It’s easy to assume the people who “change the world” look the part. But history loves the opposite: ordinary shifts, factory floors, and a camera passing through the wrong corridor at the right moment.

It’s June 1945. World War II is in its final stretch. On one side, thousands of soldiers dying at the front. On the other, officers asking a colder question: How do we train and improve anti-aircraft fire without risking pilots?

Mini Box: Drones Are Older Than You Think

The idea of pilotless aircraft isn’t new. As early as 1918, there were experimental “pilotless strike” concepts like the Kettering Bug. But the story you’re reading here belongs to the era of practical use and mass production.

Prototype Kettering Bug

1) The Unlikely “Drone Guy”: Reginald Denny

The first main character isn’t a general or a scientist in a lab coat. He’s a working actor with a serious obsession: radio-controlled model aircraft.

Reginald Denny helps build a company that would become a foundational chapter in early American drone history: Radioplane. At first, the military reaction is basically: You want to fight wars with toys? Then someone connects the dots: These small aircraft can be used as moving targets for anti-aircraft training.

Orders start pouring in, and the factory goes into high gear. Out of that assembly line comes a small aircraft that matters more than it looks: the OQ-2 target drone.

Reginald Denny

Mini Box: The First Job Wasn’t to Attack, but to Get Shot

Here’s the irony that makes this whole story perfect: early “drones” like this weren’t designed to strike anything. They were designed to be shot at. A lot of the technology is built around being launched, flown as a target, then recovered—meaning the drone begins its life as a flying victim.

OQ2 - Target Drone  

2) The Moment: A Norma Jeane on the Factory Floor

Wartime morale and propaganda matter. A photographer is sent to the Radioplane plant to capture women assembly workers for the war effort story.

That photographer is David Conover.

He walks through the plant with a camera and notices one worker in particular: a young woman doing precision assembly, covered in the grime of real work, holding parts that look like pure industry. She isn’t “Marilyn Monroe” yet. She’s simply Norma Jeane Dougherty.

If she’d been late that day, assigned to another section, or if the photographer had taken a different corridor, pop culture history might look weirdly different.

Mini Box: The Ronald Reagan Connection

The detail that makes the whole chain feel almost scripted: the photographer’s visit to Radioplane is often linked to USAAF Captain Ronald Reagan—yes, the future U.S. President. A target-drone factory, a future President in the background, and a future movie icon on the line.

Captain Ronald Reagan, United States Army Air Forces - 1945

3) Marilyn’s First Husband: Who Was James?

People tell this story like a clean fairy tale. It wasn’t.

While Norma Jeane was working at the factory, she was married to James Dougherty. He was away on wartime service. The marriage carried a very ordinary expectation of “normal life.” But once the camera arrives, once modeling begins, once the momentum starts rolling, that ordinary timeline doesn’t survive.

In a very real sense, the Radioplane factory doesn’t just “create” Marilyn Monroe. It also becomes the place where Norma Jeane’s ordinary marriage life quietly breaks apart.

James Edward Dougherty with then-wife Norma Jeane Mortenson (later known as Marilyn Monroe)

4) From Propeller to Spotlight

Conover doesn’t just take a documentary shot and leave. He has Norma Jeane pose. The photos lead to modeling work. Modeling becomes a door into Hollywood. And that door eventually becomes a name the world can’t forget: Marilyn Monroe.

Marilyn Monroe with a RP-5 (Kodachrome photo) in 1944

Look at how ridiculous the chain is:

If the U.S. military hadn’t needed target drones
If Denny hadn’t built Radioplane at scale
If Conover hadn’t walked down that corridor
Then Marilyn might have simply retired as a factory worker, and cinema history would have a different face.

 Marilyn Monroe with a RP-5 prop (Kodachrome photo) in 1944

5) The Factory’s Afterlife: From Radioplane to Northrop Grumman

Radioplane doesn’t remain a quirky wartime shop forever. It gets absorbed into the aerospace world that keeps evolving after WWII.

That’s where the second “invention” twist lands: the small target-drone lineage doesn’t die. It gets folded into the ecosystem that later produces some of the most advanced unmanned systems on Earth—think Northrop Grumman, and modern platforms like the Global Hawk.

