Epstein and Peck - 2017 - Teaching and Learning Difficult Histories in Inter

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Contributors
Sirkka Ahonen is Professor Emerita of History and Social Sciences Education
at the University of Helsinki, Finland. Her research interests are spread in
the areas of history learning, historical identity, the use of history in post-
conflict societies and the history of education. Among her international
publications there are the monographs Clio Sans Uniform—A Study of
the Post-Marxist Transformation of the History Curricula in East Ger-
many and Estonia, 1986–1991 (1992), Coming to Terms with a Dark
Past—How Post-Conflict Societies Deal with History (2012), and the
chapter “A School for All in Finland” in Ulf Blossing et al. (eds.), The
Nordic Education Model (2014).
Angela Bermudez is a researcher at the Center for Applied Ethics in the Uni-
versity of Deusto (Bilbao, Spain). Her current research investigates the
role of history education in fostering or hindering a critical understand-
ing of political violence, and thus, how it may contribute to peace build-
ing. She obtained her doctorate from the Harvard Graduate School of
Education in 2008. Prior to that, she worked in Colombia where she con-
ducted research and developed curriculum guidelines, teaching resources
and assessment tools for social studies and civic education.
Anna Clark holds an Australian Research Council Future Fellowship and is
Co-Director of the Australian Centre for Public History at the University
of Technology Sydney. She has written extensively on history education,
historiography and historical consciousness, including: Private Lives,
Public History (2016), History’s Children: History Wars in the Class-
room (2008), Teaching the Nation: Politics and Pedagogy in Australian
History (2006), and the History Wars (2003) with Stuart Macintyre, as
well as two history books for children, Convicted! and Explored! Reflect-
ing her love of fish and fishing, she has also recently finished a history of
fishing in Australia.
Terrie Epstein is Professor of Education at Hunter College and the Graduate
Center of the City University of New York, USA. She is interested in how
young people’s and teachers’ identities influence their representations of
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x Contributors
national history and society and how educators engage students with
history in more inclusive ways. A 2013 Senior Fulbright Scholar in New
Zealand (hosted by Mark Sheehan), her books include the co-authored
Education, Globalization and the Nation (2015); Interpreting National
History: Race, Identity and Pedagogy in Classrooms and Communi-
ties (2009) and the co-edited Teaching United States History: Dialogues
among Social Studies Teachers and Historians (2009).
Tsafrir Goldberg is a lecturer in the University of Haifa, Israel. His research
centers on issues of history, social identity and inter-group relations. In
his work as a teacher, teacher educator and textbook author, he explored
the way students of opposing groups deliberate controversial histories of
inter-group conflict. He is currently a part of an EU collaboration on the
teaching of sensitive historical issues.
Maria Grever is Professor of Theory and Methodology of History, and
director of the Center for Historical Culture, Erasmus University Rot-
terdam (the Netherlands). Her research interests are historical conscious-
ness, theory of historiography, heritage and memory. Currently she leads
the research program War! Popular Culture and European Heritage of
Major Armed Conflicts. She published several books—e.g. Transform-
ing the Public Sphere (2004), Beyond the Canon (2007), Sensitive Pasts
(2016)—and articles in journals, such as Paedagogica Historica, British
Journal of Educational Studies, and Journal of Curriculum Studies. She
is a member of the Netherlands Royal Academy of Arts and Sciences.
Michael Harcourt is a doctoral candidate at Victoria University of Welling-
ton, New Zealand. He finished an 11-year career as a high school history
teacher in 2016 and is currently exploring the way teachers and students
navigate the teaching of colonisation in multicultural classrooms. In
2015 he was the recipient of the Fulbright-Cognition Scholar Award in
Education Research. He is co-editor (with Andrea Milligan and Bronwyn
Wood) of Teaching Social Studies for Critical, Active Citizenship in Aote-
aroa New Zealand (2016) and co-editor (with Mark Sheehan) of His-
tory Matters: Teaching and Learning History in New Zealand Secondary
Schools in the 21st Century (2012).
Joanna Kidman is a Māori sociologist with tribal affiliations to Ngāti
Maniapoto, Ngāti Raukawa and Ngāti Toa. She works in the field of
indigenous studies at Victoria University of Wellington in New Zealand
where she is based in the School of Education. Her research centers on
the politics of indigeneity and settler-colonial nationhood. Over the
past twenty years, she has worked with Māori research partners and
community-based tribal groups in different parts of New Zealand. She
has also partnered with indigenous communities in Taiwan and the USA
to establish indigenous knowledge systems in schools with large numbers
of native students.
Contributors xi
J. B. Mayo, Jr. is Associate Professor of Social Studies Education in the
Department of Curriculum & Instruction at the University of Minnesota,
USA. His research centers on the inclusion of LGBT and queer histories in
standard social studies curriculum, students’ identity formation in GSAs,
the intersections of racialized identities and sexual orientation, and teacher
education as an inclusive space for queer identities. His most recent pub-
lications address teaching about marriage equality, the lives of Two Spirit
indigenous people, the role GSAs play in the social studies and in teacher
education more broadly, and teacher preparation for urban contexts.
Alan McCully is Senior Lecturer in Education (History and Citizenship) at
Ulster University, Northern Ireland. During forty years as teacher, teacher
educator and researcher spanning the period of conflict and post conflict
transformation in Northern Ireland, as practitioner and researcher he has
engaged with interventions in the fields of history and social studies seek-
ing to contribute to better community relations in the province. Recently,
he worked with the Consortium for Education and Peacebuilding (Ulster,
Sussex and Amsterdam) on a four-country study (Myanmar, Pakistan,
South Africa and Uganda) to strengthen educational policy and practice
that promote sustainable peace.
Carla L. Peck is Associate Professor of Social Studies Education in the
Department of Elementary Education at the University of Alberta, Can-
ada. Her research interests include students’ understandings of democratic
concepts, diversity, identity, citizenship and the relationship between
students’ ethnic identities and their understandings of history. She has
held several major research grants related to this work and has published
extensively in journals such as Theory & Research in Social Education,
Citizenship Teaching & Learning, and Curriculum Inquiry. Her research
and teaching have been recognized by several university and national
awards including THEN/HiER and the Canadian Education Association.
Maria Auxiliadora Schmidt is Professor of History Education at Federal
University of Paraná, Brazil. She is interested in research regarding the
development and formation of History Consciousness of teachers, young
adults, and children; and the aspects of the consolidation of History
Didatics in Brazil. In 2016 she developed a senior post-doctoral research
project in Theory and Philosophy of History at the University of Bra-
sília, Brazil, with Professor Estevão Martins. Her books include the co-
authored Brazilian Investigation in History Education (2016), Educa- tion,
Globalization and the Nation (2015), and Teaching History (2010).
Peter Seixas is Professor Emeritus in the Department of Curriculum and
Pedagogy at the University of British Columbia, Canada. He was the
founding Director of the Centre for the Study of Historical Conscious-
ness and of The Historical Thinking Project. His writing on teaching and
learning history has been recognized with (among others) the Canada
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Research Chair in Historical Consciousness (2001–2014), a fellowship
in the Royal Society of Canada, the American Studies Association’s Con-
stance Rourke Award, the American Historical Association’s William
Gilbert Award and the 2015 Grambs Distinguished Research Career
Award from the National Council for Social Studies.
Loh Kah Seng is a historian who researches the history of Singapore and
Southeast Asia. He is author or editor of six books, including Living with
Myths in Singapore (2017); Controversial History Education in Asian
Contexts (2013); and Squatters into Citizens: The 1961 Bukit Ho Swee
Fire and the Making of Modern Singapore (2013). He is currently co-
writing a book on the history of tuberculosis in Singapore. He was previ-
ously a school teacher and continues to speak to students, teachers and
the public about the joys and challenges of studying the past.
Mark Sheehan is a senior lecturer in history education in the Faculty of
Education at Victoria University of Wellington (New Zealand). He also
provides independent advice to the Ministry of Education on a range of
history curriculum related matters including the current Māori History
Initiative. As well looking at how history teachers develop disciplinary
understandings of teaching in their subject area and the place of histori-
cal thinking in teaching and learning school history, his primary research
focus is the role of history in reconciliation (especially in regards to mem-
ory, remembrance and indigenous epistemologies).
Alan Stoskopf is currently the Educational Project Director at the William
Joiner Institute for the Study of War and Social Consequences, and is a
Lecturer in the Honors College at the University of Massachusetts, Bos-
ton, USA. He was the Co-Principal Investigator for a European Union
grant funded research team investigating how national history texts in
three countries represented watershed moments of political violence in
their respective national histories. He received his BA in Political Science
and History at Duke University, a Post Graduate Diploma from the Uni-
versity of Edinburgh, and a doctorate in Education from the University
of Massachusetts, Boston.
Jennifer Tinkham is Assistant Professor of Social Studies Curriculum and
Pedagogy in the Department of Curriculum Studies at the University of
Saskatchewan, Canada. Her current research program focuses on the
challenges and opportunities for non-Aboriginal social studies teachers
in a time of truth and reconciliation. She also works in rural education,
particularly small school closures and community development and re-
design in Nova Scotia. She is a former elementary teacher and has been
working in teacher education for over a decade.
Johan Wassermann is Professor in History Education at the University of
Pretoria, South Africa. He is also the co-founder of the African Associa-
tion for History Education (AHE-Afrika). His research interests include
Contributors xiii
youth and history, life histories, history textbooks, teaching controversial
issues in post-conflict Africa and minorities and the minoritised in Colo-
nial Natal. He has published in both History and History Education.
Currently he co-leads two research projects: Text and Context in Africa
and Youth and Education in South Africa. Most recently (2016) he pub-
lished in the Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth Studies, New Con-
tree and the African Educational Review.
Michalinos Zembylas is Professor of Educational Theory and Curriculum
Studies at the Open University of Cyprus. He is Visiting Professor and
Research Fellow at the Institute for Reconciliation and Social Justice,
University of the Free State, South Africa and at the Centre for Critical
Studies in Higher Education Transformation at Nelson Mandela Metro-
politan University. He has written extensively on emotion and affect in
relation to social justice pedagogies, intercultural and peace education,
human rights education and citizenship education. He received the Dis-
tinguished Researcher Award in Social Sciences and Humanities for 2016
from the Cyprus Research Promotion Foundation.
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Introduction
Terrie Epstein and Carla L. Peck
This volume grew out of an American Educational Research Association–
sponsored conference entitled “Teaching and Learning Difficult Histories:
Global Concepts and Contexts,” held in New York City on June 24–26,
2015. The aim was to bring together scholars from across the globe work-
ing on issues related to “difficult histories,” a term that we defined at the
time as “historical narratives and other forms (learning standards, curricu-
lar frameworks) that incorporate contested, painful and/or violent events
into regional, national or global accounts of the past.” We used the con-
cept of difficult histories as a heuristic device for distinguishing the research
included in this volume from a cognitive or disciplinary approach to research
in history education, an orientation that dominated the field until recently in
North America and Great Britain.
We have included in the volume all except two conference papers: Cin-
thia Salinas (University of Texas, U.S.) published her conference paper in
the International Journal of Multicultural Education (Salinas & Alarcon,
2016), and Andrew Mycock (University of Huddersfield, U.K.) preferred to
revise his paper on the World War I centenary and British “history wars”
for publication in a journal. At the conference, participants presented their
papers as part of a four-person panel organized by themes; each panel was
followed by commentary by a leading scholar in the field. Following these
presentations, participants divided themselves up among the presenters to
discuss individual papers in greater depth. After a 45-minute discussion, the
participants reconvened for 15 minutes to discuss larger themes. We men-
tion the format because many presenters commented that this was the first
time they had attended a conference where their work received serious and
sustained attention. It made the conference a highly productive and memo-
rable experience, one that we believe can be replicated in other settings.
In the following pages, we discuss three major theoretical frameworks
in which history educators embed their research. These include disciplin-
ary and sociocultural frameworks, as well as those organized around the
concept of historical consciousness. We then put forward what we have
termed a “critical sociocultural approach” to research in history education,
arguing that it is a framework in which studies in any setting and society
7
2 Terrie Epstein and Carla L. Peck
can be situated. We did not introduce the term at the conference but have
developed—and continue to develop—the concept to highlight how con-
cepts of power, identity and agency shape all historical narratives. While
none of the chapters in the book employ the term, all refer implicitly or
explicitly to how concepts of power, identity and/or agency influence the
production and appropriation of historical narratives in specific national
settings, especially as they relate to difficult histories, i.e., violent aspects of
a national past that evoke contested and/or painful responses.
Disciplinary Approaches to Research

Disciplinary approaches to research in history education have framed the
concept of history as that which is practiced by professional historians;
within this framework, the immediate aim of history education is to develop
young people’s understanding of the nature of history as an academic disci-
pline. Researchers who use a disciplinary approach have examined a range
of young people’s cognitive abilities, including how young people assess and
interpret primary historical sources (Lee, Dickinson & Ashby, 2001; Shemilt,
1980; Wineburg, 1991), how they construct or critique historical claims or
arguments (Nokes, 2010; Monte-Sano, 2011; Shemilt, 1987), or how well
they understand second order (vs. substantive) concepts—change and conti-
nuity, cause and consequence, significance and empathy—that give meaning
to history (Seixas, 1993; Seixas & Morton, 2013). Some studies have exam-
ined “progression” in students’ historical thinking: as students mature, they
develop more sophisticated understandings of the evaluation and interpreta-
tion of historical evidence and of second-order concepts (Lee, 2004).
Disciplinary approaches are grounded in psychological theories of cogni-
tion or constructivism. They focus on teaching history in order to transform
young people’s naïve understandings of historical accounts as true or sin-
gular representations of “what happened” in the past to their abilities to
reconceptualize accounts as interpretations or reconstructions of the past
based on evidence and rational thought (Lee & Shemilt, 2003). Instruction
often is organized around a cognitive apprenticeship model: Teachers make
explicit and scaffold historical thinking in relation to questions or evidence;
students use objective reasoning to evaluate and synthesize historical evi-
dence and construct defensible interpretations of the past in the form of
narratives (Monte-Sano, 2008, Freedman, 2015). Disciplinary approaches
caution against “presentism” or employing contemporary modes of thought
in evaluating the motivations or behaviors of historical actors (Wineburg,
2001) and often promote the concept of detachment or “historical distance”
(Grever, chapter 2 in this volume, Phillips, 2004) by bracketing out affec-
tive responses to historical sources or narratives in favor of more objective
evaluations.
One critique of disciplinary approaches is their emphasis on teaching
young people to construct objective evidence-based historical narratives,
Introduction 3
often in response to teacher- or test-posed questions, but not to focus on
the broader interpretive frameworks in which all historical narratives are
embedded (Bekerman & Zembylas, 2011; Freedman, 2015; Nordgren &
Johansson, 2015). At an individual level, a historian’s interpretive frame—
her underlying assumptions, beliefs and/or ideologies—influence the ques-
tions she asks, the way she interprets evidence and the historical arguments
she formulates in the form of a written narrative. The differences in histo-
rians’ frames explain how two historians can pose the same question and
evaluate the same evidence, yet generate different or even competing histori-
cal accounts, even as they abide by the profession’s methodological criteria
(Cronon, 1992, Troilloit, 1995).
At a broader level, national historical narratives distributed through
schools, official media and historical sites often function to maintain those
that give legitimacy to contemporary political alignments, as well as to sus-
tain national identities that privilege dominant groups or cultures (Beker-
man, 2016; Connerton, 1989; Nordgren & Johansson, 2015). Historians
have recognized that their narratives are “not made in isolation but in
conversation with others that occur in the contexts of community, broader
politics and social dynamics” (Thelen, quoted in Wertsch, 2002, p. 59). Yet
disciplinary approaches rarely ask young people to explore or “discover the
mechanisms of power” (Nordgren & Johansson, 2015, p. 16) that underlie
the framing of dominant or alternative historical narratives or the functions
that they serve. By neglecting the role that political and social dynamics
play in the production and distribution of historical narratives, disciplinary
approaches can limit young’s people’s historical understanding.
Sociocultural Approaches to Research

