Opposite Vajdahunyad Castle in Budapest's City Park, you find the Statue of Anonymous, one of the city's most evocative and revered monuments. It honors the medieval chronicler who authored Gesta Hungarorum, the foundational text of Hungarian history recounting the journey of the Magyar people from their ancient homeland up to the founding of the nation.

The author signed his work simply as P. dictus magister — The master, called P. Having preserved the story of his people for future generations, he demurred from attaching his own name for posterity. His identity lies buried beneath the sands of time.

The sculpture, created by Miklos Ligeti in 1903, captures the 12th-century historian mid-composition — quill poised, book open, hooded cloak shrouding his face in shadow. The irony of this preserver of history lost to modern memory suggests this week's addition to the Ethical Lexicon:

Anonym (an*o*nym/ an-UH-nim) noun

A person who chooses to remain anonymous.

History, they say, is written by the victors. The chronicles of ancient Syria recount their country's victories over the Egyptians, then fall silent. The chronicles of Egypt, previously silent, pick up where Syrian accounts ended to record their own triumphs. The works of Josephus invariably depict his Roman patrons in the most flattering light.

Today, we face the opposite problem: Apologists and revisionists driven by political and social ideology often abandon historical integrity altogether. In a deplorable pattern of criminal misrepresentation, modern pundits frequently malign visionaries far ahead of their times for failing to measure up — in their not-so-humble opinions — to modern sensibilities.

In truth, it is the job of historians to interpret history, not merely record it. Why do so many students despise the study of history? Because they are subjected to endless lists of names, dates and places without context, meaning, or relevance. Even in fiction, Harry Potter had to suffer the butchering of history during Professor Binns's lecture on the Giant Wars:

"Harry heard just enough within the first 10 minutes to appreciate dimly that in another teacher's hands this subject might have been mildly interesting, but then his brain disengaged and he spent the remaining 35 minutes playing hangman on a corner of his parchment."

This kind of educational malpractice is inexcusable. Historians have an obligation to teach not only the facts but the dynamics of history. What historical currents led to revolution, upheaval and the collapse of empire? Who were the players and what were their motivations? How did the most innocuous and seemingly random confluence of events change the course of civilization? When taught with mastery, history provides drama more compelling than "Lord of the Rings," "Game of Thrones" and "The Handmaid's Tale" all rolled into one.

In our politically tribalized world, however, too many teachers of history go too far, imposing their own ideological predilections on past events, reinterpreting them through the lens of contemporary trends and sensitivities. In this way, they do a profound disservice to the luminaries of the ages and to their own students, undermining reverence for heroes who, despite their imperfections and shortcomings, rose to meet unimaginable challenges and spurred the advancement of civil society.

By inserting themselves in the narrative, revisionists distort our collective memory, ensuring that readers and students will fail to learn the lessons of history and normalizing radicals like Abdul El-Sayed, Melat Kiros and Zohran Mamdani. As one popular meme astutely observes: "'1984' was intended to be a warning, not an instruction manual."

Which brings us back to our anonymous Hungarian chronicler. Despite having had every right to sign his name to his magnum opus, his commitment to the purity of the past compelled him to remove himself entirely from the annals of the future. Imagine if more of us took his example to heart.

In an age of influencers vying for followers and politicians pandering for votes, the preternatural humility of this anonym is almost beyond our comprehension. And that's tragic. Because ethics begins not with consideration for what profits us as individuals, but what best serves society and the world we share with others. When we lead with humility, we eventually discover that what benefits those around us is truly what benefits us most of all.

See more by Yonason Goldson and features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists; visit the Creators Syndicate webpage at www.creators.com.

Photo credit: Marianna Smiley at Unsplash