So yes: the workshop where Norma Jeane once worked on aircraft parts ends up connected—through corporate and technological lineage—to the era of massive, high-altitude unmanned aircraft.

Conclusion: When Technology Collides with Accident

This is why the story sticks.

Early drones aren’t born as sleek sci-fi predators. In this chapter, they start as targets. Meanwhile, a future icon isn’t discovered on a red carpet, but in a work jumpsuit, in the middle of wartime manufacturing.

History doesn’t always move like a straight line. Sometimes it moves like a camera passing through a factory.

Trivia Box (End-of-Post)

That famous factory moment also fits the visual language of WWII’s “working woman” mythos—the same cultural atmosphere that produced Rosie the Riveter. Norma Jeane entered the frame as a morale narrative without knowing the frame would eventually rename her.

For someone who lives in Istanbul, visiting Hagia Sophia isn’t really a “tourist activity.” It feels more like checking in on an ancient relative. The city is a time machine on every corner, but some details are so absurd they almost feel personal. The other day I went up to the famous upper level again, slipped through the crowd, leaned in close to those marble balustrades, and looked at that infamous “signature.”

If you don’t know about it, this isn’t some secret. Guides have been telling the story for years. Still, seeing those little gouged lines up close (touching is forbidden, so let’s say “really seeing” it) drops you straight into a thousand-year-old moment that’s intensely ordinary and strangely empty.

And there it is, on the marble of the upper gallery: the trace of a Varangian, one of the Scandinavian guards who served the Byzantine emperors, leaving a mark in the middle of the world.

Hagia Sophia Grand Mosque

What Does the “Crack” Actually Say?

On the upper gallery’s marble railing, there’s a set of scratches that look, at first, like nothing more than the marble’s natural texture. But it’s runic writing. Runes, as in the angular, carved-looking alphabet used in Scandinavia before Latin letters became dominant. That’s exactly why it could pass as a stone vein for so long.

Here’s the crucial part: people often repeat it as “Halfdan was here,” but the inscription is heavily worn today. What’s typically said in more careful accounts is that what remains clearly legible is mostly the tail end, something like “-ftan,” which is commonly linked to the name Halfdan. In other words, instead of a neat full sentence, what survives is probably the fragment of a standard formula along the lines of “(Name) carved these runes.”

And honestly, that makes it funnier. The logic is identical to someone scratching their name into a bus seat or a school desk today. The only thing that changes is the surface. Plastic versus the marble of one of the most monumental buildings on earth.

The Most Successful Camouflage in History

The reason this survived is almost comedic: for centuries, many people simply didn’t read it as writing. It was easy to dismiss as a crack, a vein, or normal wear. And it’s not some massive, bold piece of graffiti either. It’s thin, shallow, almost timid in the stone.

What hits me is how we usually read “history” through grandeur. But sometimes history is just the afterimage of boredom. A tiny act, left unnoticed long enough to become immortal.

Hagia Sophia Grand Mosque

Why This Viking Trace Feels So Real

Because it doesn’t come from a “great narrative.” It comes from the most basic impulse imaginable:

I was here.

And there’s another layer that makes it even more interesting. These runic traces are generally associated with the Varangian Guard, and the timeframe often cited is roughly the 9th to 11th centuries. So this isn’t “some fantasy Viking thing.” It’s tied to a very real Byzantine institution where Scandinavians served in the heart of the empire.

There’s also the detail people miss: it’s not necessarily just one mark. A second runic inscription on the upper level was reportedly identified later, and its reading can vary depending on the source. So the more accurate picture isn’t “one random signature,” but a small cluster of traces that hint at a repeated human behavior in a place that’s supposed to be too sacred for something so petty.

Conclusion: Ideology, or Reflex?

When you look at that marble, you’re not just seeing “history.” You’re seeing the reflex: the need to say, anywhere, even here, that you existed.

Halfdan’s boredom that day somehow became one of our favorite historical incidents.