Since the beginning of the 21st century, sociocultural approaches to research
in history education have proliferated (Epstein & Salinas, in press). The
approach examines how political, social and cultural contexts influence the
historical narratives produced by national, subnational or transnational
communities (Wertsch, 2002). They position historical narratives as “cul-
tural tools . . . distributed across individuals and groups,” in particular set-
tings for particular purposes (p. 25). They provide a “usable past” (p. 31)
meant in large part to create and maintain collective identities from which
community members may derive a sense of self and belonging. A usable past
also can construct boundaries between those who belong and those who
do not, based on nationality, ethnicity, religion or other markers of differ-
ence. The extent to which people appropriate historical narratives circulated
within national, ethnic or religious communities vary not just among indi-
viduals but also within individuals over time, depending on the purposes
for and contexts in which historical narratives are employed (Barton &
McCully, 2010; Peck, chapter 15 in this volume; Zembylas, chapter 12 in
this volume).
3
Sociocultural and disciplinary approaches to research differ in their
assumptions about historical thinking and the nature of historical narra-
tives. Disciplinary approaches often conceptualize historical thinking from
the “inside out”: An individual evaluates and synthesizes historical evidence
to construct an argument about the causes, consequences or other aspects
of historical events or other phenomena. She eschews or acknowledges and
transcends her own beliefs about or commitments to particular perspec-
tives and rationally evaluates evidence to construct an interpretation, taking
into account the beliefs and behaviors of people in the past (Reisman &
Wineburg, 2012). The product of historical thinking is an objective (or as
objective as possible) historical narrative, based on an empirically rigorous
analysis and synthesis of evidence (Freedman, 2015).
In contrast, sociocultural approaches view historical thinking from the
“outside in”: An individual evaluates evidence and constructs arguments
about the past within the context of an “internal culturally mediated frame-
work” (Wertsch, 2002, p. 26): i.e., a mental model of human thought and
action conditioned by the historical, political and cultural contexts in which
an individual has learned to act and think. While an individual can become
aware of her and others’ mental models, she can never entirely escape the
mental model or framework she has constructed of how human thought
and action operate. Every historical narrative, including those of the most
professional historians, reflect the internal culturally mediated framework—
which in turn reflects broader societal beliefs and knowledge—that the indi-
vidual draws upon to think historically.
Sociocultural approaches to research have examined at least four overlap-
ping areas. One is how official national historical narratives in and beyond
schools reflect the ideologies of current political orders. A second approach
examines if or how individuals/groups respond to (appropriate, resist,
revise, amalgamate) official or other narratives. A third line of research has
investigated how individuals’/groups’ ethnic, religious, gendered, sexual
or regional identities influence the production or appropriation of histori-
cal narratives (Peck, in press). A fourth and emerging area considers how
individuals or groups in research, school or public settings negotiate indi-
vidually or collectively competing or parallel meanings and significance of
historical narratives. Almost all of the research encourages teaching young
people to understand their and others’ positioning in relation to the histori-
cal narratives they encounter (Peck, 2010) as well as examine the politico-
social functions that particular narratives serve (Bekerman & Zembylas,
2016). All of the chapters included in this volume fit into one or more of
these categories.
Historical Consciousness
Historical consciousness is a framework used primarily in parts of Europe.
Since the 1970s and 1980s, the term has generated a number of complex
Introduction 5
meanings and models (Korber, 2015); Jörn Rüsen, the most widely cited
researcher in the field, defined historical consciousness as “how the past is
experienced and interpreted in order to understand the present and antici-
pate the future” (1987, p. 286). Advanced levels of historical conscious-
ness include awareness of one’s own historicity or “historical identity,”
as well as a connection to moral values: i.e., the acknowledgment of the
“pluralism of viewpoints and the acceptance of the concrete ‘otherness’
of the other” (2004, p. 77). Seixas (2004) built on and explored Rüsen’s
conceptualization of historical consciousness and offers five principles that,
he argues, are necessary to “push the theorizing on historical consciousness
further in this cultural moment” (p. 10). Recently, Nordgren and Johans-
son (2015) integrated concepts of historical consciousness and cultural
diversity to promote history education that developed “intercultural com-
petence” (p. 6). Intercultural competence included the ability to construct
evidence-based historical narratives (disciplinary approach), as well as the
capability to deconstruct the assumptions and values that structure histori-
cal narratives, including those of one’s own making and of the societies in
which one lives.
In 1997, Angvick and von Borries published the findings of a survey
examining the historical consciousness of more than 31,000 15 year olds
in Europe, Turkey, Israel and Palestine. Their aim was to analyze and com-
pare across nations students’ historical consciousness or “the connection
between young people’s conceptions about the past, their evaluation of the
present and their expectations of the future” (p. 22). When asked what
factors in the past have influenced the present, adolescents across all coun-
tries selected scientific and technological advances as having had the biggest
impact and prominent historical actors or ordinary people as having had the
least. Factors such as migration, political reforms or wars had some but not
overwhelming impact. They also perceived scientific advances as having the
most significant impact on future developments, while all other factors were
insignificant. When asked about whether historical change is best captured
in terms of progress, decline or a cyclical or pendulum effect (i.e., ups and
downs), a majority chose a series of ups and downs. The authors found this
to be an “astonishing result” (p. 203), surprised by young people’s ambigu-
ous belief in progress.
More recently, Barca (2015) reported on a study comparing students’
historical consciousness in Brazil and Portugal. Students in both nations
associated recent global history with negative change and their own
nation’s history with a greater sense of progress. Portuguese students imag-
ined their nation’s recent history in terms of a straightforward linear pro-
gression, while Brazilian students considered both positive and negative
aspects of change. In addition, Brazilian students positioned themselves
as having some agency as temporal actors, while Portuguese students saw
themselves as spectators, rather than actors, in relation to historical or
contemporary change.
5
Critical Approaches to Research
Zvi Bekerman and Michalinos Zembylas independently and collaboratively
have published a prodigious amount on history education framed by critical
theories. Working in conflict (Bekerman in Israel) and post-conflict (Zemby-
las in Cyprus) societies, they have situated research on students’ and teach-
ers’ historical discourses around the “multiple relations of power in which
these complexities are immersed” (Bekerman & Zembylas, 2016, p. 15).
Much of the research has explicated how “hegemonic” or official historical
narratives have played themselves out in classrooms and professional set-
tings, yet they also have investigated the “small openings” where students
and teachers present counter-hegemonic discourses in which one group in
conflict sought solidarity with “the other” by recognizing the other’s suffer-
ing. In a recent article, Bekerman and Zembylas (2016) reminded readers of
how powerful groups influence history and society:
what gets defined as the ‘official’ memory’ or beliefs about . . . victim-

hood . . . reflects the power of certain groups and ideologies in society to
define the pasts according to their interests, often by silencing alterna-
tive and competing discourses.
(p. 16)
One of their greatest contributions is research on the role of emotions

in the teaching and learning of history in post/conflict societies. Emotions,
like “thinking,” they posit, are not simply individual expressions; they are
embedded in broader relations of power as “actions or ideological practices
that serve specific purposes in the process of creating and negotiating real-
ity” (2016, pp. 1008–1009). Similarly, historical narratives and emotions
are mutually constitutive and work interactively “at the level of the individ-
ual and the social-political structures within school and the wider society”
(p. 1021). Nations as well as subnational communities legitimize and seek
to promote particular emotional responses to historical narratives, i.e., feel-
ings of belonging and pride in the past, of sympathy or imagined trauma of
victims and/or of grievance or forgiveness towards oppressors (Cole, 2007;
Zembylas & Bekerman, 2008; Zembylas & Kambani, 2012). Rather than
ignore or repress the complex emotional interactions around historical nar-
ratives, Bekerman and Zembylas have urged teachers to learn to “acknowl-
edge and explore disturbing feelings” evoked by difficult historical events,
but also engage in pedagogy that supports “all students in dealing with open
wounds without reproducing the status quo” (p. 1023).
Critical Sociocultural Approach to Research

Our concept of a critical sociocultural approach to research builds on the
significant theoretical foundation presented by Berkerman and Zembylas.
Introduction 7
Like them, we conceive of historical narratives as embedded in complex
webs of power relations that influence whose and which historical narra-
tives are legitimated, as well as how and why historical narratives are con-
structed, appropriated, contested and otherwise taken up in schools and
societies. While Bekerman and Zembylas have examined social interac-
tions around historical narratives in conflict and post-conflict societies and
have contextualized their work within the fields of peace, multicultural and
human rights education, we extend their theoretical insights into the pro-
duction of and engagement with historical narratives that occur in all societ-
ies, including long-standing democratic ones.
For example, the chapters in this book related to teaching or learning the
histories of Indigenous people are in the well-established democratic nations
of Australia (Clark, chapter 5), Canada (Tinkham, chapter 8), New Zea-
land (Kidman, chapter 6; and Sheehan, Epstein and Harcourt, chapter 7)
and the U.S. (Mayo, chapter 13, Stotskopf & Bermudez, chapter 11). The
authors have demonstrated how hegemonic or official historical narratives
have marginalized Indigenous experiences and sanitized the violence perpe-
trated against them by colonial and democratic governments. The chapters
on Brazil (Schmidt, chapter 14), the Netherlands (Grever, chapter 2) and
Singapore (Loh, chapter 3) similarly demonstrate how hegemonic narratives
in democratic societies populate schools, the media and popular culture in
ways that minimize nationally sanctioned violence or oppression. As else-
where, teachers and students in these societies have responded variously to
hegemonic narratives: In some settings, they resist official representations
of “others” (Stoskopf & Bermudez, chapter 11 in this volume), appropriate
narratives of traditional heroes and events (Schmidt, chapter 14 in this vol-
ume), and/or is often the case, consider and/or blend aspects of competing
narratives (in this volume: Ahonen, chapter 1; McCully, chapter 10; Peck,
chapter 15; Wasserman, chapter 4).
Drawing from Wertsch, we also emphasize the “sociocultural” within
a critical sociocultural framework. As discussed earlier, sociocultural
approaches examine the relationship between individual internal processes
and the historical, cultural and institutional settings in which individuals
think, feel and believe. As Wertsch (2002) has noted, “internal processes”
do not just refer to rational thought; they also refer to feelings of attach-
ment or alienation. He has made the distinction between mastering a his-
torical narrative, or knowing its content and logic of argumentation, and
appropriating it, or internalizing it or making it one’s own, which involves
an emotional or affective component. National or subnational historical
narratives often serve as “identity resources” or cultural tools that promote
attachments to broader communities, including feelings of belonging, griev-
ance or forgiveness of “enemies” (Wertsch, 2000, 2002).
A critical sociocultural framework also contributes to a sociocultural
framework through its criticality: It is grounded in the assumption that
all historical narratives are embedded in asymmetrical power relations
7
at classroom, community and national levels. It is within a critical socio-
cultural framework that the concept of difficult histories fruitfully can be
explored. For example, members of marginalized groups in specific settings
may or may not overtly resist or contest hegemonic narratives, but they
often feel aggrieved or discounted (Epstein, 2009; Villareal, in press; Wilkin-
son, 2014). Teachers and students who identify with hegemonic narratives
also may feel guilty or defensive when engaging with narratives about offi-
cially sanctioned violence towards marginalized groups (in this volume:
Goldberg, chapter 9; Zembylas, chapter 12). Depending on the particular
settings, identities, purposes and narratives under review, researchers have
documented that teachers and students have appropriated, resisted, and/or
integrated some but not all of—and/or then manipulated or forgot—the tra-
ditional alternative narratives with which they engaged (Cowan & Maitles,
2011; Den Heyer & Abbott, 2011; Fickel, 2005; Goldberg, 2013; Gross,
2014; Misco, 2008; Klein, 2010; Porat, 2006; Savenije, von Boxtel &
Grever, 2014; Tupper & Cappello, 2008; Vansledright & Afflerback, 2000).
How might a critical sociocultural approach contribute to the field of
history education generally and the exploration of difficult histories spe-
cifically? First, the approach foregrounds how power relations shape the
broader political and cultural settings in which historical narratives are pro-
duced and circulated. While almost all societies promote national narratives
that advance the ideological and material interests of those in power in con-
temporary societies (Connerton, 1989), they do so in very temporally and
politically specific ways (see Ahonen, chapter 1). While contemporary nar-
ratives in U.S. history standards and textbooks, for example, have changed
considerably in the past half-century, they still marginalize the historical
experiences of people of color through what some have termed an “illu-
sion of inclusion” (Heilig, Brown & Brown, 2012). Critical approaches may
analyze the difference between additive approaches to the inclusion of mar-
ginalized group to more substantive critiques of the themes or interpretive
frameworks in which marginalized groups’ experiences are embedded.
Critical sociocultural approaches also promote research that examines
how teachers have created opportunities for young people to deconstruct
the purposes and structures of historical narratives. Critical and sociocul-
tural theories attend to the contexts in which historical and other narratives
circulate, the purposes they serve and the identities they privilege or omit
(Collin & Reich, 2015, Segall, 1999). Students also learn to assess how
the context, perspective, use and effects of historical narratives serve spe-
cific aims, such as social cohesion at one end of a continuum or the critical
evaluation of one or more interpretations at the other. Not only do these
exercises promote young people’s disciplinary thinking (Chapman & Gold-
smith, 2015), but they also advance the development of more critical under-
standings of how authorial perspectives, shaped by sociopolitical contexts,
influence the writing of historical narratives (Freedman, 2015).
A critical sociocultural approach also takes into account the
emotional dimensions of history teaching and learning, particularly in
relation to dif- Teaching
ficult histories.
and learning difficult histories evoke emotions that
often differ based on the cultural identities and affiliations of young peo-
ple and teachers. While asking young people to assume historical
distance, examine multiple perspectives or de-center their own views
when studying difficult histories may be appropriate in some settings,
this may be inappropriate or harmful in others (Nordgren &
Johansson, 2015; van Box- tel, Grever & Klein, 2016). Beginning by
asking young people to recognize their emotional responses to difficult
histories may be a more productive approach, especially among those
who feel aggrieved by or defensive about nationally sanctioned violence
(Epstein, 2009; Villareal, in press). This area of research may be
productively employed not only in conflict and post- conflict societies,
but in long-established democratic societies, which tend to downplay
the nation’s past (and present) violence against marginalized people.
Finally, a critical sociocultural approach creates opportunities for
young people to analyze their own and others’ narratives in ways that
reveal rather than conceal or leave unattended the underlying
assumptions and absences that structure all historical narratives (Peck,
2010). Teachers may work with students over the course of a year to
analyze the perspectives from which historical narratives are presented
and the purposes they serve, recognize the agency as well as victimization
in ordinary and marginalized people’s experiences, compare the
lessons of difficult histories to contemporary issues and injustices, and
imagine their own agency as temporal beings to affect change (Epstein,
Mayorga & Nelson, 2011; Rüsen, 2004).
The chapters in this volume are organized as follows: Section 1:
Re-Presentations of Difficult Histories includes contributions by
Ahonen, Grever, Loh and Wasserman, with commentary by Seixas.
Section 2: Teach- ing and Learning Indigenous Histories includes
contributions by Clark; Kidman; Sheehan, Epstein and Harcourt; and
Tinkham, with commentary by Ahonen. Section 3: Teachers and
Teaching Difficult Histories includes contributions by Goldberg,
McCully, Stoskopf and Bermudez, and Zemby- las, with commentary
by Grever. Finally, Section 4: History and Identity, includes
contributions by Mayo, Schmidt and Peck, with commentary by
Epstein. Our intention is that the chapters in this volume lay a
foundation for research upon which others will build to investigate how
difficult histories may be productively taught and learned in diverse
national settings.
Section 1
Re-Presentations
9
of Difficult Histories
11
1 Sustainable History Lessons
for Post-Conflict Society
Sirkka Ahonen
History as a Moral Craft
“History,” in the broad sense of the term, comprises different representa-
tions of the past, ranging from vernacular memories to public monuments,
museums, commemoration rituals, historical fiction and school history. The
representations are socially produced and reproduced, and are dependent
on time, space and social context. As a social asset, history has a moral
dimension.
The Swedish author Mikael Niemi in his autobiographical novel Popular
Music (2003), tells of being expected to identify with family claims of his-
torical justice. The family lived in a small village in the periphery of Sweden.
In the early 1960s, when the son became of age, the father obliged him not
to forget the past:
There are two families in this district that have caused us a lot of harm,
and you are going to have to hate them for ever and a day. In one case it
all goes back to a perjury suit in 1929, and the other it’s got to do with
some grazing rights that a neighbour cheated your grandad’s father out
of in 1902, and both these injustices have to be avenged at all costs,
whenever you get the chance, and you must keep going until them bas-
tards have confessed and paid, and also gone down on their bare knees
to beg forgiveness.
(p. 263)
Niemi’s experience illustrates ubiquitous historical moral burdens of com-

munities, including nations. History as such does not cause armed conflicts,
but, nevertheless, it has the potential to turn performative and trigger social
and political antagonisms. Lack of mutual recognition of the cherished nar-
ratives of the past may raise political separatism, and ancient hatreds may
be used as rhetorical tools to incite aggression.
History provides a community with a historical identity. Identification
with the community depends on an experience of continuity. Without
such experience individuals would assume volatile roles rather than stable
18 Sirkka Ahonen
identities. The identity of a community is socially constructed. Members
of the community mediate memories and accommodate them to changing
life situations. Memories are not created in a sealed vacuum but through a
social process. What no longer can be reached by live storytellers will be
mediated by public memory, that is, official memorializations of the past
and commercial or civic cultural products with historical content, and, not
least, by history education. Jan Assmann (1995) calls public memory “cul-
tural memory” and regards it as the necessary complement to orally medi-
ated “communicative memory.” Owing to cultural memory, modern people,
too busy to tell each other antiquated stories, get into touch with history.
Communicative and cultural memory—in other words, social and pub-
lic memory—constitute the two widest fields of producing history, that is,
representations of the past. Nevertheless, traditional academic history has
a role to play in the broad social realm of history. Scholars with profes-
sional critical skills know how to deconstruct myths and open alternative
perspectives to past events. At the same time they still align with vernacular
historians in the quest for answers to socially relevant questions about the
past. Academic historical research is an essential but narrow field of his-
tory production. The three fields—that is, social memory, public memory
and academic history—interact and together contribute to the everlasting
meaning-attribution to the past (see Figure 1.1).
The most common form of communicatively and culturally constructed
memory—in other words, social and public memory—is narrative. Narra-
tive forms of knowledge are fostered in both social and public memory to
make sense of the past. A narrative melds the loose items remembered or
retrieved from the past by people into a coherent story with a beginning, a
main body and an end. A narrative has a plot, and the plot makes the past
comprehensible by attributing meaning to it.1
A narrative is constructed by attributing meaning to facts. This mean-
ingfulness is both a strength and a weakness of narratives. A narrative
makes the past look like a coherent line of events and, moreover, suggests
a course towards the future. The weakness of the narrative is constituted
Public / cultural
memory
Academic
history
Social /
communicative
memory
Figure 1.1 Fields of making history

History Lessons for Post-Conflict Society 19
by the subjectivity of the meaning attribution. According to the Dutch phi-
losopher of history Frank Ankersmit (2001), the subjectivity of narratives
categorically separates them from objective facts. He distinguishes “referen-
tial statements” and “narrative substances.” The former refers objectively
to evidence and obeys the disciplinary rules of source criticism, and can be
called “facts,” while the latter, attributing meaning to a narrative, depends
on the subjective perspective of the author. Narrativity gives substance to
history and thus makes it socially relevant but at the same time subject to
a change of perspective. History is inevitably a process, wherein the mean-
ing of the narratives is negotiated over and over again (Ankersmit, 2001,
pp. 237–239).
Narratives tend to be socially exclusive, as the perspective of an indi-
vidual narrator depends on his or her social context. Exclusiveness makes
narratives socially unsustainable. In the quotation from Niemi that opens
this chapter, the author discloses the frustration of social underdogs who in
the mainstream narrative of the time period were not recognized as actors
of history. The problem of exclusivity was accentuated in the 20th century
nation-states, as a nation-state with sanctioned political borders inevitably
implies the construction of minorities as well as irredenta areas and expatri-
ate communities across the border.
Socially constructed narratives tend to include and mediate moral claims.
Moral standpoints reinforce the plot of a narrative by providing it with a
contrast between good and bad actors. Niemi (2003) shows how ancient
hatreds in a small rural village are mediated by family narratives. Even if
disputes of territorial rights had been dealt with in court, a moral grudge
would have been transferred to successive generations. Intercommunal and
transgenerational moral claims are the core issue of historical justice. Using
Australia as an example, the philosopher of justice and law Janna Thompson
(2002) in Taking Responsibility for the Past argues that historical respon-
sibility is transgenerational. As long as an institutional continuity rules in a
state, the moral responsibility transcends generations (pp. XVIII, 36). For
example, the institutional continuity prevailed despite Australia changing
from a British colony to an independent federal state. Therefore, the quest
for historical justice as it appears in the social memory of the aborigines
continues to be politically recognized by the present generation. Thompson
generalizes the Australian quest into a universal rule. She deplores that:
History is a tale of unrequited injustice. Treaties have been broken, com-

munities wiped out, cultures plundered or destroyed, innocent people
betrayed, slaughtered, enslaved, robbed and exploited, and no recompense
has ever been made to victims or their descendants. Historical injustices
cast a long shadow. Their effects can linger long after the perpetrators and
their victims are dead. They haunt the memories of descendants, blight
the history of peoples and poison relations between communities.
(pp. VIII, 8)
19
20 Sirkka Ahonen
Because of their moral element, narratives have the potential to be perfor-
mative. After a conflict, narratives of victimhood and guilt may mobilize
people to an active search for reparation and retribution. However, the par-
ties to the conflict customarily spin contradictory narratives; fostering them
perpetuates conflict and hinders the reconstruction of society. The search
for social cohesion and common bearings for future orientation is hard for
a community because of conflicting narratives. Moreover, because of the
performative potential, narratives may be deliberately used by politicians to
incite enmities and aggression. The narratives of past victimhood and guilt
are usable tools of political persuasion.
My comparative study of representations of a difficult past in public
memory refers to the examples of Finland after the class war of 1918, South
Africa after the armed racial conflict and apartheid of 1960–1994 and Bosnia-
Herzegovina after the ethno-religious war of 1992–1995. I chose these
examples partly on my familiarity with the countries and partly because the
cases illuminate different kinds of conflict. Moreover, Finland provided an
opportunity to study how time heals wounds (Ahonen, 2012).
Moral Myths Shaping Maintaining Historical Divisions

