We’ve heard much about the importance of stories in recent years. It has been said that Vote Leave won the Brexit referendum because they told a better story than Remain; that Donald Trump won the US election in 2016 because he told a better story than Hillary Clinton, and lost in 2020 because his story fell apart. Some think the Labour party has struggled to turn the tide decisively against a corrupt, chaotic government because it doesn’t have a clear story to tell. Stories have been central to community organisation for as long as communities have been organised. As Nesrine Malik writes in her insightful collection of essays, We Need New Stories: “Every social unit, from the family to the nation state, functions on the basis of mythology, stories that set them apart from others.” National stories can support any viewpoint: left or rightwing, liberal or authoritarian. They are integral to nationalism and represent a form of identity politics. While many across the political spectrum dislike nationalism and identity politics, the world is mostly made up of nation states. Unless that changes, those nations will continue to be part of how we identify ourselves – whether or not we embrace or reject their dominant values. Politicians of all stripes ignore the power of national stories at their cost. National stories may encompass science, the arts and religion, yet they are rooted in history: they create a narrative of how a nation, uniquely, was formed. These stories are always exceptionalist, suggesting that “our” nation is different from (and usually superior to) others. They are intended to exclude as much as they are intended to unite. In Britain, there have been many attempts to construct national mythologies from a complex and chequered history. Our Island Story by HE Marshall, first published in 1905, is still often referenced today; in 2010, the then prime minister David Cameron named it his favourite childhood book. Marshall emphasised that Our Island Story “is not a history lesson, but a storybook”. She advised her young readers: “I hope you will not put this beside your school books, but quite at the other end of the shelf, beside Robinson Crusoe and A Noah’s Ark Geography.” Whether or not this advice was effective, many of them internalised her depiction of an exceptional ascent to greatness. National stories are not set in stone. In fact, comparing different versions written decades or centuries apart can reveal dramatic shifts. In 1746, the Duke of Cumberland, son of George II, defeated Bonnie Prince Charlie’s Jacobite rebels at Culloden. Cumberland ordered “no quarter” be given to Jacobite survivors. Slaughter ensued. In the immediate aftermath of his bloody triumph, Cumberland was hailed as a “Hero-God” in England (and in much of lowland Scotland). He was burnished as an icon of progressive British liberty against the regressive, superstitious authoritarianism of the Catholic Stuarts. The Highlanders and Jacobites who had fought him were represented, in the words of historian Murray Pittock, “as savages to be tamed”. Handel wrote his famous oratorio chorus “See, the conqu’ring hero comes!” in Cumberland’s honour. A century later, everything had changed. Queen Victoria was then on the throne: she adored Scotland, and Highlanders particularly. The truth about Culloden was now well known. Victoria’s great-grand-uncle, the Duke of Cumberland, was no longer seen as the “godlike youth” of Handel’s chorus, but as the “Butcher of Culloden”: a monster, a villain, an embarrassment. The national story changed to accommodate this. Cumberland’s statue in London was removed in 1868. Victoria herself is thought to have ordered the erasure of the word “Culloden” from his memorial obelisk in Windsor Great Park. In 1856, a popular history book, The Comprehensive History of England, claimed that Cumberland “left behind him in Scotland the name of the Butcher, and the people of England, disgusted sooner than any other with cruelty, confirmed this title to the hero of Culloden”. The story continued to be one of British and English exceptionalism, modernity and unity. The difference was that in 1746 these values had been demonstrated by the English people celebrating Cumberland, whereas by 1856 they were demonstrated by their rejecting him. So, while national stories may be rooted in history, they are not history. As the historian Richard Evans has said: “History isn’t a myth-making discipline, it’s a myth-busting discipline.” The process of historical inquiry inevitably challenges national stories. It is, therefore, often seen as a threat by their proponents: witness the recent attacks on the National Trust for stating some discomfiting facts about the links of some of its properties to colonialism and historic slavery in an academically rigorous report. National stories are propaganda, fairytales, superhero origin stories. They are supposed to unite, and exclude, through belief. As with all forms of faith, true believers will defend them vigorously. In repressive societies, this defence of faith often prevails over historical research and analysis. Societies that are more at ease with themselves are generally much less anxious about the truth coming out. It is possible to tell national stories that are sober and restrained; that speak of shared liberal values, democracy, artistic and scientific achievement, diversity of views or identities. Fundamentally, they are still fictions. Those who tell them will pride themselves on the unique sophistication of their own grown-up national stories compared to everyone else’s absurd delusions, thus neatly reinforcing the paradigm of exceptionalism yet again. Perhaps one day someone will find a more compelling story to tell beyond nationalism, and national stories will cease to have such a hold on us. For the moment, they are with us, whether we feel we “need” them or not. So long as this holds true, it is important to recognise that the prejudices within them are never fixed. Every generation interrogates and questions what it is told: the stories must adapt. The enduring popularity of myths may frustrate historians, but we can comfort ourselves that those myths are always in flux. It’s a sign of health if our societies are open to change; if we never entirely agree.