An Istanbul note: next time you’re in Hagia Sophia, don’t look at that railing only as an “artifact.” Try to feel the presence of someone who probably just wanted the moment to be over, already thinking about where they’d unwind later, and still couldn’t resist leaving a small, stubborn proof behind.

Living in Turkey, you get used to driving through small towns without a second thought. You see a sign, think “just another quiet place,” and keep going. But then, one day, you end up walking through somewhere like Alaşehir. You pause at a sign, a ruin, or the particular hue of a stone, and suddenly a massive gateway swings open in your head.

That’s exactly what Alaşehir did to me.

Because the ancient name of Alaşehir is Philadelphia. Yes, the exact same word as the famous city in America. And this bridge of names carries far more human drama, political intrigue, religious history, and the constant threat of earthquakes than you might expect.

Why “Philadelphia”: A King’s Reputation for Loyalty

Ancient Philadelphia is generally associated with Attalos II Philadelphus of Pergamon. “Philadelphus” in Greek literally means “one who loves his brother.” This wasn’t just poetic branding; it signaled an image of loyalty.

Statue of Attalus II, King of Pergamum

Some retellings frame that loyalty as political too: in an era when outside powers had every incentive to exploit rivalries within royal families, Attalos is remembered for refusing to turn against his older brother. In that telling, “Philadelphia” becomes more than a name. It becomes a monument to a bond that didn’t break under pressure.

The City of Quakes: Culture Written in the Soil

Philadelphia also had another reputation: it was famously vulnerable to earthquakes. Ancient writers like Strabo are often cited in connection with the city’s constant shaking.

Standing there, it makes you realize something. A city’s culture isn’t written only by palaces and wars. Sometimes it’s written by the ground itself. In a place that keeps moving, architecture, daily life, and even metaphors start bending toward the same obsession: what can actually endure.

Alaşehir - Manisa 

The Seven Churches Connection: Stones, Pillars, and Revelation

What struck me most about Alaşehir was its footprint in Christian history. The city is one of the Seven Churches of Revelation.  In fact, Revelation names the full list in one breath. John hears a voice telling him: “Write what you see in a book and send it to the seven churches: to Ephesus, Smyrna, Pergamum, Thyatira, Sardis, Philadelphia, and Laodicea” (Revelation 1:11). When you remember that these are real places in western Anatolia, “Philadelphia” stops feeling like an abstract Bible label and starts sounding like geography.

Seven Churches of Revelation

Today, you can still see massive structural remains locals often associate with a church site tied to St. John, including heavy buttress-like supports that hint at how large the building once was. And then there’s the line addressed to the community in Philadelphia:

“I will make him a pillar in the temple of my God.”

Among those stones, the “pillar” imagery stops feeling abstract. In a city shaped by earthquakes, becoming an unshakable pillar isn’t just poetry. It’s the ultimate promise of stability in a world that won’t stop moving.

Where Does the Name “Alaşehir” Come From?

There are two layers to the name Alaşehir. One is the popular folk story often repeated locally. I love a good tale, but I keep it as what it is: a legend.

The more grounded explanation is linguistic and documentary. “Alaşehir” is also linked to the idea of a “multicolored” or “speckled” town, with early attestations in medieval sources. Honestly, having seen Alaşehir up close, “multicolored city” doesn’t feel like a stretch. The landscape has a texture that matches the name.

Why Was the Name Given to Philadelphia in the USA?

Let’s clear the air: William Penn didn’t choose the name simply to mirror a church from the Bible. He chose it because it evoked an ideal: Brotherly Love.

Penn imagined Pennsylvania as a kind of “Holy Experiment,” a place where people fleeing religious persecution could live together in peace. The meaning is straightforward: phileo (to love) + adelphos (brother).

And there’s a resonance too. Even if the primary pull was the Greek meaning and Quaker tolerance, “Philadelphia” already carried a positive association in Christian tradition because of the faithful Philadelphia mentioned in Revelation. The name fit Penn’s vision of coexistence almost too perfectly.

William Penn (holding paper) and King Charles II depicted in The Birth of Pennsylvania 1680, a portrait by Jean Leon Gerome Ferris

Final Thought

What I love about this connection is how the same word ends up carrying two different dreams of order across two different eras. In Anatolia, Philadelphia grows out of a story about loyalty under political pressure. In America, it becomes a statement of tolerance and living together.