A moral narrative of the past is customarily based on the opposite positions
of victims and perpetrators. The contrast bolsters the power of narratives. The
most powerful narratives are reinforced by references to internationally travel-
ling myths of victimhood and guilt. Such myths are often applications of bibli-
cal arch-myths, but some are retrieved from a more modern political repertoire.
George Schöpflin and Paul Kolstø, when seeking the most common moral
arch-myths, characterize them as spin-offs of the biblical stories of the vic-
timhood of Israeli people and the guilt of their old foe, the Philistines. The
template of the myths consists of the victimhood of “us” and the guilt of “the
other.” Schöpflin (1997) and Kolstø (2005) point out following arch-myths.
• Unjust treatment: A community fosters stories of deception and exploi-

tation by “the other.”
• Old foe: A community presents “the other” as the historical aggressor
against “us.”
• God-promised land: A community suggests having a divine right to a
territory.
• God-elected people: A community legitimizes war and trusts the victory
because of having God on its side.
• Redemption: Redemption after suffering may come as military victory,
liberation or successful revolution.
• Rebirth and renewal: The dark past of a community can be deleted by
a political conversion.
• David against Goliath: Military valor is used to justify the victor’s
inalienable rights and denounce political compromises.
Among the arch-myths of more modern origin, the most prominent are
genocide and holocaust, have travelled widely after the Second World War
and induced many ethnic communities to claim victimhood. The Catholic
Church fosters the historical myth of antemurale christianitatis, according
to which an armed defense of the Church renders unto a community and its
army a special moral worth.
According to my study of representations of guilt and victimhood in
Finland, South Africa and Bosnia-Herzegovina, myths tend to be used
reciprocally and symmetrically by the adversaries.2 In the Finnish case the
adversaries were constituted by the socialist Reds and bourgeois Whites, in
Africa by the Black Africans and White Afrikaners, in Bosnia-Herzegovina
by Orthodox Serbs, Catholic Croats and Islamic Muslims.
In Finland (see Table 1.1) both the Reds and the Whites referred to an
“old foe”: for the Reds it was constituted of the landowning class; for the
Whites it was the Russians. Both Reds and Whites accused each other of
atrocities comparable to those the Philistines committed against the Israelis
in the Old Testament. The Whites trusted in earning redemption as “God-
elected people” while the Reds looked forward to the fulfillment of the
promise of revolution.
In South Africa (see Table 1.2), both the Africans and the Afrikaners
regarded themselves as victims of unjust treatment in the past. The Afri-
kaner victimhood story referred to the British cruelty in the Anglo-Boer War
Table 1.1 Reciprocity of the myths bolstering guilt and victimization in Finland*
(+ = the myth supported; − = the myth not supported)
Reds Whites
old foe + +
Atrocities + +
Redemption + +
God-elected people − +
*See e.g., Manninen, 1982; Peltonen, 1996; Siltala, 2009; Roselius, 2010.
Table 1.2 Reciprocity of the myths bolstering guilt and victimhood in South Africa*
(+ = the myth supported; − = the myth not supported)
Africans Afrikaners
unjust treatment + +
Redemption + +
David and Goliath + +
promised land + +
God-elected people − +
*See e.g., Coombes, 2003; Field, 2008.
21
22 Sirkka Ahonen
of 1899–1902. The Afrikaners considered the establishment of the apart-
heid regime in 1948 to be the divine redemption of them as God-elected
people. The Africans based their trust in redemption and the coming of
majority rule on the myth of God-promised land and the Marxist promise
of emancipation.
In Bosnia-Herzegovina (see Table 1.3), each party claimed victimhood of
equivalent atrocities. Both Serbs and Muslims regarded the ethnic cleans-
ings of their towns as genocides. Croats appealed to the Vatican to have
their war recognized as antemurale christianitatis, which would entitle their
community to a reward of territorial expansion. All parties expected an
ethnically defined nation-state as redemption.
By pointing out the reciprocity of the attributions of guilt and victimhood
between conflicting communities, I do not mean to disqualify and relativize
their idiosyncratic narratives. The narratives correspond to the experiences
of the communities. In Bosnia-Herzegovina, when the Muslim textbook
writers in 2008 were urged by the Council of Europe experts to assume a
multiperspectival look at the sufferings of the war 1992–1995, an unnamed
leader in the local newspaper exclaimed: “Do you want us to tell lies to
our children?!” (Vecernje Novine, 2008). In an interview-based survey by
the international Open Society Fund at the same time, more than half of
parents and students, however, regarded the prevailing history lessons to be
ethnically biased (Education in Bosnia-Herzegovina: What do we teach our
children? 2007, pp. 51–52, 58–59).
Neither do I urge a straightforward scholarly deconstruction of the myth-
ically loaded identity narratives. History is vital for human beings in their
life-orientation, and grand narratives are a source of constructive member-
ship of a community. To come from outside, like the international experts of
history education in Bosnia-Herzegovina, and ask history teachers to dedi-
cate their classrooms to source criticism and multiperspectival accounts,
would deprive history of the important function of identity building. Nev-
ertheless, as socially exclusive narratives constitute a risk to mutual under-
standing in a divided community, an interaction between the narratives is a
necessity—especially as it is in line with the nature of historical knowledge:
The picture of the past is never complete if looked at from one angle solely.
Table 1.3 Reciprocity of the myths bolstering guilt and victimhood in Bosnia-
Herzegovina* (+ = the myth supported; − = the myth not supported)
Serbs Croats Muslims
atrocities + + +
genocide + +
antemurale christianitatis − + −
Redemption + + +
*See e.g., MacDonald, 2002; Perica, 2002; Gagnon, 2004.
Dialogue for Reconciliation: Failures and Successes
My trust in dialogue as the best practice of post-conflict history education
has been boosted by Jürgen Habermas’ well-known theory of communica-
tive action. Habermas (1984) advocated open democratic communication
as the way to transform society. According to him, “deliberation” would
be the adequate form of communication. In deliberative communication,
everybody would be expected to use her or his voice to promote truly
engaged interaction, where the outcome would not be dependent on major-
ity vote but on deliberative participation. The participants would listen to
each other and avoid taking a side preliminarily. Deliberation as the way
of democratic classroom process was a legacy of John Dewey, according
to whom the attribution of meaning to state and social institutions should
happen in open interaction by young citizens (Dewey, 1980). The pedagogi-
cal adaptation of Habermas’ theory was conducted in the 1990s by Tomas
Englund, who regarded deliberation as a classroom practice where knowl-
edge is constructed in the atmosphere of equal opportunity and universal
acceptance (Englund, 2006; Torsti & Ahonen, 2009).
In a post-conflict situation, a quest for dialogue challenges the identity
narratives people resorted to during the conflict. In my three examples, three
different ways of dealing with contradicting narratives appeared:
1. Silencing “the other.” In Finland, for two generations after the civil
war, only the bourgeois White winner’s narrative had access to public
memory, including school education.
2. Immediately calling upon an open dialogue between the parties. In South
Africa after 1994, the narratives of both the Blacks and the Whites were
exposed in public memory, including education.
3. Perpetuating the exclusive narratives of the conflicting parties. In Bosnia-
Herzegovina, Croats, Muslims and Serbs, refused to dialogue about the
past in public memory and education.
For a dialogue between the conflicting narratives to be opened, two cru-

cial preconditions are necessary: first, an open social space to facilitate dia-
logue and second, civic competence to deconstruct the mythical frames of
the narratives.
In the case of Finland, two generations of Finns after 1918 encountered
only memorializations of White victimhood in the public space. Book pub-
lishing was flooded with anthologies and monographs that cherished White
victim-heroes while portraying the opponents as savage brutes. The narra-
tive permeated school education. Young people were educated in the spirit
of nationalism and the sanctioned political order. The children of the Reds
experienced marginalization as second-class citizens (Jalonen, 1994; Pel-
tonen, 1996). The opening of a dialogue about the past took place only in
a new political situation after the Second World War. Duly, textbooks were
23
24 Sirkka Ahonen
cleansed of hate language, and monuments and commemoration rituals for
Red victims were welcomed in public spaces. Nevertheless, only slowly,
under the auspices of the emerging welfare state, did the social ethos become
reconciliatory. The decisive impetus was a monumental novel, Väinö Lin-
na’s Under the North Star (1959–1961), which finally made the stereotype
of a Red rogue obsolete, substituting it with a picture of a poor landless ten-
ant fighting for social justice. Public memory became eventually dialogical,
but too late to undo the subjection of two generations to repressive memory
politics (Peltonen, 2003).
In South Africa, the transition to majority rule in 1994 implied a pivotal
turn in memory politics. Memorializations of the Black liberation struggle
took over in local public memory. The Robben Island prison, where Nelson
Mandela had spent 17 years, was musealized and made into the icon of the
Black resistance. In Cape Town, District Six—originally a dominantly Black
area that had been demolished by the Afrikaner regime in order to racially
divide the living space—was endowed with a museum that memorialized the
life of the Black historical community (Bennett et al., 2008; Field, 2008).
The narrative the museum presented was that of cultural enterprise and
resilience. The Black people did not want to identify themselves with sheer
repression and loss.
This change of ethos is illustrated by the statement at the entrance to the
South African Museum in Cape Town:
In 2001 the so-called Bushman Diorama was closed to allow for a pro-
cess of consultation with descendant communities. In planning the rock
art exhibition we initiated a conversation with Khoe-San communi-
ties regarding the ways that Iziko [the network of Cape Town Muse-
ums] presents their cultural heritage. This has enriched the exhibition
immensely and the dialogue will continue.
The goal was to move away from a condescending view of African peo-
ple as primitive tribes, worthy of primarily anthropological interest, and,
instead, introduce the image of Africans as active agents of historical change
(Ahonen, 2012; Coombes, 2003). In history education, the transition into
majority rule was accompanied by a new narrative that integrated South
Africa with African, instead of European, history. Nevertheless, at the same
time a policy of a multiethnic “rainbow nation” was pursued. The high-
lights of the Boer saga that lamented the victimhood of the Boers in the
British-built concentration camps during the Anglo-Boer war was preserved
in the textbooks (Ahonen, 2012; Bam, 2002; Siebörger, 2006). Unlike in
most African societies, the colonial cultural tradition was accepted as part
of the educational canon.
In Bosnia-Herzegovina, the peace settlement of 1995 known as the Day-
ton Accords left the country divided into two entities: the Serb Republic and
the Federation of Bosnia-Herzegovina. The latter was further divided into
10 cantons, which were meant to be ethnically more or less homogenous.
The ethnic communities—Serbs, Croats and Muslims—were thus left to pur-
sue their ethno-religiously special interpretations of history. Public memory
remained divided, and a symbolic battle over the past was fought in differ-
ent fields. The Orthodox Church dedicated rituals to Serb victimhood, the
core of the victimhood narrative being constituted by Jasenovac, a notorious
Croat-built Second World War concentration camp, which was reinterpreted
as a symbol of Serb victimhood and commemorated as a latter-day Kosovo,
with reference to a medieval Orthodox martyrdom myth. Catholic Croats,
for their part, raised monuments to Bleiburg, a Second World War tragedy
where Tito’s partisans caught and killed thousands of defeated and fleeing
Croats as Nazi collaborators. Muslims, for their part, referred to the Muslim
victims of Papal medieval crusades when memorializing the mass killings and
ethnic cleansings of the 1992–1995 war (Ahonen, 2012; YIHRBIH, 2015).
The three diverting narratives were used for the purposes of post-war eth-
nic nation-building. The dialogical approach was rebuffed when advocated
by the international community. The NATO-led Stabilisation Force tried
after 1995 to control the provocative use of memory in media by seizing
transmitters. Later, several international NGOs intervened in history edu-
cation, among them the Council of Europe, the Organisation for Security
and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE) UNICEF, UNESCO, the World Bank
and EUROCLIO (European Association of History Educators) and the Georg-
Eckert-Institute (for international textbook research). However, the
outsiders’ urge for multiperspectival history education led to accusations of
a foreign confiscation of memory.
In these three cases, the gravest obstacles to open dialogue about the dif-
ficult past were constituted by political and social powers—in the case of
Finland—and ethnic nation-building pursuits—in the case of Bosnia-
Herzegovina. A good start to dialogue took place in South Africa, thanks
to the earnest persuasion and determined policy by the political leadership.
However, even in South Africa the conciliatory dialogue was eventually met
with suspicion by a segment of White young people (Wassermann, 2007)
and converted iconoclastic behavior by economically frustrated young Blacks
(Smith, 2015).
Dialogical History Classrooms—a Quest for Today

In history education, dialogue can be pursued as the way of reconciling
mutually adverse accounts of the past and mentally pacifying a post-conflict
society. However, in my three cases only South African educators chose dia-
logue. In Finland after 1918 and Bosnia-Herzegovina after 1995 history was
used for nation-building in terms of “one nation—one history.” In Bosnia-
Herzegovina this meant three separate ethnic nations.
I return to my argument for the necessity of recognizing identity narra-
tives. Communities search for perspective for life orientation by embracing
25
26 Sirkka Ahonen
the past instead of vivisecting it. Therefore history education cannot be
restricted to intellectual games with sources and evidence but must provide
substance for identification. However, in a divided society the recognition
of identity needs does not require an approval of sanctioned official canons
and grand narratives, but rather a dialogue of narratives. Everybody has the
right to have her or his identity needs recognized, but everybody is at the
same time obliged to make a sincere effort to listen to the other.
Skills of critical thinking are today well established in Western history
classes. The students are capable of spotting and undoing myths. Teach-
ing materials include contradictory sources and multiperspectival texts. An
encounter with multiperspectival narratives bridges the school lessons with
both public memory and academic history. The Australian history educa-
tor Robert Parkes (2009) advocates historiography as an element in history
teaching. He wants to see students engaged in historiographical discussion
about diverting views on the core topics of the syllabi. Instead of just stim-
ulating students with short contradicting texts illustrating the ostensible
diversity of historical research, in historiographical reading students learn
to ask “why” and “on what arguments” historians disagree and in what
social and cultural context knowledge is constructed. Such lessons liberate
them from unmediated and monoperspectival accounts, and, moreover, save
them from falling victims of ongoing history wars.
Fortunately, schools as a rule provide an open space for a dialogue about
the past. Segregation of schools like in the Bosnia-Herzegovina case is rare.
By introducing a multivocal deliberation into classroom practice, a teacher
will be able to ensure the inclusion of different identity needs and narratives.
To conclude, looking at Europe, I want to ring alarm bells in regard to
the question of who owns the history and has the power to decide about
history. More than pedagogical essentialists, who insist on obsolete tradi-
tional canons, I fear politicians in Eastern and Central Europe who want to
harness school history to chauvinist purposes. In Hungary, Premier Viktor
Orbán wants history teachers to obey the canon, which is sanctioned in the
introductory chapter of the constitution (2012) and incorporates an obliga-
tion stemming from the ancient greatness of Hungary (Miklossy, 2013). In
Russia, President Putin’s committee plans a textbook that would be one and
the same for all schools and would emphasize the importance of a strong
state and leadership. “A student shall be convinced of the rightfulness of the
history presented to them and build a wall against other interpretations,”
stated the leader of the Moscow Academy of Sciences (quoted in Mallinen,
2013, p. 23).
Multiperspectivality is the core criterion of sustainable historical knowl-
edge. In school, it is up to a teacher to decide about the classroom discourse.
Teacher professionalism is founded on the responsibility to maintain the
intellectual and moral sanity of the discourse. Where the professionalism of
teachers is not recognized, the international community of history educators
is obliged to defend the preconditions of healthy dialogue about the past,
among them an open space for deliberation and competence to deal with
contradictory evidence.
Today, sustainable narratives are not constituted by canonized grand
narratives. Historiography has become growingly multivoiced. There-
fore, school syllabi do not breach from scholarly knowledge when they
are founded on the diversity of memories and the notion of history as a
dynamic discipline that acknowledges the forever-evolving landscape of the
past. Instead, the recognition of the multitude of sharable narratives in a
classroom realizes the true essence of history by providing a mental arena
for existential and ethical reflection and, for post-conflict societies, social
convalescence.
Notes
1. About narrative form of knowledge, see Bruner (1986); about the narrative as a
form of history, see Rüsen (2004).
2. For the evidence for Tables 1.1–1.3, see Ahonen, 2012.
27
2 Teaching the War
Reflections on Popular Uses
of Difficult Heritage
Maria Grever
“I wouldn’t do anything differently,” said Breanna Mitchell
unrepentantly about her smiling selfie at Auschwitz (Daily Mail, 2014).1
The Alabama teenager defended her photo against negative responses on
social media: The trip was in memory of her father, who taught her
about concentration camps. Although we do not know Breanna’s personal
circumstances, one thing we know for sure: Her action is part of a
growing trend to take selfies at memorials of genocides, wars and disaster.
Is it also conceivable that people would take selfies at the Wall of Mussert
in the Netherlands? Recently, a discussion was held in Dutch media
about whether this wall should be turned into a heritage site. Anton
Mussert, leader of the Dutch National Socialist Movement (NSB) and loyal
follower of Hitler, presented his speeches from this spot to thousands of
supporters between 1936 and 1940. The area is now a camping site where
Polish laborers temporarily stay, hardly aware of its historical background.
A decision has to be taken, because the wall is crumbling. Whereas the
campground owner does not want any change at his site, local authorities
believe that the wall should receive the status of heritage because it is one
of the few remains of “fascist architecture” in the Netherlands (Van den
Boogaard, 2015, p. 9). Historian Kees Ribbens argues likewise that the
Mussert Wall belongs to “perpetrator heritage,” which should be preserved
and equipped with explanatory texts, as it confronts the Dutch with less
heroic deeds from the national past (Van Rein, 2015, p. 27).
Indeed, the Dutch are rather reluctant to acknowledge their involvement
in major armed conflicts in the past (Scagliola, 2002). In the years immedi-
ately after the Second World War (WWII), historians and politicians focused
on the Dutch resistance against the Nazis. A telling example of courage
was the February strike in 1941. It was the first massive protest in occupied
Europe against the persecution of the Jews, and was ruthlessly beaten down
by German SS leader Hans Rauter. The fact, however, that Dutch people
also collaborated with the Nazis was not compatible with this heroic and
patriotic self-image. Neither was there room in Dutch collective memory for
the dramatic situation of Jewish victims: Of approximately 140,000 Jewish
Teaching the War 31
residents in the Netherlands more than 104,000 were killed (75%), mainly
in concentration camps (Griffioen & Zeller, 2011).
In the 1970s, after years of silence and oblivion, survivors of war and
their relatives raised their voices and gradually gained recognition: Jews,
Communists, Roma, Sinti, homosexuals. Two decades later the role of per-
petrators, NSB members, traitors and bystanders have been researched and
discussed in the public arena. Crucial in this respect was the opening of the
Central Archives for Special Criminal Jurisdiction in 2002 to the public,
with 300,000 files about Dutch people who were accused of collaborating
with the occupying German forces, treason or NSB membership (Matthée,
2007). Yet apart from documents and pictures, hardly any visible traces
recalls this “uncomfortable” past. Hence Ribbens’ plea to restore the Mus-
sert Wall. Others want to bulldoze this cairn. They are afraid that this spot
will attract Neo-Nazis (Van Rein, 2015).
However that may be, in the context of history education it is equally
important to keep an eye on current trends in popular culture that can
generate distorted and simplistic images about WWII and the Holocaust:
the emphasis on experiencing an “authentic” past, the identity construc-
tions based on “heritage” for commercial or political reasons, the oppor-
tunities the Internet offers to bring the past closer and the fascination of
tourists with war-related attractions. Today young people travel to former
death camps and battlefields, visit war museums, take selfies and play war
video games (Biran, Poria & Oren, 2011; Grever & Van Boxtel, 2014).
It makes sense to know more about popular uses of war heritage for the
teaching of difficult histories: the supply and demand of popular repre-
sentations, students’ appropriations and the impact on the ideas of these
young people.
Although the fields of popular culture and heritage studies are expanding
(De Groot, 2009; Korte & Paletschek, 2012; Ribbens, 2013), there is hardly
any exchange with history education research. Moreover, Geerte Savenije
(2014) points out that research on students’ attribution of significance to
historical developments, persons and events does not consider attributions
“to historical traces in the present that are considered to be heritage in
society in which they live” (p. 31). The purpose of this chapter, therefore,
is to stimulate research into the relationship between popular uses of dif-
ficult heritage concerning WWII and the Holocaust and history teaching.
We know little about the interaction between popular culture and history
teaching. How can both fields benefit from each other to enhance historical
understanding of young people in a pluralist democracy? This chapter is a
first attempt to answer this question. In the following section, I will clarify
the meaning of difficult histories related to WWII and the Holocaust and
the dilemmas of multiperspectivity. After mapping the complexities pertain-
ing to difficult heritage and the popular quest for immersive experiences,
I elaborate the concept of historical distance. With this concept in mind
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32 Maria Grever
I present a brief analysis of two small Dutch war exhibitions and link these
to history teaching.
Difficult History: Hidden Hierarchies of War Memories

