed with me long after the textbooks were shelved.

And so, we arrive at this compelling question:

Who writes history? Is it the victors, the uninvolved, or the majority? And does it ever truly represent the past, or just a version of it?

Let’s explore the power structures behind historical storytelling, how literature unearths forgotten truths, and what it means to “know” history.

The Victors: Loudest Voices in the Room

You’ve heard it before: “History is written by the victors.” But this old saying isn’t just a cynical quip. It’s disturbingly accurate.

From colonial conquests to modern wars, those in power have often curated historical narratives to

cement their legacy. Consider the way British colonialism is framed in many academic accounts, where exploitation is softened with the phrase “civilizing mission.” Or how textbooks in some countries glorify conquests while conveniently overlooking mass atrocities.

A 2021 article in the Journal of Global History noted how post-colonial states struggle to reclaim their narratives because primary sources were often written by colonizers themselves.

So here’s something to chew on: When victors write history, are we reading a chronicle—or a justification?

The Involved, the Uninvolved, and the Forgotten Majority

Not all history is penned by the victors. Some of it is reconstructed by scholars and journalists, observers with the time and resources to study events retrospectively. But even these narrators come with their own biases.

And then, some lived through history but were never asked to tell their side. The majority. The silent ones.

Think about the farmer during the French Revolution, the tribal woman displaced by a development project, or the street vendor during India’s Emergency. Their lives were altered by history, but rarely are their voices preserved in it.

Howard Zinn’s “A People’s History of the United States” flipped the narrative by highlighting the perspectives of those traditionally left out—indigenous people, workers, slaves, and feminists. He argued that history is often the art of omission, and the omissions matter.

Here’s a haunting thought:

If the stories of the majority are excluded, can we ever say history is truly ours?

The Myth of Objectivity

We often assume that history is neutral, factual, and objective. But facts, too, can be chosen, framed, and emphasized selectively.

Consider this: the same battle can be remembered as a massacre or a liberation, depending on who’s telling the tale.

In 2018, a Stanford History Education Group study found that American history textbooks varied significantly by state. In Texas, the curriculum described slavery as a side issue in the Civil War, while in California, it was a central theme. Both used “facts”, but reached dramatically different narratives.

Closer to home, Indian textbooks handle topics like Partition, Mughal rule, and caste reform with varying degrees of sensitivity, often influenced by political climates.

So, here’s the question: Can we ever write history without an agenda? Or is every record already shaped by the hands that hold the pen?

Enter Literature: The Emotional Archive

This is where literature swoops in—not to challenge history’s facts, but to color in its emotions.

While history deals in dates and decisions, literature explores grief, resilience, fear, love, and identity. It doesn’t just tell us what happened; it lets us feel what it was like to live through it.

Take Chinua Achebe’s “Things Fall Apart”. It doesn’t offer footnotes or political treatises, but it tells the story of colonialism from the perspective of the colonized, rehumanizing a culture reduced to caricatures by Western history.

Or Toni Morrison’s “Beloved”, which walks us through the trauma of slavery, not through statistics, but through a ghost story rooted in pain. It’s messy, lyrical, horrifying, and deeply human.

Even Indian literature, from Mulk Raj Anand’s “Untouchable” to Arundhati Roy’s “The God of Small Things”, cracks open historical silences with narrative power.

These works don’t “correct” history. They complicate it. And maybe that’s what we need.

Stories as Resistance

In a world where information is curated, censored, or lost, stories become a form of resistance.

Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel once said, “Whoever listens to a witness becomes a witness.” Literature, then, becomes our secondhand witnessing. It carries the memories of the oppressed, the marginalized, the forgotten.

Let’s not forget: during many oppressive regimes, writing fiction was considered a political act. Writers were jailed, exiled, or silenced. Why? Because stories make people feel, and feelings are powerful enough to start revolutions.

In that sense, literature isn't just entertainment. It’s survival. It’s protest. It’s reclamation.

So we have to ask:

If literature can carry suppressed truths across generations, can it be just as important, if not more so, than official records?

Are We Writing History Now?

Here’s a twist: we’re not just reading history, we’re living it. Right now.

The pandemic. The climate crisis. Wars. Social justice movements. Generative AI. We’re knee-deep in events that will shape textbooks for decades.

But… who will write them?

Will COVID-19 be remembered through government press releases or the diary of a nurse working double shifts? Will the story of social media activism highlight policy change, or the young protestors who made noise online and offline?

And what role will you play?

Will your story be heard—or lost in the static?

Conclusion

History is not a closed book—it’s a living, breathing conversation. And like any conversation, it changes depending on who speaks and who listens.

Yes, victors have long held the pen. But literature hands it back to the people. It allows us to write from the margins, from the inside out, and from the heart.

We may never have a completely “objective” history. But we can aim for a more inclusive one by questioning what we read, amplifying what we don’t hear, and valuing the power of story.

So next time you read a history book—or a novel based on real events—ask yourself: Whose version is

this? What’s missing? And what would happen if we filled in the blanks? Let’s not just read history. Let’s feel it. Let’s write it. Let’s challenge it.

Because history isn’t just about what happened—it’s about what we choose to remember.

Would you be interested in a curated list of literary works that challenge historical narratives? Drop a comment—I’d love to share some hidden gems!

ABOUT THE BLOGGER

Shreya Mishra

Meet Shreya Mishra, she is a blend of passion and purpose, seamlessly weaving the worlds of medicine and content creation. Her love for music and dance infuses rhythm into her life, while her compassionate spirit guides her journey toward healing and expression. Every step she takes resonates with curiosity and creativity, inspiring those around her with her warmth and determination.