It’s easy to dismiss Alaşehir as “just a small town.” But if you stop and listen for a moment, you realize an entire world history is echoing through its name.

We all like to think of ourselves as rational beings. We claim that we read party manifestos before voting, analyze economic data, and engage in deep philosophical reflection about “the survival of the nation” or “freedoms.”

But what if I told you that beneath all this intellectual veneer, some of your political instincts may be shaped in your gut—or rather, in the brain’s most primitive, reflex-driven circuits?

I’m not the one making this up. A research team affiliated with the Virginia Tech Carilion Research Institute reported findings along these lines in a 2014 study published in Current Biology—a paper led by neuroscientist P. Read Montague.

The Experiment: Listening to a Politician, or Looking at Something Repulsive?

The setup was simple. Participants were placed in an fMRI scanner to measure their brain activity. But instead of playing political speeches, the researchers showed them something completely different:

Disgusting images.

A filthy toilet, feces, a plate of food covered in bugs, a rotting piece of flesh…

 fMRI Scanner

A quick note on what fMRI actually does: fMRI isn’t “mind reading.” It tracks changes in blood flow and oxygenation in the brain. When neurons in a region work harder, that area demands more energy, and the body sends more oxygen-rich blood there; the scanner captures this indirectly via what’s known as the BOLD signal. In other words, the colorful “glows” aren’t thoughts—they’re a proxy for where the brain is working more in that moment.

fMRI brain activation heatmap showing BOLD signal changes across multiple regions

While participants viewed the images, the researchers recorded activity patterns in regions often associated

 with threat processing (like the amygdala) and visceral/affective processing (including the insula). After the images, participants completed a standard political survey covering issues like gun control, abortion, same-sex marriage, and immigration.

A Striking Prediction

The results were unsettling. The neural response to those “disgust” images carried real predictive power about where a person landed on the liberal–conservative spectrum.

The pattern looked like this:

• People whose brains showed a stronger “disgust/threat” response tended to score more conservative on the survey.

• Those who were more indifferent—or had a higher disgust threshold—tended to score more liberal.

And the association wasn’t trivial: the researchers reported that brain responses to disgust stimuli could statistically distinguish liberal–conservative tendencies with strong performance, with some analyses reaching AUC ~0.85 under a specific sub-condition. (Note: In statistics, an AUC of 0.85 indicates an 'excellent' ability for the model to distinguish between the two groups.)

Is Conservatism an “Immune System”?

So how could there be any connection between feces or insects and “state governance”? One answer may lie in evolutionary logic.

Across human history, disgust has been a survival reflex. Feeling revulsion toward rotten meat, feces, or unknown creatures helped our ancestors avoid poisoning and disease. The body had to defend its boundaries.

A conservative mindset may be more likely to translate that same “protection and purity” impulse onto the social plane:

Biologically: “This spoiled food must not enter my body.”
Politically: “This foreign culture/immigrant/idea must not enter my society.”

For conservatives, a “border” may feel like more than a line on a map—it can function as a psychological shield that protects perceived integrity. Liberals, by contrast, may be more open to novelty (or less sensitive to certain threat cues), and therefore approach social change with greater flexibility.

Conclusion: Ideology Has a Body

This experiment left me with an uncomfortable thought: we’re not always the free-willed, purely rational thinkers we imagine ourselves to be. Our political fights, parliamentary debates, or online mob frenzies may sometimes reflect older biological circuits playing out in a modern arena.

Maybe the reason we can’t convince each other isn’t only that our arguments are weak—but that our brains’ thresholds for “threat” and “disgust” can differ in ways that arguments don’t easily reach.

Politics isn’t just a mental chess match; it can be a physical reflex. It may be our hand that stamps the ballot, but behind that decision, threat/disgust thresholds that kick in before arguments (even if not solely decisive) may also play a role. 

**Source:** Ahn et al. (2014), *Current Biology*. DOI: 10.1016/j.cub.2014.09.050