In the past two decades numerous studies on WWII and the Holocaust
have revealed the position of victims, resistance fighters, bystanders, col-
laborators and perpetrators during the war, studies that often point to
the long-term impact of trauma, pain, shame and guilt across generations
(e.g., Ceserani & Levine, 2002; Edgren, 2012; Maier, 1988; Withuis &
Mooij, 2010). This international historiography paved the way for imple-
menting the perspectives of different actors in the war in history education.
Overall, educators consider multiperspectivity important because it opens
up reasoned discussion in the classroom about other voices, experiences
and narratives (Grever, 2012). Identifying and comparing various perspec-
tives stimulates students to examine the sources carefully and critically, to
present plausible arguments and to exchange different views. The very act
of discussing perspectives generates a deeper sense of historical reality and
engenders reflexivity, including one’s own assumptions as well as those of
others.
There are “a number of practical problems and constraints which can
limit the extent to which school-based history education can be multiper-
spectival,” such as the accessibility of sources, time pressure or the flexibility
of the curriculum (Stradling, 2003, p. 15). But teaching about WWII and
the Holocaust entails specific problems. Is multiperspectivity in this context
appropriate? Is it ethical to ask students to take the perspective of Jews who
arrived in Auschwitz or the perspective of camp guards (Hondius, 2010,
pp. 42–43)?
In the Netherlands, high school students with an Islamic background
sometimes have difficulty understanding the sensitive aspects of the Holo-
caust. During history lessons some express anachronistic anti-Jewish views
under the guise of freedom of expression (Grever, 2012; Pinedo & Kamer-
man, 2015). Teaching about WWII and the Holocaust in former communist
countries in Europe is even more difficult. For instance, the German inva-
sion in Estonia in 1941 and the ensuing Soviet reoccupation have evoked
opposing memories that are still hard to discuss. Whereas the ethnic Rus-
sian minority welcomed the Red Army in 1944 as liberators, the Estonians
considered them aggressors. Collaboration with Nazi Germans by the Esto-
nians was not uncommon. There is little evidence of resistance against the
persecution of the Jewish people. According to Anton Weiss-Wendt (2013),
most Estonians today consider the Holocaust as a superimposed discourse.
Recently, Estonia has become a member of the International Holocaust
Remembrance Alliance. The topic has been introduced in education as well.
But there are educational resources arguing that ethnic Estonians were the
largest victim group and that their suffering was comparable to that of the
Teaching the War 33
Jews without any reference to the racially motivated mass murder (Weiss-
Wendt, 2013, p. 217; Stevick, 2010).
Teaching about the Holocaust is also complicated, as the activity itself
tends to normalize that history and to detract from the incredible immensity
of the suffering. The ethics of dealing with its unrepresentability are at odds
with the practices of historical scholarship, such as making comparisons
with other genocides (Friedlander, 1992). The moral inherency of this past
impedes the critical approach of historical thinking, which many educa-
tional experts consider central to meaningful history education (Seixas &
Morton, 2013; Van Drie & Van Boxtel, 2008). Furthermore, we still face
taboos surrounding war violence that are hard to discuss in a history class.
Gender and memory studies help us to better understand this problem.
According to Marjan Schwegman (1995) memories of war demonstrate
an implicit hierarchy concerning honor and shame. Soldiers who died in
combat have the most honorable position, demonstrated by tombs of the
Unknown Soldier which often function as national monuments. Then comes
the mother who mourns the loss of her son or husband on the battlefield.
A famous example is the statue of the Grieving Mother in Berlin made
by Käthe Kollwitz. The figures of the Unknown Soldier and the Grieving
Mother reinforce each other in supporting the meaning of their sacrifice to
the nation-state. At the bottom of this hierarchy appears the raped woman
in war, if she is represented at all. This hidden figure symbolizes what we
call today wartime sexual violence and undermines the heroic position
of soldiers because she points primarily to their masculinity and violence
against women, not to patriotic duty. Integrating the experiences of raped
women into the collective memories of war would imply that “nature” has
triumphed in these soldiers (Schwegman, 1995 p. 150). Not surprisingly,
apart from some exceptions such as in Taiwan (Ching-Yuan, 2009), hardly
any monuments of raped women as war victims exist.2
Related to this issue, Aleida Assmann (2006, pp. 73–74) distinguishes
two categories of victims: sacrificium and victima. In her view sacrificium
refers to the offer for a cause that somehow makes sense, a perceived good
cause, such as defending the nation or liberating people from dictatorship.
The Unknown Soldier belongs to this category. Victima symbolizes victims
of “senseless” violence (in itself a contested label): genocide of civilians,
ethnic cleansing and sexual war violence. The overall meaning is the passive
victim who lacks agency and cannot be part of heroic narratives but instead
belongs to a traumatic and haunted past. The figures of the persecuted Jew
and the raped woman belong to the victima category. A striking confirma-
tion of the narrative effects of passive victimization are representations of
the Holocaust in German and Dutch history textbooks where Jews mainly
figure as passive and depersonalized victims (Van Berkel, 2017).
In addition, the boundaries between helpers, victims, enemies and perpe-
trators were often vague and complicated. For instance, Jewish women were
sometimes sexually assaulted in the houses of Dutch families where they hid
33
34 Maria Grever
during the German occupation. Jolande Withuis (1995, pp. 43–46) consid-
ers this kind of sexual abuse comparable to incest, because the women were
dependent on the families who should have provided them safety and pro-
tection. Recently, Miriam Gebhardt (2015) published a book about Allied
soldiers who liberated Germany from the Nazis but caused new suffering
for women. German women were victims of sexual violence by American,
British and French soldiers, men who were supposed to protect civilians.
The examples show that the scheme of selfless saviors and grateful rescued
people is too simple and dichotomous.
In sum, difficult histories about WWII and the Holocaust include the
hell of the battlefields, the fears of hiding, and the horrors of concentration
camps, sexual war violence and mass rape. It seems almost impossible to
teach about these subjects without upsetting students too much. What does
it mean for them when they realize that their grandparents were “Jew hunt-
ers” or joined the Waffen SS? What if they discover that their grandmothers
were raped? To quote Stradling (2001) again:
Controversial issues which are socially divisive are usually also sensi-
tive. They are sensitive because they relate to particularly painful,
tragic, humiliating or divisive times in a country’s past, and there is a
fear or concern that reference to them in history lessons might renew
old wounds and divisions and bring back too many painful memories.
(p. 100)
Given this, it might be easy to argue (for some) that we need not bother stu-
dents with these traumas. But its likely they will encounter traces of this past
outside school in daily life, during holidays or in playful ways. Moreover,
when students are adults they may participate in heritage practices them-
selves (Van Boxtel, Grever & Klein, 2015). I will therefore turn now to the
meaning of the term “difficult heritage” and its renditions in popular culture.
Difficult Heritage: Immersive Experiences of Pain

and Shame
The living memory of WWII and the Holocaust is fading, leaving behind cul-
tural memory and what we call today “heritage”: traces such as annual ritu-
als of commemoration, written and audiovisual sources stored in archives,
artifacts displayed in museums and other remnants in public spaces such as
statues, monuments, cemeteries and memorial sites. The term “heritage”
has been disputed for a long time, especially in response to David Lowenthal
(1998), who stressed the uncritical and patriotic aims of heritage in contrast
with the distanced intents of academic history. In the field of heritage stud-
ies, however, a dynamic approach dominates the growing body of research,
referring to its constructive features and to the value people attribute to traces
and places in different times. According to Laurajane Smith (2006), heritage
Teaching the War 35
is a performance of selecting, conserving, managing, visiting and interpret-
ing that “embodies acts of remembrance and commemoration while negoti-
ating and constructing a sense of place, belonging and understanding in the
present” (p. 3). In assigning the label of heritage to (perceived) remains of
the past, the justification of local, national or transnational identities play a
crucial part (Grever, De Bruijn & Van Boxtel, 2012).
A large part of WWII/Holocaust heritage consists of former battlefields
and sites of atrocities and genocides (Logan & Reeves, 2009). The term
“difficult heritage,” coined by Sharon Macdonald (2008), is applicable here:
A past that is recognized as meaningful in the present but that is also

contested and awkward for public reconciliation with a positive, self-
affirming contemporary identity. “Difficult heritage” may also be
troublesome because it threatens to break through into the present in
disruptive ways, opening up social divisions, perhaps by playing into
imagined, even nightmarish futures.
(p. 1)
The passing of time probably stimulates the public’s desire to visit camps
where the unthinkable atrocities happened, to see the traces of a lost battle
and imagine the pain of wounded soldiers. It is precisely this kind of her-
itage that students encounter during school excursions or tourist travels,
trips such as the one Breanna Mitchell had made to Auschwitz when she
snapped her selfie.
Over the last decades, the legacy of WWII is increasingly remembered or
even celebrated in popular genres that embrace experience and emotion. War
museums stage an exciting past by combining storytelling with ultramodern
techniques such as augmented reality, three-dimensional displays, audiovisual
performances, touch screens, animations and apps. Curators and educators
devise strategies to attract as many visitors as possible to guarantee the future
of their museums. In this sense, historical museums and amusement parks
seem to resemble each other more and more (Somers, 2014). Meanwhile,
teachers organize excursions to these museums where students are immersed
in simulated war battles. A Dutch example is the so-called Airborne Expe-
rience in the underground area of the Airborne Museum, “Hartenstein,”
the former Divisional Headquarters of the Allied Forces in September 1944
near Arnhem, part of “Operation Market Garden.” Under the heading “TO
FEEL = TO KNOW,” the website urges visitors not to miss this experience
“where history comes alive and the dramatic events are brought startlingly
close” (Grever, 2013; http://en.airbornemuseum.nl/museum/airborne-experi
ence). But what do students learn when they walk along replicas of battered
houses, artillery and tanks; life-size dummies of soldiers; and original film
fragments projected against the walls and noisy soundtracks?
The high-tech Airborne Museum is just one example of the current ten-
dency to create sites where people can “feel” the “authentic” war past,
35
36 Maria Grever
varying from exhibitions and liberation routes to the reenactments of bat-
tles by enthusiastic “war fans” (Lowenthal, 1999). While camp memorials
such as Westerbork, Dachau and Auschwitz are reluctant to employ such
tactics, these memorials attract thousands of tourists who want to come
close to sites of death and atrocities, a phenomenon sometimes called “dark
tourism” or “morbid tourism” (Stone & Sharpley, 2008). Research findings
about this tourism show that, aside from curiosity about death attractions
and a longing for an emotional heritage experience, important motives for
these tourists are also the need to see “the real place” and an interest in
understanding what happened in these concentration camps (Biran, Poria &
Oren, 2011, p. 836; Smith, 2006, p. 71).
Today, people can also experience WWII at any place and any time—not
only through television or movies—but also by playing video games with
opportunities for first shooter experiences (e.g., http://idarchive.com/proj
ect/fully-immersive-battlefield-3-gameplay/). According to Eva Kingsepp
(2006), war games, such as Medal of Honor: Frontline (2002) and Brother
in Arms: Hell’s Highway (2008) contribute to the (re)shaping of collective
memory about WWII and should be taken more seriously. Her research
shows how WWII is re-mediated by the integration of fragments and ele-
ments from films and books. In these war games excitement and immersive
experiences are more important than historical facts, resulting in dichoto-
mous representations and appropriations (good and bad guys, enemies
and patriots). There is little room for the ugly sides of history, dissonant
representations or heritage that hurts. According to Kingsepp, these games
transform WWII into a stereotypical event connected more to popular TV
series such as Band of Brothers than to the event itself. The closer a past is
represented with the opportunity of immersive experiences, the harder it is
to transcend the present. If the past is everywhere, then it is hard to discover
new viewpoints and to understand the foreignness of the past. In addition,
not all popular initiatives demonstrate a strong awareness of the moral and
sensitive issues about WWII and the Holocaust. Still, there are popular uses
that offer interesting opportunities for history education. For instance, war
video game players also organize online discussions about the authenticity
of weapons or the historical context of their game, and often become inter-
ested in what “really” happened (Penney, 2010). That is why it is urgent to
reflect on how to connect formal and informal learning practices, inside and
outside school. But let me first explain the concept of historical distance.
Historical Distance: A Layered Concept

A long time ago Johan Huizinga (1950) blamed the Dutch national histori-
ography of presentist tendencies:
Distance, contrast and perspectives is what matters in history .......... We

seek in the past not only similarities but also oppositions and strangeness.
Teaching the War 37
Exploring a foreign past reveals its contingent character and the exis-
tence of other possibilities. It is precisely this tension between widely
spaced poles that generates historical understanding.
(p. 164, translation by author)
Decades later, Sam Wineburg (2001) argued similarly: Each encounter with
the past evokes a tension between strangeness and familiarity, between feel-
ings of closeness and distance “in relation to the people we seek to under-
stand” (p. 5). The pole of familiarity exerts the strongest attraction. The
perceived familiar past offers the perspective for orientation in time, which
solidifies our search for identity. But by looking for the familiar we do not
learn much. The other pole, “the strangeness of the past,” might open win-
dows for new experiences but may result in a detachment from the present
needs (p. 6). Both poles are irreducible, but both are necessary to reach any
understanding of the past.
Marc S. Phillips (2004) suggested that an analysis of possible experiences
of distance needs to encompass form, affect, ideology and cognition. These
categories are mediations of distance that “modify and reconstruct temporal-
ity of historical accounts, thereby shaping every part of our engagement with
the past” (p. 127). He argues that distance is registered in every reading of
a historical text just as it is part of every visit to a history museum or com-
memorative monument. But whereas readers or visitors experience degrees of
distance, professional historians, educators and game developers create these.
As I stated earlier, museums tend to attract visitors by staging memo-
rable “direct experiences” of the past. Operating in a complex cultural and
educational infrastructure, they collaborate with schools and increasingly
with local and regional communities that are eager to promote a unique
identity of their city, preferably based on impressive visible traces. To
secure funding from these communities and the tourism sector, museums
often make compromises (Daugbjerg, 2011). The curators and educators
of two museums who were interviewed in the frame of the heritage educa-
tion research in Rotterdam (Grever & Van Boxtel, 2014), admit that com-
promises are inevitable.3 They also stress that students appreciate objects,
imaginative sounds, video clips, hands-on activities and other sensory expe-
riences through which they might better understand the evoked past. They
have clear opinions about bridging past and present by using innovative
techniques, including the display of authentic or semi-authentic heritage.
Acknowledging the tensions between historical truth, pedagogical require-
ments and the commercial or political interests of involved organizations,
they explained that constructing exhibitions that are both attractive to a
large public and historically accurate is not an easy job. Thus, it seems help-
ful to provide curators and educators with a conceptual framework that
make them aware of the effects of different degrees of distance. This is all
the more desirable with regard to the violent and traumatic pasts of WWII
and the Holocaust.
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38 Maria Grever
Inspired by Phillips and the work of the Rotterdam research team on
heritage education, I define historical distance as a dynamic configuration
of three layers: temporality, locality and engagement. Temporality (time)
refers to synchronic and diachronic approaches of the past, respectively
highlighting a synthetic view of a phenomenon or a period from cultural,
socioeconomic and political viewpoints (e.g., French Revolution, the Inter-
war period), and long-term developments through time (e.g., birth rates,
economic trends). Locality (place) points to the spatial distance to a heritage
site where the events happened (e.g., a spot where enslaved people were
embarked; a battlefield). During visits to these locations people can walk
around the monument or site and see, touch, hear or smell tangible traces.
Engagement (participation) implies the individual or collective degree of
connection to the past, based on four dimensions: personal affection, cogni-
tive interest, moral values and political motives. The degree of engagement
varies from passive to active, accompanied by more or less identification
processes. The three layers are connected and support narrative represen-
tations in different genres (e.g., a novel, film, musical) in which intended
and unintended consequences of human actions and contingent processes
are molded into a whole with a unifying plot. Examples of plots are rivalry
between countries, economic progress, repression and revolt, or a quest.
Historical concepts, such as Imperialism or the Cold War, are used to hold
events, actions and persons together. Finally, historians, curators, game
designers or film directors use rhetoric and images that appeal to the histori-
cal imagination of the public.
The carriers of plots are personages (historical figures) and quasi-
personages (organizations, cities, nations). For instance, Anne Frank was a
historical person of whom we know a lot through her diary. In films, plays
and musicals she figures as a historical personage. The plot of these narratives
often focuses on Anne as an adolescent who dreams of becoming a famous
writer, not so much on her Jewish identity. The Achterhuis (the location where
she and her family hid during the war) is today an important Dutch heritage
site referring to the Nazi occupation. A quasi-personage is the railway com-
pany that transported the Jews, including Anne, to the concentration camps.
The three layers of historical distance (see Figure 2.1) are present in each
representation with different accents and effects (Grever & Van Boxtel,
2014, pp. 55–59). Synchronic approaches might generate a sense of same-
ness with the past located on a specific site, illustrated by engaging state-
ments such as “our ancestors in a prehistoric age” who constructed dolmen
on the place where we live now. Diachronic approaches often emphasize
continuity and progress, expressed in rise-and-fall-plots, accompanied
with stories about pilgrimages, diasporas and the return to the homeland.
Moral commitment can relate to a framework of values—such as human
rights—but it can play a role on a personal level as well. Students who learn
about war atrocities may discover that they have a personal relationship
with victims or perpetrators. Moral values, political beliefs and personal
Teaching the War 39
Historical
narratives with Historical
personages and images and
quasi-personages imagination
diachronic: tracing long synchronic: focusing on a

