American author Leslie Jamison said, “Empathy begins with understanding life from another person’s perspective. Nobody has an objective experience of reality.” It’s idealistic — learning to understand someone else’s life and experiences from their point of view, despite how different to oneself they may be.
In education too, empathy holds great value. In the current K-10 NSW History syllabus, “empathetic understanding” is a key historical concept across all stages. It encourages students to use historical evidence to understand the mentality, frames of reference, intentions, and actions of people in the past, with the ultimate goal of helping students overcome “the common tendency to see people of the past as strange and incomprehensible.” Empathy has a central role in teaching history, because its opposite — a complete dispassion from human history — can prevent us from ever recognising how similar the past is to the present.
It’s difficult to imagine empathy as problematic — after all, isn’t it morally righteous to put ourselves in somebody else’s shoes? But as a preservice teacher, I’ve observed time and again how historical empathy can be a slippery slope, especially in the context of museum excursions.
I noticed this from conversations with students after a museum excursion during practicum at a school in South-West Sydney. The students found it challenging to connect to the historical exhibits that displayed the lives of people living years and years before them. These students, who were otherwise so inquisitive in their classes reacted to the museum exhibits with disinterest and resistance, which slowly culminated into misbehaviour. This, of course, becomes a problem especially at sites displaying difficult and traumatic histories where a certain sensitivity and unspoken understanding is expected of visitors. But when these students come from mostly immigrant families with little to no personal connection to the largely Western histories displayed in museums, can we truly blame them for not understanding the nuances and horrors of history in the same way as its actors?
Contemporary historical museums carefully curate exhibitions that leverage human emotion. We see this in the Sydney Jewish Museum and USyd’s Chau Chak Wing Museum that promote sensory deprivation in some areas, sensory alteration in others, with the goal of engendering empathy from its visitors. Museums are no longer merely sites of objective representation of historical facts – they are promoters of self-reflection and change.
While I agree that emotion and empathy are vital components to understanding history, they are by no means an end-goal. As such, I take issue with our easy acceptance that museums are an absolute space, a cultural bastion, for learning empathy and relating to history. Dangerously, this prioritisation of empathy means that if a student is unmoved, confused or disassociated after visiting a historical exhibit, they are somehow “unfeeling” and are doing history wrong. This is unacceptable. When museums are curated specifically to invite a diversity of visitors with varying perspectives, why should we assume that there is only one way to interpret history?
If museums intend to support the development of historical empathy, teachers should be encouraging students to adopt various layers of interpretation. This calls for an overhaul of the very definition of empathy within the Australian curriculum. Historical empathy is not simply “overcoming the common tendency to see people of the past as strange and incomprehensible” but also embracing what is strange and incomprehensible. This starts from pursuing what Julian Brauer calls, the “sting of Otherness.” I may listen to a French revolutionary’s story and using my own imagination and self-reflection, can envision myself in that history, yet still find absolutely no similarities between my experiences and theirs. The “sting” or spatio-temporal gap between myself and the historical actor may even grow wider. But in this self-reflexive act of placing myself in history, I avoid general preconceptions and misunderstandings of someone else’s life and experiences, and open up space for questioning and understanding, which is ultimately the most valuable lesson in history. Students should be allowed to react to an exhibition with resistance, confusion, and distance because that too, is empathy.
Interestingly, the New South Wales Education Standards Authority (NESA) recognises the controversial place of empathy in history education, and has proposed that it be removed completely from the draft K-10 History syllabus, to be implemented in schools from 2027. The complete axeing of ‘empathetic understanding’ from the syllabus feels extreme. Instead, the definition of empathetic understanding, and the way it is taught in schools should be refined. Rather than teach students to feel for historical actors and events tokenistically through museum excursions at the end of term, excursions should happen at the beginning of term so that students can shape their own judgements towards historical actors, later to be refined and developed in their classes. An Honi article by Nicola Brayan problematises empathy, stating, “Some people’s’ skins’ will not fit you, no matter how hard you try. Care about people from the skin you already wear.” How privileged we are as teachers to watch as students discover their own positionality on history, rather than forcing them to relate to the perspectives of someone else.
Museums are a perfect space to begin in that regard. Teachers have the opportunity to move beyond the superficial class tasks — ‘Write a diary entry in the perspective of ‘x’ historical figure’ — to instead put students in immersive spaces where they can see, touch, listen, and read, to figure out how they feel without being told. Teachers should shift the goalposts from encouraging students to empathise with the life of someone else, to really focusing on how someone else’s life teaches us something about our own.