1 Tem porality (time) term developments or period or event
structures
near or far see, hear, touch, smell

2 Loc ality (place) (geographically)
personal cognitive moral political

3 Eng agement (partici pation) affection interest values motives
Figure 2.1 Three layers of historical distance

© Maria Grever.
commitment can reinforce each other or lead to internal friction. Students

can also develop historical interest for cognitive reasons without moral val-
ues immediately standing in the foreground.
Pieter De Bruijn (2014) shows that different forms of historical distance
have an effect on the exploration of multiple perspectives. He investigated
heritage educational resources on the Transatlantic Slave Trade and WWII
and the Holocaust in 15 English and Dutch museums and memorial cen-
ters ranging from self-guided exhibition trails to full staff-led educational
programs. He distinguished two strategies to construct historical distance
in educational resources: narrative emplotment and mnemonic bridging
techniques. One of his outcomes is that most resources mix synchronic and
diachronic approaches; those on the Transatlantic Slave Trade leaned more
heavily towards a diachronic narrative, while two exhibitions on WWII and
the Holocaust clearly presented a synchronic approach. Synchronic narra-
tives create more temporal distance than the diachronic accounts, “as they
present the past as a separate, closed-off period in time” (p. 201). Another
outcome is that, although the displays of authentic objects and three-
dimensional exhibitions are impressive, the pedagogical context guides stu-
dents to explore other perspectives.
An interesting exhibition that deals with difficult heritage in a balanced
way regarding historical distance is “Resistance Museum Junior” in Amster-
dam. It is the first children’s exhibition about WWII and the Holocaust in
the Netherlands with stories of eyewitnesses and authentic items that were
part of children’s lives during the occupation. The exhibition concentrates
on four children (9–14 years; Eva, Jan, Henk and Nelly) during the war,
39
40 Maria Grever
the same age group as the museum’s target audience. The children repre-
sent different war experiences: persecution, resistance, collaboration and
everyday life. A “time machine” brings visitors to a square with four houses
somewhere in the Netherlands during the war. They can enter the houses
to discover the stories of the children. For instance, the Jewish girl, Eva—a
neighbor of Anne Frank—explains how she and her family had to hide.
Nelly is a daughter of NSB parents; her story makes it understandable why
people made certain choices, without excusing them. These stories generate
a realistic and perhaps distancing view on what happened during the war
and the different attitudes of Dutch people. But the personal and almost
intimate approach of the war as seen through the lives of the children in the
reconstructed houses also facilitates the staging of some horrific aspects of
the war without terrifying young visitors.
The synchronic narrative of the exhibition, anchored in a specific time
and place, evokes active engagement of visitors based on personal interest
and moral values. Visitors can easily identify with the main personages.
They can see, touch, hear and smell the displays. At the end of the exhibi-
tion, in video clips the four children, now elderly people, tell what hap-
pened after the liberation. An educational tour and a booklet offer more
information and some assignments (www.verzetsmuseum.org/museum/nl/
onderwijs/lessuggesties_en_reacties/verzetsmuseum-junior).
More or less dealing with the same subject is the permanent exhibition
“Child in War” at the Museon in The Hague. Dutch men and women
donated objects that had been precious to them in the war when they were a
child. The target audience is children aged 12. The items are grouped around
themes such as courage, liberty, adventure, friendship, school, religion,
transport, secrecy and liberation. Museon has elaborated the pedagogical
context extensively. A museum lesson is linked to the exhibition and to the
key outcome targets of primary schools. The purpose is to stimulate pupils
to reflect on the impact of any war on daily life of children. Pupils can dis-
cuss in small groups a theme on the basis of a word web. For instance, what
does it mean to be courageous in a war? One of the children, Jan Montyn,
was 15 years old when WWII broke out. He fought for the Nazi Germans
on the Eastern Front, when he first heard about the fate of the Jews and
finally came to his senses. In the icy cold trenches, he made drawings that he
gave to his mother during his leave in 1945. These drawings are displayed in
the exhibition (www.museon.nl/nl/tentoonstellingen/kind-in-oorlog).
Museon has also organized a special educational workshop, “Children
in War Talk With Each Other,” which enhances historical thinking. Groups
of three pupils examine donated objects from two persons stored in small
drawers. Next, each triad writes an imaginary dialogue between these two
persons. They imagine that these persons tell each other stories about their
experiences. At the end of the workshop the triads present their dialogues to
the whole group. Savenije (2014, pp. 103–132) observed one triad before,
during and after the workshop. Presenting an in-depth analysis of the
Teaching the War 41
pupils’ historical imagination, attribution of significance and acknowledge-
ment of multiple perspectives during the heritage project, she did not find
any obvious tensions or discomfort when these pupils were dealing with war
heritage. The idea of multiperspectivity was particularly appealing to them.
This workshop is a good example of learning by discovery with objects
and the use of multiperspectivity from the actor’s point of view. The goal
is both to identify different perspectives and to discuss these. Yet difficult
heritage in the sense of collaboration with the Nazis is hardly represented.
Jan is an exception, but already during the war he regretted his choice to
fight on the side of the Nazis.
Concluding Remarks
Research into the interactions between popular culture and education is
rare. This chapter focused on some popular uses of the heritage of WWII and
the Holocaust to stimulate more exchange with history education research.
Dominant trends in popular culture, such as the emphasis on the proxim-
ity of the past, immersive experiences and the heroic sides of history with
clear boundaries between enemies and patriots, evoke tensions with a more
balanced approach that also includes victims, bystanders, collaborators and
perpetrators. This situation is exacerbated by the fact that difficult heritage
referring to perpetrators and victims of sexual war violence, expressed in
monuments or statues, hardly exists.
Emphasizing the proximity of the past enhances the idea of sameness with
the present and tends to deny historical reality as multiform reality. This
sameness not only disturbs a temporal orientation, resulting easily in anach-
ronisms, but it also impedes the acknowledgement of other perspectives
advocated by education experts. For this reason, it is necessary to reflect on
the effects of staging various degrees of historical distance in popular rendi-
tions and history teaching. As I have argued in this chapter, the personalized
setup of the two Dutch exhibitions offers opportunities for historical think-
ing and allows, although in a limited way, reflection on difficult heritage.
Having said this, studies of museum exhibitions, “dark tourism” and
war games indicate that ignoring popular representations implies ignoring
untapped chances to enrich history teaching. It is important that museum
curators, educators, game developers and tourist operators collaborate more
with each other. To avoid distorted and superficial images all involved par-
ties must have a basic understanding of heritage as a dynamic phenomenon
and competencies to integrate historical thinking concepts in education. But
still, some questions remain. To what extent do we want to confront chil-
dren with camp atrocities or war-related sexual violence? Some memories
are so traumatic and confusing that students might turn away or trivialize
them when they encounter this kind of difficult heritage. More research
is needed to understand what approaches to this sensitive subject might
be fruitful for engaging students, and at what age and how. In the case
41
42 Maria Grever
of the two museum examples, it seems that a personal—almost intimate—
exhibition with carefully designed educational heritage resources offers the
best chances to develop historical consciousness about WWII and the Holo-
caust in even very young students.
Notes
1. This paper partly draws on the research I conducted with Carla van Boxtel at
Erasmus University Rotterdam, Heritage Education, Plurality of Narratives, and
Shared Historical Knowledge (2009–2014), funded by the Netherlands Organi-
zation for Scientific Research, and on the Excellence Research Initiative program
I currently conduct with Stijn Reijnders: War! Popular Culture and European
Heritage of Major Armed Conflicts (2015–2019), funded by Erasmus University
Rotterdam.
2. Another example is the statue “Komm Frau” (Come Here Woman), showing a
Soviet soldier raping a pregnant woman as he holds a gun to her head. When the
statue appeared on Gdansk’s Avenue of Victory in Poland on October 14, 2013,
it was soon removed by the authorities and artist Jerzy Szumczyk was arrested
(www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2458778/Komm-Frau-Gdansk-tears-statue-
marking-rape-millions-German-women-Russian-soldiers.html retrieved January
29, 2016).
3. These semi-structured interviews—digitalized on CD-ROM—were conducted by
the author. See Grever & Van Boxtel, 2014, p. 36, p. 48, p. 55, p. 128.
3 “Argue the Contrary for the
Purpose of Getting a PhD”
Revisionist Historians, the
Singapore Government and the
Operation Coldstore Controversy
Loh Kah Seng
Introduction
Historians have a public role to play in an ongoing controversy concerning
the 1963 Operation Coldstore in Singapore. This may seem a truism in West-
ern countries, but it is usually not the case in the authoritarian city-state,
where most scholars have endorsed state-sanctioned history or refrained
from comment. Operation Coldstore is difficult because it impinges on the
political legitimacy of the long-ruling People’s Action Party (PAP) govern-
ment. The PAP has ruled Singapore since 1959, and its longevity rests on
a combination of coercion and consensus, including control of the main-
stream media (George, 2012) and redistribution of social security benefits
gained from a robust developmental program (Chua, 1997). Criticism of the
establishment is usually moderate and is limited to policy matters (Kong &
Yeoh, 2003).
The controversy in question is whether Operation Coldstore was driven
by security or political considerations. Coldstore was the precipitating event
for the government’s monopoly of power, a massive police crackdown on
the popular left-wing movement on February 2, 1963, half a year before the
PAP decisively won the general elections. The arrests, authorized under the
Preservation of Public Security Ordinance (later the Internal Security Act,
or ISA), detained more than 100 activists without trial on charges of com-
munist subversion to turn Singapore into a “Communist Cuba” south of
Malaya (Abisheganaden, 1963). These allegations against a movement that
embraced constitutional politics were not proven in a court of law. The
purge broke the back of the opposition and paved the way for one-party
rule (Wade, 2013). The controversy thus turns on the political legitimacy of
the government. There is also a personal factor involved: The current prime
minister, Lee Hsien Loong, is the son of Lee Kuan Yew, the long-serving
premier (1959–1990) who orchestrated the crackdown with the political
leaders of Britain and Malaya.
I do not aim to provide a disinterested account of the controversy. Brit-
ish archival sources, I believe, support the revisionist position that the
43
46 Loh Kah Seng
purge was motivated by political reasons. This chapter discusses two
related aspects of teaching Operation Coldstore. One is how the unfold-
ing of the controversy in the public sphere constitutes an important form
of history education. It gives a role to the historian, as Christopher Lasch
argues, as a social critic independent of institutions of power (Mattson,
2003). Second, the chapter explores the possibilities, and limits, of teach-
ing Operation Coldstore in schools, taking into account the state’s control
of education, aims of the history curriculum and attitudes of teachers. In
considering the relationship between public and formal education, and
between academic history and history teaching, I turn to the ideas of Paulo
Freire and Jörn Rüsen.
The Historian and the Community

Teaching Operation Coldstore by necessity takes place in the public sphere.
The education system in Singapore is state controlled and subtly expresses
the official view of history (Loh, 1998). As long as the PAP maintains power,
students will not have the opportunity to learn revisionist accounts. Anec-
dotal evidence suggests that many competent history teachers know little
about Operation Coldstore and find the contending accounts too compli-
cated to comprehend, much less teach (author’s interview with Teacher A,
March 30, 2015).
While Singaporean teachers may find Operation Coldstore too confusing
or contentious to teach, there is a strong philosophical basis for includ-
ing such historical events in public education. As Freire (2005) points out,
teaching that aims at social change takes place not only in the education
system, but also informally in the community. In this instance, the com-
munity of teachers and students are concerned Singaporeans, former leftists
and political detainees, civil society activists, social media journalists, and
historians. The latter’s role is pivotal, akin to Rüsen’s (1984) notion about
the two-way relationship between academic history and life practice: The
historian engages with the social issues of the times, but also brings the rigor
of academic research to clarify or redefine them.
A public debate on Operation Coldstore and historical events like it serves
several social and educational functions. As a matter of national security,
Coldstore raises a question for all Singaporeans, not merely detained leftists
and politicians: It asks if their safety has been grounded in the heavy price
that some fellow citizens have had to pay. The controversy also raises the
issue of truth and reconciliation, with former detainees seeking justice and
calling for the abolition of the ISA, an emergency law that authorizes the
state to detain suspected subversives without trial for long periods.
The Coldstore debate also underlines how historical narratives define
identity and social values. In schools, the mainstream media and officially
sanctioned spaces of history such as public museums, the government
Revisionist Historians in Singapore 47
promotes a narrative commonly called the “The Singapore Story” (Hong &
Huang, 2008). This is a heroic and self-celebratory account that highlights
PAP leaders’ success in defeating the communists to build a prosperous
nation. Its underlying message is that Singapore is, and remains, susceptible
to security threats and that an authoritarian government is necessary to
protect weak-minded Singaporeans. In Rüsen’s (1989) framework, The Sin-
gapore Story typifies the traditional and exemplary forms of historical con-
sciousness, using the past to legitimize the rule of a few exceptional men. In
contrast, the revisionist history of Operation Coldstore encourages a critical
orientation towards the past by unraveling the politics behind the crack-
down and the exaggerated distortion of the communist threat.
The new history is also a more positive account. It argues that the late
1940s to 1960s should not be seen as a time of danger and chaos, as depicted
in The Singapore Story, but of youthful idealism. The idealism was expressed
in a mass movement that sought independence for Malaya, which would
include Singapore. The leaders of the movement included Fabian socialists
like Lee Kuan Yew, but also their radical allies in the PAP (who were subse-
quently detained). Both groups were progressive in being inspired by inter-
national ideas of self-determination, modernization and egalitarianism. In
addition, the movement comprised marginalized workers, students, women
and squatters who supported it to fight for their dignity and interests (Loh,
Liao, Lim & Seng, 2012). Against the elitism of The Singapore Story, the
revisionist history highlights the agency of Singaporeans. As Freire observes,
debating Operation Coldstore helps people to become aware of the erasure
of their historical role, so that they may regain the optimism to shape the
history and future of Singapore (Freire, 2005). Public history not only cre-
ates a counter-public discourse that critiques the dominant account, but also
imagines a new history of Singapore (Warner, 2002).
A dialogic connection exists between public history and history educa-
tion. Historical consciousness in Singapore is undoubtedly influenced by the
state narrative, but teachers and students are also individuals and members
of wider communities whose relationship with the past is shaped by other
factors. In addition, as we will see in the final section, the revisionist history
has a pedagogical affinity with the current history curriculum. The Cold-
store controversy is useful for teaching about historical sources, replete with
vivid instances of how historians and historical participants use (and abuse)
sources. The controversy also invites teachers and students to discern the
range of arguments being made—both academic criticism and the govern-
ment’s attacks on revisionist historians.
The Politics of Coldstore

Operation Coldstore arrived at the tail end of British-mediated decoloni-
zation in Singapore. PAP accounts attribute the communist threat to the
47
48 Loh Kah Seng
Communist Party of Malaya, which was outlawed in 1948 and thereafter
fought a losing jungle war in Malaya. In Singapore, which was spared the
warfare, the communists attempted to infiltrate left-wing organizations in
order to forge a “united front.” The contentious issue, however, is the com-
munist control of the progressive left-wing movement. As historian Tim
Harper (2001) notes, “The very idea of a ‘Communist United Front’ is per-
haps a misnomer: most of the groups caught up in leftist popular radicalism,
the Jacobinism of the day, were neither communist, united, nor a front for
anybody but themselves” (p. 13).
Among Singaporean scholars, the official view of Operation Coldstore
was not challenged until the late 1990s (Lee, 1996). This was when British
archival records were declassified and two imperial historians, Simon Ball
(1999) and Matthew Jones (2000), conducted research on British decolo-
nization in Singapore and Malaya. Ball’s research in particular dwells on
George Selkirk, the British commissioner of Singapore in the early 1960s,
who took part in the negotiations between Singapore, Malaya and Brit-
ain on the formation of Malaysia. This was a new nation-state designed
by Whitehall officials that would encompass current and former British
colonies in the region, including Malaya and Singapore. Singapore was a
self-governing state with an elected government, although security matters
remained under British control.
The leaders of Singapore, Malaya and Britain held secret talks on mass
arrests in the Malaysia negotiations. The left-wing group in the PAP enjoyed
popular support that had been central to the party’s electoral victory in
1959. In 1961, the leftists were expelled from the PAP. They formed a new
party and embraced a constitutional strategy to win the next general elec-
tion. The prospect of a leftist government in Singapore worried the three
main parties in the Malaysia talks.
The declassified British records reveal that throughout 1962, the prime
ministers of Singapore and Malaya—Lee Kuan Yew and Tunku Abdul
Rahman—pressed British officials for mass arrests as a precondition of the
Malaysia plan. British officials in Singapore and London were circumspect,
wary of the international and domestic fallout against Britain should it
emerge publicly that there were no grounds for the arrests, as had occurred
following British repression in Kenya and Nyasaland in 1959.
The damning revelation in the British documents was that the Singapor-
ean and Malayan leaders were not concerned with the communists but with
political interests. Tunku wanted the Singapore left destroyed before he
would accept the city-state into Malaysia, while Lee sought the opportunity
to remove his political rivals but feared to take personal responsibility for
the detentions. Rather than undertaking an immediate and robust response
to a real threat, for nearly a year the two prime ministers quarreled over
the number and identity of people to be arrested and the responsibility for
the purge. The eye of the storm was Selkirk and his deputy Philip Moore
who, consulting Special Branch reports, found no evidence of communist
subversion. They deflected the calls for arrests, and it is worthwhile quoting
some of their candid reports on the political nature of the demands:
the Malays [Malayans] talk about arresting 25 for security reasons; Lee
Kuan Yew talks of arresting 250 for security and political reasons; in
fact, I believe both of them wish to arrest the effective political opposi-
tion and blame us for doing so.1
Lim [Chin Siong, the top left-wing leader] is working very much on
his own and that his primary objective is not the communist millennium
but to obtain control of the constitutional government of Singapore. It
is far from certain that having attained this objective Lim would neces-
sarily prove a compliant tool of Peking or Moscow . . . in Singapore
today we have a political and not a security problem.2
In the end, however, the government in London, fearing the collapse of

the Malaysia plan if Tunku’s demands were not met, overrode Selkirk and
endorsed the arrests.
Breaking the Silence

Operation Coldstore became a rare contentious moment of Singapore his-
tory. In the 2000s, former leftists and detainees began to end their long
enforced silence over the arrests and use the declassified files to rebut the
official narrative of Coldstore (Poh, 2013). In essays and public talks, they
rejected—cautiously at first—the charges of subversion and maintained
their contribution to the decolonization of Singapore (Tan & Jomo, 2001).
This unlocking of “memory gates” is significant in an authoritarian state,
where a culture of self-censorship has gripped Singaporeans. As a former
leftist memorably quipped, “When you have been bitten by a snake, you are
frightened when you see a rope” (Loh, 2010).
Collaborating with former leftists in the public history were detainees
of a later crackdown in 1987, accused of plotting a “Marxist conspiracy”
against the state. The “Marxist” group, comprising church workers, law-
yers and others, had attempted to carve out an independent sphere of activ-
ism in the 1980s (Barr, 2010). In the 2000s, the “Marxist” group began,
also cautiously, to publish critical accounts of detention (Fong, 2009). In
2009, former detainees of the 1960s and 1987 co-edited a book of poetry
on incarceration and exile from Singapore (Tan, Teo & Koh, 2009). This
started a working relationship between two groups united in their experi-
ences of detention without trial.
An important member of the 1987 group was Teo Soh Lung, who co-
edited the poetry volume and published her account of detention (Teo,
2010). In September 2011, along with 15 other ex-detainees from the 1960s
and 1987, Teo issued a public statement calling for the abolition of the ISA,
being “an affront to the human rights of citizens and an assault on our
49
50 Loh Kah Seng
justice system” (Teo, 2011). The government rejected the call, reiterating
the need for preemptive detention in “a small country, open to external
influences and located in a turbulent region, [that] will always face security
threats” (Singapore Ministry of Home Affairs, 2011).
The “Trinity of Alternate Historians”

Several historians supported the public history of Operation Coldstore. One
is Hong Lysa, a retired historian from the National University of Singapore.
In 2011, writing on her blog, she castigated the PAP government’s response
to the 16 ex-detainees’ call to abolish the ISA as an “unbelievably sloppy
job” (Hong, 2011) bereft of research. Hong also co-edited several books
with former detainees, one of which commemorated the 50th anniversary
of Coldstore in 2013 (Poh, Tan & Hong, 2013). On that occasion, close
to 500 former leftists and detainees gathered at Speaker’s Corner in Hong
Lim Park, a state-designated protest area similar to London’s Hyde Park, to
hear speeches on the left-wing struggle and tragedy of political repression
(See, 2013). Hong (2013) described the title of the event, “We Remember,”
as “two powerful, defiant words” as long-silenced voices finally emerged in
the public sphere.
Another historian is Pingtjin Thum, a recent graduate of Oxford Uni-
versity. Thum’s research (2011) draws upon both British documents and
Chinese-language sources and uses the Mannheimian concept of politi-
cal generation to examine the left as a progressive force (Thum, 2013).
Although based at Oxford, Thum served two years as a postdoctoral fellow
at the National University of Singapore, where he did a great deal to bring
his research to the public. In the 50th commemorative year of Operation
Coldstore, he gave a talk on the idea of the progressive left. In May the
following year, he wrote an online op-ed that argued that leftist leader Lim
Chin Siong was wrongfully detained (Thum, 2014).
I round up this “trinity of alternate historians,” a label coined by Kumar
Ramakrishna, head of the Centre of Excellence for National Security at the
S. Rajaratnam School of International Studies, a state-funded think tank
(Ramakrishna, 2015). My work revolves around history from below and
public history (Loh, 2013). In 2014, along with Thum and other friends,
I convened a series of public seminars titled, “Living With Myths: Explor-
ing Singapore’s Pasts and Futures,” which deconstructed the foundational
myths of Singapore and offered alternative narratives. Like Hong, I have
collaborated with former leftists, including co-authoring a paper on the left-
wing trade unions with Michael Fernandez, a former labor activist and
detainee (Fernandez & Loh, 2008).
The public history efforts of Hong, Thum and me are considered normal
in Western countries. Howard Zinn’s acknowledged that scholars cannot
be neutral on a moving train is seldom practiced by academics employed
in Singapore’s two major universities, both highly placed in the global
rankings. Although there are critical-minded scholars in the universities,
and the revisionist history of Operation Coldstore is occasionally taught in
history courses, the transgressive public historian is a rarity. Most academ-
ics are careful to manage their criticism and refrain from social advocacy:
The criticism should not be too sharp or personal, preferably remaining
within the pages of an academic publication, while advocacy must strenu-
ously be avoided, particularly any sort of “fraternization” with ex-detainees.
In 2014, a senior administrator at the National University of Singapore, a
historian by training, warned against history with “political intent” (Siau
2014). It is not surprising none of the three alternate historians are located
in Singapore: Hong lives in Adelaide, Thum works at Oxford and I am
based in Seoul.
SG50 and the Official Response

The 50th year of Singapore’s independence—2015—raised the stakes in the
Coldstore controversy. The government planned a year of national celebra-
tion called SG50, within the frame of endorsing half a century of PAP rule.
The historic moment, as it turned out, could not be tainted by counter-
hegemonic narratives. The state’s response to revisionist history was more
vigorous this time.
In October 2014, Prime Minister Lee Hsien Loong intervened personally
to support the official narrative of Operation Coldstore, saying, “These are
matters of historical record, they are not seriously disputed, although once
in a while you will find somebody argue the contrary for the purpose of
getting a PhD”—an unkind reference to Thum (Lay, 2014). His govern-
ment followed with more sound and activity, reprinting a compilation of
his father’s radio talks in 1961 accusing the leftists of being communists.
A marker dedicated to the struggle against communism was also erected in
a public park (Singapore Ministry of Home Affairs, 2014).
These efforts were met by rejoinders from ex-leftists. In December, Poh
Soo Kai (2014) drew upon British records to argue that Operation Cold-
store was politically inspired. In reply, the government urged a “holistic
reading” of the British documents and accused Poh and revisionist histo-
rians of cherry picking their evidence. The official reply highlighted that
some leftists had considered a switch to armed struggle in 1962. However,
Thum’s research (2013) had used Chinese-language sources that showed
that this suggestion was firmly rejected. Thus, the government failed to
address the empirical basis of the revisionist argument, but resorted to fur-
ther attempts to muddy the issue and attack the opponents. In a Facebook
post, Lee Hsien Loong claimed that the ex-leftists and revisionist historians
were seeking to undermine his government’s legitimacy (Lee, 2014). One of
his ministers accused the historians and their “proxies” in the social media
of hiding their efforts to distort history behind academic peer review (Hus-
sain, 2015).
51
52 Loh Kah Seng
The official history had an immediate advocate: Kumar Ramakrishna. In
2014 he announced that he would “revise the revisionists” (Ramakrishna,
2014). The following year, he published a quickly written book to rebut
Hong Lysa’s charge that Operation Coldstore was the PAP’s “original sin”
(Hong, 2014). The book attacked the proponents of the “New Singapore
History,” whom he called the “alternate historians” (including Hong, Thum
and me), for their association with former detainees and their attempts to
undermine the PAP (Ramakrishna, 2015). Ramakrishna claimed to have
used British archival records in his research, as well as a small number (17)
of classified Singapore Internal Security Department (ISD) files. He was
unaware that the inaccessibility of the Singapore files to independent schol-
ars makes his work unverifiable; revisionist historians, he urged, should not
be granted access to them. The book stated its support for illiberal democ-
racy for Singapore and a rearmed “Singapore Story 2.0” (Ramakrishna,
2015, p. 120).
Like the official statements, Ramakrishna’s book ignored the Coldstore
archives. He tried to argue that the communist threat in Singapore was
real, using two methods. First, he underscored the elusiveness and tacti-
cal flexibility of the communists. He relied on colonial documents preced-
ing Coldstore in the 1950s that acknowledged the existence of communist
subversion, as well as Communist Party of Malaya sources on their united
front tactics. None of this history was new; the ground had been covered
in earlier work, notably Lee Ting Hui’s (1996) detailed book on the com-
munist united front. Lee’s work unfortunately suffered from the same prob-
lem of using classified Internal Security Department sources that cannot be
independently verified.
Second, on Operation Coldstore itself, treated in a single chapter out
of four, Ramakrishna (2015) dismissed the contention that Coldstore was
politically motivated as the “wrong question” (p. 84). The only thing that
mattered, he claimed, was to proscribe a subversive force that for expedient
reasons had adopted a constitutional approach and prevent it from winning
at the polls. Ramakrishna elevated Lee Kuan Yew as the only person who
understood this danger, while the inexperienced Selkirk and other British
officials were gullible about the complexity of Singapore politics. In mak-
ing these claims, Ramakrishna inadvertently made two admissions: that the
arrests were carried out by politicians without the support of Special Branch
intelligence, and that Lee subverted the democratic process.
In its defense of the powerful, Ramakrishna’s work is a step backward
for Singapore academia. His hagiographic reproduction of quotes from
Lee Kuan Yew and other PAP leaders constitute an attempt to defend their
political legacy. Tellingly, despite his (limited) access to Singaporean files,
Ramakrishna failed to engage with the substance of the British archives, as
did the government. This should provide further impetus for historians to
reexamine the history of decolonization in Singapore beyond the theme of
communist subversion and find a rightful place for the left.
Revealing Too Much? Schools and Teachers
If the public history of Operation Coldstore struggles against the power of
the state, its teaching in schools is even more difficult. Education in Singa-
pore is state-controlled and pursues the goals of national development and
social engineering as defined by the PAP. In recent years, behind the slogan
of “Thinking Schools, Learning Nation,” the Ministry of Education has
focused on nurturing skills such as creativity and critical thinking to enable
Singaporeans to succeed in the global economy. In history, this emphasis
has translated into an inquiry-based approach to the past, where, like his-
torians, students “do history” by appraising sources and interpretations
(Suhaimi & Baildon, 2010). There are, however, great limits to the creativ-
ity and critique. Alongside the new initiatives is a National Education pro-
gram, launched in 1997, that articulates the values of The Singapore Story
(Loh, 1998). In Freirean terms, the government remains committed to a
“banking” approach to education (Freire, 2005), believing that the selective
application of pedagogical tools, divorced from social reality, will produce
a creative and critical citizenry. None of the initiatives were intended to
encourage reflexivity or an interest in social change.
In the lower secondary syllabus on Singapore history, a mandatory sub-
ject, there is a nexus where the educational ideas and political imperatives
meet. The history textbook used at the secondary level was written in-house
by Ministry of Education officials and covers Singapore’s historic transition
from a pre-colonial trading port to a nation-state. On the one hand, the
2014 edition of the textbook has a technical veneer, due to the influence of
American educational ideas such as “historical investigation” and “doing
history” (Singapore Ministry of Education, 2013). On the other hand, the
syllabus fails to excavate itself from political influence.
Despite its claim to cultivate discerning learners, the textbook privileges
the PAP’s account of decolonization. It attempts to present a more detached
perspective by refraining from characterizing the left-wing trade unions as
communist-manipulated, as in previous textbooks (Loh, 1998). By using
the broad theme of Singaporeans’ political aspirations, the textbook man-
ages to include some information on leftist politics. However, this approach
is purely pluralistic and does not discuss the controversy. The passage on
Operation Coldstore briefly states that “the detainees were accused of trying
to sabotage the formation of Malaysia and planning to launch an uprising in
Singapore” (Singapore Ministry of Education, 2014, p. 105); this by default
translates allegation into fact. The textbook continues to highlight political
uncertainty, conflict and chaos, reminding students of Singapore’s security
threats. This imagined vulnerability has been used to legitimize authoritar-
ian rule and admonish young Singaporeans who prefer a more liberal demo-
cratic system (Loh, 1998).
Will teachers be able to teach the Coldstore controversy? Research has
shown that Singaporean educators are strongly socialized (Baildon & Sim,
53
54 Loh Kah Seng
2009). In one study, social studies teachers expressed both an anxiety about
the imagined consequences of teaching sensitive subjects and a real desire to
maintain the status quo (Baildon & Sim, 2009). Some Singaporean students,
too, react negatively to teachers’ criticism of government policies, demand-
ing, as a teacher recounted, “that if you love SG, you must surely love the
ruling party” (author’s interview with Teacher C, May 5, 2015). In a small
and unrepresentative survey of trainee teachers, Loh Kah Seng and Junaidah
Jaffar (2014) found that only a few were aware of the Coldstore contro-
versy. Most stated their discomfort with teaching controversial pasts, citing
their lack of expertise, objections from parents and the peril of “revealing
too much” to students.
These rationalizations belie deep-seated fears teachers have about politi-
cal surveillance. When I was once invited to give a talk at a top school
on the PAP’s use of history for its political legitimacy, the history teacher
asked beforehand if I was “subversive.” Unfortunately, such fears effectively
deter teachers from practicing the progressive aspect of the history syllabus,
which is to have learners encounter the past as would historians. It is not
far-fetched to agree with Freire (2005) and say that Singaporean teachers
are oppressed by the norms of the system, fearful of their role to effect social
change.
Yet, guarded optimism exists for teaching Operation Coldstore. Because
teaching is an individualized endeavor and the classroom is a fluid and at
times indeterminate space for learning, a small minority of teachers may
broach the subject. One teacher I interviewed felt that it was necessary to
teach Coldstore as it was “an important part of the entire fabric of SG his-
tory.” She innovated by “squeezing” the topic into upper secondary history
classes on the Cold War in Asia, where students are more mature and able to
grasp the issue (author’s interview with Teacher C, May 5, 2015). Teachers,
then, are gatekeepers at the class level as the government is at the policy level.
It is useful to briefly discuss other elements of teaching Operation Cold-
store. The creative and critical thinking program provides the philosophical
basis for a form of teaching that does not prescribe one historical account
over another, but rather encourages teachers and students to grapple with
difference and controversy. Mark Baildon and Suhaimi Afandi (2014), two
progressive educators at the National Institute of Education, advocate a dis-
ciplinary approach to the study of the ISA in Singapore, where students can
evaluate sources by the government and ex-detainees and derive their own
conclusion based on the evidence at hand.
The sources on Operation Coldstore are incomplete but sufficiently rich
and wide-ranging for source-based inquiry. The British archives contain a
trove of revealing evidence on the politics of Coldstore and are likely to yield
even more such information as declassification of the “migrated” archives
continues in Britain. The striking memos of Selkirk and Moore can be use-
fully compared with the older colonial intelligence on the communist threat.
Participant sources can be drawn from the victors and losers of history (Lee,
1998; Tan & Jomo, 1998). To an established corpus of mainstream history,
there is a growing body of research on Singapore history that looks beyond
the frame of communist subversion (Barr & Trocki, 2008). The Malaysian
and Singaporean state archives remain closed, but a slice of the latter can be
found in the work of Ramakrishna (2015) and more substantially Lee Ting
Hui (1996).
Conclusion
The silver lining for teaching Operation Coldstore is that a dialogic relation-
ship connects public history and history education. Singapore is the midst
of a transition. Growing discontent with socioeconomic issues such as the
influx of foreign workers and high costs of living hurt the PAP’s perfor-
mance in the 2011 elections, when its electoral share fell to 60%. This has
caused disenchantment with The Singapore Story, written around the coun-
try’s historic success guided by the strong arm of the state. Particularly in the
social media, critical historical accounts are gaining traction with Singapor-
eans who are unhappy with the present state of affairs. One schoolteacher
enjoyed teaching social studies because, although the political indoctrina-
tion was more pervasive there than in the history syllabus, it was a subject
where, within the confines of the classroom, the students and the teacher
could express their cynicism towards the official narrative (author’s inter-
view with Teacher B, January 3, 2015). It may be difficult for the govern-
ment to stop such discussions from growing.
The revisionist history of Coldstore aims at a form of education informed
by social critique and gives meaning to the “officialspeak” about creative
and critical thinking. It does not seek to merely teach history or, as the
prime minister fears, discredit his government, but to imagine a new history,
based on notions of social idealism and agency, rather than vulnerability
and elite rule. This history would provide the platform for a more inclusive
and democratic Singapore. In Freirean fashion, this history is driven by self-
reflexivity and community empowerment; it asks concerned Singaporeans
and hopefully future teachers and students to find their voices and words
with which to speak and write about a troubling episode in the nation’s his-
tory (Freire, 2005). The challenges in this endeavor are formidable, but the
teacher who “sneaked” Coldstore into her history lessons reminds us that,
even in an authoritarian state, it is possible to find a space between history
education and life practice, as Rüsen envisaged.
Notes
1. PREM 11/3868, memo from Selkirk to Sandys, July 27, 1962, cited in Ball, “Sel-
kirk in Singapore,” p. 180.
2. CO 1030/1160, memo from Moore to Wallace, July 18, 1962
55
56 Loh Kah Seng
4 The State and the Volving of
Teaching About Apartheid
in School History in South
Africa, Circa 1994–2016
Johan Wassermann
Introduction
The British Historical Association, in its publication on teaching contro-
versial and emotive issues, neatly encapsulates the complex nature of such
issues and the teaching of history: “The study of history can be emotive
and controversial where there is actual or perceived unfairness to people
by another individual or group in the past” (Historical Association, 2007,
p. 3). Invariably, controversial issues are underpinned by factors such
as race, gender, class, politics, ethics, language and economics—in other
words, issues of moral complexity. In that light, teaching about apartheid
is singularly the most sensitive and controversial aspect in school history
in South Africa. In this chapter I have in a diachronic manner mapped the
“volving”1 of the South African state, from the late apartheid era to the
present, and the teaching of apartheid. In doing so I wanted to reach some
understanding of how school history, in a post-conflict society, dealt with
its singularly most controversial topic. What follows is presented in four
moves, namely: School history and the teaching of apartheid under apart-
heid, post-1994 volving related to the teaching of apartheid, contemporary
volving and apartheid, and the conclusion of this chapter.
Apartheid Era Volving and School History

We believe that history must be taught in the light of the divine revelation
and must be seen as the fulfillment of God’s decree (raadsplan) for the world
and humanity We believe that God has willed separate nations and peo-
ples, and has given each separate nation and peoples its particular vocation
and task and gifts. Youth can faithfully take over the task and vocation of
the older generation only when it has acquired through instruction in history
a true vision of the origin of the nation, and of the direction in that heritage.
We believe that next to the mother tongue, the patriotic (vaderlandse) his-
tory of the nation is the great means of cultivating love of one’s own.
(Enslin, 1999, p. 104)
The ideological roots of apartheid, apartheid education and how school his-
tory related to it are rooted in this quotation. These roots permeated school
57
60 Johan Wassermann
history and manifested themselves in a range of master symbols such as:
Legitimate authority is not to be questioned; Whites are superior to Blacks;2
the Afrikaner has a special relationship with God; South Africa rightfully
belongs to the Afrikaner; South Africa and the Afrikaner are isolated and
threatened; the Afrikaner is militarily ingenious and strong and South Africa
is the leader of Africa (du Preez, 1983). What followed in the wake of these
ideas of White supremacy was a history of dispossession, disenfranchise-
ment, oppression, marginalization of and conflict with the majority Black
population, which only legally ended in 1994 when the first fully democratic
elections were held.
The overt sense of nationalist White supremacy permeated South African
society between 1948 and 1994 and shaped the identity, as well as the imag-
ined and real history, of all its inhabitants. This was achieved by means of
a policy whereby the vast majority of the inhabitants of the country were,
based on skin color, legally shunted to the margins of society. In a nutshell,
apartheid meant attempts by the National Party (NP) at completing abso-
lute racial segregation between the White minority and the Black majority.
The legal and authoritarian framework on which the NP based apartheid
was in itself rooted in the colonial history of South Africa, which began with
the arrival of the Dutch East India Company at the Cape in 1652.
The school history devised to support apartheid myths was blended
with historical knowledge and underpinned by a fundamentalist Christian
National Education pedagogy of teacher-centeredness and rote learning.
This was done in aid of the narrow nationalistic ideals of the White popula-
tion. Consequently, the Black school-going population had only a fraction
of the resources of the White equivalents and learned a history in which they
were not citizens and appeared only on the fringes of society as laborers,
criminals and troublemakers when they disrupted White history. Therefore,
figures such as Nelson Mandela and Oliver Tambo, and organizations such
as the African National Congress (ANC) and the Pan Africanist Congress,
never featured in this master narrative quite simply because it was illegal to
mention them. School history under apartheid thus contributed to the cre-
ation of two very distinct racialized identities for White and Black learners.
The former were socialized and acculturated into a world of social, political
and economic privilege, and the latter, by means of Bantu education, into
a world of subservience and subjugation. In this, apartheid and school his-
tory were in a symbiotic relationship in terms of the Afrikaner nationalist
historiographical approach adopted, the content learned and the pedagogy
employed.
Although much of what apartheid represented was volving towards
1994, the post-1994 government was confronted with teachers and learners
steeped in a school history that foregrounded White supremacy in terms of
content and pedagogy. It is against this context that the apartheid past had
to be faced in history classes after April 1994.
Teaching About Apartheid in South Africa 61
Post-Apartheid Mindsets and History Curricula Moves
The first post-apartheid government (ANC as part of a tripartite alliance
with the South African Communist Party [SACP] and the Congress of South
African Trade Unions [COSATU] in an initial government of national unity
with the apartheid era NP) had to face the legacy of a racialized unequal
educational system that foregrounded a certain school history. Much ink has
been spilled on the post-apartheid curriculum processes, which have been
described as “the most radical constructivist curriculum ever attempted any-
where in the world” (Kallaway, 2012, p. 29). As far as school history was
concerned, much hope existed, as articulated by Rob Siebörger (2000), a
leading South African history educationist, for a “new” history:
There was a sense of great expectancy in the years between the release
of Nelson Mandela in 1990 and the first democratic election in South
Africa in 1994. History teachers, history educationalists and histori-
ans looked forward with impatient anticipation to the time when the
apartheid curriculum would be cast aside and history could claim its
place as an important instrument in the construction of a new national
identity. It would fulfill three roles: keeping the triumph over evil fresh,
memorializing the struggles of the past, and helping to break down all
remaining racism; giving back a history to those who had been denied
or robbed of one before; and helping to strengthen democratic and
constitutional values—or the three ‘r’s of reconstruction, redress and
reconciliation.
(pp. 39–48)
This happened, but not necessarily as expected. Initially, school history

was purged of racist and problematic content so as to blunt the need for
immediately producing new educational media. What followed was a demo-
cratic consultative process for a new history curriculum that included public
participation by, amongst others, teachers, parents and students to deliver
on the promise that education would be drastically reformed. From this
process emanated a subcommittee for history, which had to field countless
submissions.
However, this process was soon overtaken by suggestions emanating from
COSATU, which proposed for education and training to be blended. The
end result was the implementation of an Outcomes Based Education (OBE)
system—the so-called Curriculum 2005 (C2005) (Siebörger, 2000). The lab-
yrinth of specific and other outcomes left school history in limbo in terms
of the content and pedagogy. Consequently the South African Historical
Society, amongst others, called for more comprehensive guidelines to avoid
repetition and for key historical knowledge to be included in the curriculum
(South African Historical Society, 1998).
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62 Johan Wassermann
But in all of this, historians were missing two aspects. First, the senti-
ment of many of those in power who had to endure apartheid-era school
history was that if this is what the subject was about—reducing non-White
people to the fringes of history where they operated with little agency in a
subjugated manner—then it was not needed. The anti–school history lobby
thus argued that in thinking towards the future and the building of a new
and better society, a history of the oppression and subjugation Blacks had
to endure will not help. As a result school history was viewed as conten-
tious, divisive and problematic and not congruent with new ways of think-
ing about education, knowledge and society. Calls from those who argued
that school history was desperately needed to make sense of a divisive past,
so as to bring about understanding of what had transpired and a healing of
the deep wounds present, were largely ignored in these post-apartheid mem-
ory skirmishes. Instead, the maxim was, for the most part, let us forget the
past and pretend it never happened. A collective amnesia, not untypical of
a post-conflict society, had thus beset school history in South Africa imme-
diately after 1994. The situation as outlined emerged as part of a concerted
effort by the ANC government under Mandela to forge a rainbow nation in
which all had to reconcile. In the process, all that was deemed divisive was
seemingly shunted to the margins. Consequently, school history disappeared
into social studies in the lower levels of the curriculum alongside geography.
Within five years of the demise of apartheid, school history was at death’s
door (Stolten, 2007).
However, criticism kept flooding in against C2005 and OBE, the most
telling being from Jansen (1997) in his piece, “Why OBE Will Fail.” The
result was a ministerial committee that recommended an overhaul of how
OBE was practiced. Crucially for school history it recommended that: “The
teaching of history should ensure learners develop a ‘narrative’ and a con-
ceptual understanding of the history of South Africa and Africa and their
place in the world” (Ministry of Education, 2000a, p. 138). This culminated
in the National Curriculum Statement (NCS), which signaled a departure
from the original ideas of OBE to the advantage of the teaching and learn-
ing of history.
In time, the positioning of “No to History” was altered to “Yes to His-
tory” under Kader Asmal, the second post-apartheid Minister of Education.
Asmal, himself a former history teacher, played a key role and constituted
a powerful History and Archaeology Panel to advise him on, among oth-
ers things, the value of school history (Report of the History/Archeology
Panel, 2000). The new thinking expressed that, as part of the government’s
policy of reconciliation and nation building, school history was to be used
to introduce reconciliation. Consequently, under Asmal school history took
on a distinct identity that promoted the constitution and democracy, equal-
ity and nation building. But to Asmal (2007) teaching and learning about
apartheid was key as he explained, “what may be arguably a difficult, but
most significant aspect covered in the new curricula, viz, the teaching of
the History of Apartheid” (pp. 2–4). Asmal identified some of the points
of view on the teaching of apartheid, such as that it was not relevant to the
future, that Black learners might react negatively towards it because it puts
up barriers against Whites and that many White learners might react nega-
tively because they do not want to carry the blame. To Asmal these views
obscured “what is undeniable that the ending of apartheid in South Africa
represents a great victory, worthy of celebration by all, and that South Afri-
cans have the ability to rise above it” (pp. 2–4). He continued, “The issues
that teaching Apartheid raises are not to be ducked or deleted, but are to be
grappled with and faced up to” (pp. 3–4).
In that light, the ideals of a post-apartheid school history curriculum there-
fore had to fulfill three roles: keeping the triumph over evil fresh, memori-
alizing the struggles of the past and helping to break down all remaining
racism; giving back a history to those who had been denied or robbed of one
before; and helping to strengthen democratic and constitutional values—the
so-called three “r”s of reconstruction, redress and reconciliation (Siebörger,
2000). The NCS pursued these ideals by in Grade 11 placing apartheid in
a broader context of world history, ideology, human rights and resistance.
This was followed up in Grade 12 by focusing on protests against apartheid
from the 1960s to the 1990s and how South Africa subsequently emerged
as a democracy.
In time C2005 was replaced by the Curriculum Assessment Policy State-
ments (CAPS), whose implementation ended in 2014. CAPS articulated
that the curriculum should be more accessible to teachers and that all sub-
jects should have clearly delineated topics. In the process, OBE was further
watered down, but not pronounced “dead.” The latter would have been a
political step too far for the ANC-led government. In terms of apartheid,
CAPS proved to be, in many ways, a radical departure from the NCS. This
was especially so in terms of how apartheid was treated: The approach was
much more detailed, both in terms of breadth and depth. This could be
attributed to the elapsed time since the fall of apartheid and the curriculum
development process having gained in sophistication.
The Grade 11 content was much more logical in temporal and conceptual
terms when compared to the NCS, as it spoke to how apartheid came about
and how it was resisted. What was expected in Grade 12 followed from
that which was foregrounded in Grade 11. This in itself was an essential
departure from the NCS and provided a “blow by blow” account of what
transpired in South Africa from the 1960s up to the post-1994 Truth and
Reconciliation Commission. This, as has been argued, could be construed
to be a legal and constitutional history blended with political science (Kal-
laway, 2012) that left learners and teachers with a broad overview of apart-
heid in South Africa from its origins up to its demise.
What remained constant throughout all of the post-1994 history cur-
riculum changes was a commitment to nation building by foregrounding
democracy, human rights and the fact that school history is not a single
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64 Johan Wassermann
agreed-upon truth. The history curricula that followed the coming of
democracy in 1994 was thus a radical departure from the apartheid past
and a genuine pursuit in creating new transformed prototype citizens that
were in tune with the aspirations of the rainbow nation.
In many ways the ANC-led government had been successful in creating a
new official master narrative and hence a new official memory, based on an
imagined new nationalism and identities. This was achieved by downplay-
ing the true horrors of apartheid, attributing a messianic status to Man-
dela, foregrounding how South Africa became a democracy in 1994 under
the ANC and presenting a neat history without any real villains but clear
heroes. The result was an intended uncontroversial history of apartheid. In
this the greatest benefactors were those who perpetuated apartheid because,
for the sake of nation building and reconciliation, it was watered down and
placed in a global context of racism and colonialism. For the majority Black
population who had suffered under apartheid, the school history told was
in a sense a “second subjugation,” for in the quest for a greater political
good, their story was distilled down to its bare essence. Consequently, the
curricula were not sufficiently highlighting the suffering of the Black masses
in the struggle against apartheid. Unsurprisingly not all were necessarily in
favor of the ideas of optimistic multicultural nation building by means of
school history. In sensing the controversy created by the generally uncontro-
versial treatment of apartheid, many Black intellectuals started to abandon
the idea of reconciliation and nation building for a “more or less outspoken
African nationalism” (Stolten, 2007, p. 29). But these voices were drowned
out for bigger political ideals to triumph.
21st Birthday Volving and the Teaching of Apartheid

Almost out of the blue, but not necessarily unexpected when considering
the stance of Black intellectuals, a new volving around school history and
apartheid came to the fore in mid-2014. The catalyst was the Ministerial
Task Team Report on the National Senior Certificate released in May 2014.
The report made reference to how other countries engaged with civic and
citizen education as part of school history (Ministerial Task Team Report,
2014). The report hinted at a deeper concern in government circles about
school history and its envisaged role in South African society.
The first subsequent political move was made by the Public Service and
Administration Minister Lindiwe Sisulu, herself a history graduate, who felt
history should be a compulsory subject at school. She argued: “What defines
us as a people is our history Twenty years [after apartheid] in and we are
battling apathy, we are so caught up in the here and now” (Smillie, 2014).
The political support by Sisulu triggered backing from others. In a blog that
had clear overtones of generational conflict, Thami Makhanya, a judge to
the Witwatersrand local division, tore into Black youth, especially young
men. He accused them of womanizing, indulgence in drugs and alcohol, and
not being civilly minded. To him
The problem is that the youth of today do not know where they come
from. .......... Nelson Mandela is still fresh in his grave yet some ignorant
youth say that the past of the country did not affect them so they do not
care what happened then.
(Makhanya, 2014)
To Makhanya, the solution was simple: “Make South African history in

its totality a compulsory subject in South Africa from grade 8 up until
grade 12.” This compulsion should foreground the history of the struggle
against apartheid and center on male struggle heroes such as Steve Biko,
Robert Sobukwe, Chris Hani and Nelson Mandela. In his view the youth
needed to see “where this country is coming from in order to shape their
mindset on where it needs to go.” If this is not done, “the sacrifices of our
heroes would have been in vain” and the youth would be unable to equate
present inequalities to past injustices.
The powerful voices of a government minister and a judge were soon
joined by that of the South African Democratic Teachers’ Union (SADTU), a
key member of the COSATU that forms part of the tripartite governing alli-
ance of South Africa. SADTU, which as a trade union represents the major-
ity of teachers, including history teachers, added a further dimension to the
state of mind of the ANC government and its supporters and the moves they
envisaged in making school history compulsory up to Grade 12 (Louw &
Davids, 2014, p. 4). According to SADTU, the problem was a broader soci-
etal one involving the so-called born frees3 who claimed that they were not
affected by apartheid. To SADTU, adopting such a mindset prevented the
youth from understanding the structural roots of apartheid still visible in
South Africa. Furthermore, the youth were accused of having lost their iden-
tity and being influenced by social media that is used by “foreign minds” to
“glorify colonialists and not the real heroes of the South African Struggle”
who fought against both colonialism and apartheid.
To SADTU the solution was simple: “real South African history must be
part of the curriculum as a compulsory subject” (Louw & Davids, 2014,
p. 4). The rationale was simple and logical: The youth need an appreciation
for South African democracy; to be conscious of the country’s social, eco-
nomic and political landscape; to be able to contribute in building a more
just and progressive nation; and to understand and appreciate the role of the
ANC and Mandela under whom the post-1994 constitution was attained.
The discourses here are clear to unpack: the history of big men, a contem-
porary political history foregrounding the struggle, and a one-dimensional
nationalistic history with a single agreed-upon official narrative. In other
words, using a patriotic school history as a way not of thinking historically
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66 Johan Wassermann
but of uncritically accepting historical content that one-sidedly spoke to the
struggle against colonialism and apartheid, and ANC triumphalism.
In adopting such a stance, SADTU accepted that school history could
become highly charged and that deep wounds might be opened up, but this
was deemed a prerequisite for healing, acceptance and an embracing of the
past. They therefore undertook to lobby Basic Education Minister Angie
Motshekga to make school history compulsory.
Within a month Motshekga revealed, during her parliamentary vote for
2014/2015, that her department “was conducting comparative studies and
research on countries that enforce history as a subject” (Makinana, 2014,
p. 4). In her view school history could soon be compulsory so as to enhance
nation building, national pride, patriotism, social cohesion and cultural her-
itage. This announcement soon gained further impetus. The Draft National
Policy for the Provision and Management of Learning and Teaching Sup-
port Material (LTSM) proposed a single textbook per grade for school his-
tory (South African Society for History Teaching, 2014).
This was a serious departure from the democratic knowledge principles in
place whereby any publisher could prepare a draft manuscript and submit
it to the textbook screening committee of the Department of Basic Educa-
tion and Training. The selection process overseen by this committee is not
without serious criticism, but it does ensure that a range of textbooks by
a diverse group of publishers are vetted and from this a list is compiled
for purchase by schools. The books that are eventually selected represent
a diverse range of interpretations of the history curriculum. The proposed
new policy aimed at eradicating multiple and critical voices and democratic
choice in favor of a single history textbook for each grade.
Political utterances and rhetoric became reality when on May 5, 2015
Minister Motshekga announced that a task team would be constituted to
move forward the idea of making school history compulsory (Louw, 2015).
A seven-person “History Ministerial Task Team” was subsequently consti-
tuted with the brief to, among others, “conduct a research study on how
best to implement the introduction of compulsory History in FET [high
school] schools as part of citizenship located within Life Orientation” (Gov-
ernment Gazette, No. 39267, pp. 4–5, September 10, 2015). A subsequent
working session followed and the project is at present still ongoing.
Reactions from outside the ANC to the bold moves to make school history
compulsory were somewhat muted. The official opposition, the Democratic
Alliance (DA), initially dismissed the idea as “ideological brainwashing”
(Louw & Davids, 2014, p. 4) and argued that school history must be rel-
evant to all learners and not only some. Concern was also expressed that
“history can so easily be used as an ideological tool, as it was in white schools
by the National Party during the apartheid years” (Makinana, 2014, p. 4).
Other voices from professional education organizations offered very little
real criticism and argued that a debate about school history was a necessary
process that should happen on a continuous basis so as to keep the subject
relevant (Jones, 2014). Though historian Tshepo Moloi of the University of
the Witwatersrand commended the move, he argued that selecting content
should be done with caution: “It shouldn’t be that the ANC is portrayed to
have been the only liberation party in the struggle or about putting blame on
anybody. It should be balanced” (Louw & Davids, 2014, p. 4).
SADTU, by now the driving force behind the idea, anticipated some of the
opposing arguments by what they called
detractors who wish that our brutal past can be swept under the carpet
and treated as bygone . . . we are aware that of course that the benefi-
ciaries of the apartheid’s system of separate development would come
out against this call.
(Louw & Davids, 2014, p. 4; SADTU, circa 2014)
Undoubtedly the strong pro-apartheid labels attached to those who would

oppose such a call silenced many critics.
But nothing brought the proposal to make school history compulsory
more into context than the “South African Spring” that was simultaneously
unfolding. First and foremost, the ANC was facing a youthful rebellion
from the ranks of the born frees. This ranged from the political appeal for
the Economic Freedom Fighters (EFF) under Julius Malema, a former ANC
Youth League leader, to the party losing the student council elections at the
University of Fort Hare, the alma mater of Mandela (Macanda, 2015). This
coincided with a movement under the slogan of “Rhodes must fall,” ostensi-
bly because the presence of a statue of the imperialist Cecil John Rhodes on
the campus of the University of Cape Town was considered offensive. Black
students in particular argued that it was a constant reminder of a colonial
past. The university authorities ultimately agreed to its removal. Attacks on
other statues quickly gained momentum. The mood that drove all of this
was neatly captured by The Atlantic and spoke directly to the failure of the
pedagogy adopted in schools and the content pursued in the teaching and
learning about apartheid since 1994:
The outcry amounts to a public rejection of the spirit of accommoda-

tion that marked the Mandela era. In the first 21 years of post-apartheid
South Africa, few statues were toppled. Now a new movement, rooted
in pan-African rhetoric and assertions of black pride, has announced
itself. The movement has been fueled, in part, by rising numbers of
black students on campuses where the values of the country’s new, sup-
posedly non-racial, non-sexist democracy has chafed against antiquated
architecture that celebrates former oppressors.
(Foster, 2015)
In many ways the attacks on the statues were a revolt against the ANC
itself, for it is the party’s policies that served to retain a certain history.
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68 Johan Wassermann
Unsurprisingly therefore the ANC and its historical struggles against apart-
heid were dismissed by the youth, for they stand accused of not disman-
tling the political and economic systems created under apartheid but rather
employing the selfsame policies to the benefit of those who were part of the
struggle. Why did university students then turn on the ideology of reconcili-
ation and a non-racial, non-sexist democracy as rooted in the constitution
and espoused in the school history curricula since 1994?
For the “born frees,” learning about apartheid in a constructivist manner
constituted images of a hierarchical order of knowledge still controlled by
textbook authors, which served to hide the “real” history of South Africa
that confronts them on a daily basis. This history, both imagined and real,
proved to be most identifiable and objectionable in statues from the pre-
1994 era and hence these were attacked. As such the student protests related
to statues and anti-ANC political activities drew on the school history they
studied but did not believe, as it embodied a knowledge that did not speak
to what they viewed as the “real history.” That is a school history that
would help to explain their anger and frustration at the pace and nature of
transformation in post-apartheid South Africa.
School history and the way it dealt with apartheid perpetuated and rein-
forced a historical memory of oppression rather than reshaping it. In other
words, a deep suspicion and resentment arose towards the very effective and
successful uncontroversial school history taught since 1994, which in its
search for reconciliation and nation building has marginalized the historical
narrative the majority of young Black South Africans wanted to hear. How-
ever, in this generational conflict the born frees did call for a radical change
of South African society but not for making school history compulsory.
To a certain extent the ANC was anticipating the youth reaction. After
all, the vast majority of history teachers in the country are members of
SADTU and they know what is happening in their schools. The initial ANC
reaction was to chastise the youth for being unpatriotic, ungrateful and
lacking any knowledge of what came before, especially knowledge of the
triumphalist views the ANC held about its struggles against apartheid. In
the wake of the youth rebellion, which moved on to call for the abolition
of university fees and resulted in serious election losses for the ANC during
the 2016 municipal elections, the ANC reacted by proposing to make school
history compulsory. However, by doing so the ANC was not only politiciz-
ing school history more so than at any other stage since 1994 but was also
to an extent recanting what has happened in terms of the content taught and
the pedagogy employed in teaching and learning about apartheid during this
time period.
By proposing to make school history compulsory, and based on the rheto-
ric that emanated in the process, the following is clear: The ANC is admit-
ting (or is at the very least deeply suspicious of the fact) that the school
history it has created is no longer suitable and must be reconstructed. This
implies that a school history that was based on the values of the constitution,
and had as a central aim the post-apartheid promotion of rainbowism,
nation building, a new national identity and reconciliation are no longer
relevant. Simply put, the government is indicating in a roundabout way
that the school history it created has run its course and must be disowned
and along with it the manner in which apartheid was taught. Consequently,
school history that could be chosen as a subject in Grade 10 as part of a
democratic process must be augmented by a compulsory section as part of
Life Orientation4 that would seemingly have at its heart the rote learning
of a nationalistic, exclusionary patriotic history that would simultaneously
cure all ills and reeducate the born frees on where they come from (Sanews.
gov.za, 2015) and the debts they owe to the struggle. It must also be borne
in mind that in making this proposal the government is showing urgency,
for the latest incarnation of the school history curriculum, CAPS, was fully
implemented only in 2014.
(E/De)Volving
In 2007, Colin Bundy proposed three major discursive attempts to nar-
rate the post-1994 history of South Africa: “Rainbow Nation,” “African
Renaissance” and “Ethnic Particularism.” He argued that from the mid-
1990s onwards optimism for reconciliation and nation building was fading
and was being overtaken by ideas from Black intellectuals who were adopt-
ing notions of African nationalism (Stolten, 2007). In school history, with
particular reference to the teaching of apartheid, such rapid developments
were not intended. Instead, reconciliation, and all it implied, was as a politi-
cal project allowed to dominate school history. As a consequence, the most
controversial historical event in the history of South Africa, apartheid, was
not allowed to evolve beyond rainbowism because the volving was domi-
nated by the grand ideas of democracy, non-racism, non-sexism and human
rights. In the process, the real horrors and structural and psychological
legacies of apartheid were subjugated to a bigger political cause, as can be
gleaned from the curricula and pedagogies adopted over the past 22 years.
Sacrificing apartheid in school history in this manner was but partly suc-
cessfully and never had full buy-in from all. Instead, the overt acts of recon-
ciliation by means of school history, which had at its heart the underplaying
of apartheid, did not shape a new historical memory. What it did instead
was to reinforce historical memories about apartheid and what it stood for,
as can be seen by the recent actions and reactions of the born frees, whose
volving was in stark contrast to the ideologies underpinning the school his-
tory into which they had been socialized. In fact, their slogans harped back
to the struggles against apartheid as if it had never ended and had much
more in common with the Black intellectual thinking about history that
started to evolve in the 1990s than the school history they have learned. In
realizing that rainbowism, as perpetuated through school history, has for
the most part failed the Black majority, for whom apartheid and its legacies
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70 Johan Wassermann
are still very much part of their daily lives, the proposed solution from the
government to make school history compulsory in one form or another is
an educationally radical one.
The exact manner in which school history will become compulsory is not
settled yet as the project is still ongoing. Present thinking is that it will fit
into Life Orientation. However, what is more certain is that new contro-
versies and sensitivities around the teaching and learning about apartheid
would surely arise—especially since, for the second time in 22 years, the
South African government is not fully grasping the fact that school history
“cannot guarantee democrats, patriots, or even anti-racists, because the past
is complex and does not sanctify any particular or personal position above
another” (Lee, 1998, pp. 52–54).
Notes
1. In street slang volving can mean a dance move or a state of mind. In this chap-
ter I will blend the two meanings into a single conceptualization (volving / to
volve) whereby I argue that moves made are based on an existing state of mind.
I contend that the moves made in South Africa as they related to the teaching and
learning about apartheid are a manifestation of the states of mind at a specific
time in a specific context.
2. For the purpose of this paper, Black would include Africans, Coloreds and Indi-
ans. These apartheid-era designations have been retained by the postapartheid
state ostensibly for the purposes of redress.
3. “Born frees” are young people born after 1994 or at the time who have no living
memory of apartheid. They all experienced some school history post-1994.
4. Life Orientation seeks to develop the self-in-society. In so doing it focusses on
what is needed for the personal, social and physical development of learners.
Section 1 Commentary
Education-Between History and Memory
Peter Seixas
Four very different chapters are the subject of this commentary.
To summarize briefly, in chapter 1 Sirkka Ahonen juxtaposes three differ-
ent situations—in Finland, South Africa and the former Yugoslavia—where
there are divided communities and contested memories. She uses these to
contribute to a theoretical framework for dealing with difficult histories in
educational settings.
In chapter 2 Maria Grever writes about “difficult heritage” for the Neth-
erlands. In contrast to Ahonen, a divided community in the present is not
the issue. Rather, it is how to deal with collective guilt around World War II
and the Holocaust. Grever is, rightly, not much concerned with giving Neo-
Nazis a fair hearing. The central question for her is the educational potential
of representations of the past in popular culture.
In chapter 3 Loh Kah Seng provides a fascinating account of controversies
over the 1963 Operation Coldstore in Singapore. Was Coldstore a legiti-
mate response to a threat of insurrection, or a political move to secure the
rule of the People’s Action Party (PAP)? Loh argues that this question is
not a genuine historiographic controversy at this point, but rather a conse-
quence of the PAP’s efforts to shape the past.
Finally, in chapter 4 Johan Wassermann examines the more than two
decades of South African history education since the ending of apartheid.
Here we have the long shadow of Mandela’s efforts at truth and reconcilia-
tion coming up against the ongoing racialized legacies of colonial settlement
and apartheid.
All four authors explore past events that have generated memories, and
the (largely, state) institutions that have preserved, enhanced or transformed
those memories. They also all ask, what is to be done about those memories
in the present through history education? We need to acknowledge at the
outset that they are able to pose this question plausibly and significantly,
only because we history educators believe that there is an opportunity here:
that history teaching can make a difference and that academics’ work may at
some point have some impact on curriculum policies and teachers’ practices.
Without those beliefs, our efforts are fraudulent and we should all look for
work in some other field. Yet, they rest on the existence of a relatively open
71
Section 1 Commentary 73
liberal, democratic state, responsible for education policy and responsive to
public dialogue.
My analytical framework begins with basic elements from what Jörn
Rüsen called a “disciplinary matrix,” as interpreted by Allan Megill
(1994).1 The matrix—actually a cycle—provides a way of thinking about
the relationship between the discipline of history and the larger cultural
circumstances within which the discipline is practiced. We can begin with
individuals, groups and nations who have needs for orientation in time.
These provide the genesis for historians’ work. Historians address questions
that arise from these needs, mobilizing theories and employing methodolo-
gies that have been developed within the discipline. In turn, the products of
historians’ work, their representations of the past, feed back into the larger
culture’s understandings and orientations. So there is a dialogical relation-
ship between the disciplinary practices of history and what gets translated
from the German as “life practice.”
A second layer of analysis involves the much-discussed relationship
between history and memory. I am proposing the distinction as ideal types:
There is no such thing as “pure history” devoid of the characteristics of
memory, and yet it will be helpful to pose the distinction. I follow Pierre
Nora (1996, p. 3) in drawing a border between them. Memory is deeply
felt; it affirms community ties, collective identities and common foes; and it
thrives on preservation and enhancement. History is analytic and intellec-
tual; it belongs to “everyone and no one” (in Nora’s phrase); and it thrives
on evidence-based critique and revision.
Superimposing this distinction on Rüsen’s disciplinary matrix, we have
a conceptual scheme that puts all kinds of memory practices in the lower
semi-circle where they contribute to identity formation and community
building (see Figure S.1). Particularly where there are difficult memories,
fractured communities and plural societies, they give rise to questions that
are appropriately taken up by the critical, evidence-based, truth-seeking
methods of history. From there, if all works well, new representations of the
past can feed back into popular memory. Over time, new mixes of peoples
and new political sensitivities will generate needs for new kinds of orienta-
tion in time, giving rise to new modes of historical investigation. We can call
this a “history/memory matrix.”
Now we return to school history with a new tool that allows us to exam-
ine practices beyond the too-simple question, “Which (or whose) story is
being told?” asked by history teachers, textbooks and curricular prescrip-
tion. It helps to make sense of the forms in which history is taught in schools
in relation to public memory and academic history. Is school history con-
fined to the bottom semi-circle, unabashedly aimed at shaping public mem-
ory? Is it confined to the top half, promoting students’ disciplinary skills but
divorced from their identity needs? Or is it located in the transitional band
between the dotted lines, helping students to negotiate across the history/
memory divide?
73
74 Peter Seixas
Figure S.1 History/memory matrix
How well does this work as a lens for examining the four papers?
Initially, it appears that Sirkka Ahonen would reject much of what I have
outlined so far. She starts out by defining “history” as “different representa-
tions of the past” (p. 17), giving no special place to academic history. It is, in
her words, a “narrow field of history production.” She offers a key statement
on p. 18. Keep in mind that she is using “history” to include “different repre-
sentations of the past.”
History is vital for human beings in their life-orientation, and grand

narratives are a source of empowerment. To come from outside, like
the international experts in Bosnia-Herzegovina, and ask history teach-
ers to dedicate the classrooms to activities imitating academic research,
would deprive history of the important function of identity building.
Nevertheless, as socially exclusive narratives hinder mutual understand-
ing in a divided community, an interaction between the narratives is a
necessity—especially as it is in line with the nature of historical knowl-
edge: The picture of the past in never complete if looked at from one
angle solely.
The big question this raises is: How can history educators achieve “an
interaction between . . . idiosyncratic narratives?” She proposes Haberma-
sian dialogue, communicative action in the context of an open, democratic
classroom. But isn’t this, in the context of competing memories (or “idio-
syncratic narratives”), actually a call for doing history in school? Where will
teachers turn, other than to a student-appropriate version of the methods
and dispositions of the disparagingly referenced “academic history,” to deal
with competing memories in fractured communities? So I think that we are
actually saying some of the same things with different language.
Maria Grever’s chapter constitutes a search for the educational potential
of popular memory, particularly in the case of what, quoting Sharon Mac-
donald (2009), she calls “difficult heritage,” that is, “a past that is . . . con-
tested and awkward for public reconciliation with a positive, self-affirming
contemporary identity” (p. 35). As Grever states, her aim is “to stimulate
research into the relationship between popular uses of difficult heritage con-
cerning WWII and the Holocaust and history teaching” (p. 31).
While Holocaust heritage (if we can call it that) is pervasive in Europe,
how is it used, how is it understood by young people and how could it serve
educational purposes? Immersive experiences generating strong emotional
responses around issues that are necessarily fraught with moral questions
present minefields in all directions: from “unearned emotion” (felt but not
grounded), to moral numbness (apathy where a response is demanded).
In order to sort these out from an educational vantage point, Grever
explores the problem of historical distance. Once thought to be the defining
factor in separating memory (where the past close or “present”) from his-
tory (where the past is a “foreign country” or distant), it has recently become
much more complex. Grever poses three layers of historical distance—
time, place and participation—to sort out the complexity.
Seen through the lens of the history/memory matrix, Grever provides con-
ceptual tools for designing educational experiences that thoughtfully bal-
ance emotion and immersion with distance and critique, and for corralling
assorted emotional bombshells and sensory fireworks that exist in contem-
porary heritage culture for the purposes of education. She has a sensitive
hand on that sliding scale of school history, keeping it right in the transi-
tional zone of the history/memory matrix.
Loh Kah Seng’s analysis of Operation Coldstore provides a third oppor-
tunity to test the utility of the history/memory matrix. I have worked with a
number of history educators from Singapore. Reading this paper provided
me, for the first time, with an understanding of some of the contradictions
75
76 Peter Seixas
that they are dealing with. A British, disciplinary approach to history educa-
tion, heavily influenced by the work of Peter Lee, undergirded by principles
of open, evidence-based inquiry, has been pervasive in Singapore; and yet it
all takes place in the context of an authoritarian regime.
The historiography of Operation Coldstore complicates the history/
memory matrix in very interesting ways. In this story, three committed, activ-
ist historians stimulated by public controversy in the late 2000s (p. 49) use
the disciplinary tools of history—finding newly released archival sources—
to challenge the official narrative of the Coldstore incident promulgated by
Singapore’s ruling PAP. The ruling party, in its turn, found a defender in
Kumar Ramakrishna, who wrote a defense of the governments’ position.
In a sense, here, we have a historiographic controversy. On the basis of
the reading of this highly plausible account, however, I am entirely con-
vinced that our protagonist—the author—has practiced history the way it
should be done. His history, as he says, would have been considered normal
in countries such as the U.S. and Britain (p. 50), and his opponent is pro-
mulgating something else.
How do politically engaged historians fit into the history-memory matrix?
Which is the trump card: historical method or political engagement? Are
they necessarily opposed at all? And what do we do with state-sponsored
historians? Clearly this case exposes “academic history” as a potentially
fractured category, as any historiographer well knows.
Loh Kah Seng provides a clear account of teachers using the openings
provided by discipline-inspired curriculum policy, even in the context of an
authoritarian state. Brave teachers, who do have a certain degree of auton-
omy, teach the controversy in their classrooms, using accessible sources.
Johan Wassermann sets the stage for his piece with the teaching and learn-
ing of history in apartheid-era schools. There are no surprises here: he finds
radical inequality in resources, along with a race-based, White supremacist
national narrative that justified Afrikaner domination. There was no place for
disciplinary practices of historiographic debate in this school regime (p. 60).
His next two sections explore the development of a post-apartheid
approach to history from the standpoint of official curriculum and text-
books (macro), and from that of teachers and students (micro). On one
hand, school history might serve a role in the process of truth and reconcili-
ation; on the other hand, “forgetting” the past might be the best course for
achieving a unified “rainbow” nation.
In this account, there is ambivalence at both the macro and micro levels.
Curriculum policy has wavered among sidelining history altogether, using
it for promoting the open discussion of the past and mobilizing it in the
service of an explicit African nationalism. How the tensions among these
positions worked out over time was complex and differed at the level of
particular schools, and even particular teachers. Since 2014, however, there
has been a push for school history to “enhance nation building, national
pride, patriotism, social cohesion and cultural heritage” (p. 66). If Johan
Wassermann has it right, South African history education is now moving
firmly and clearly below the line in the history/memory matrix. Yet, he closes
with a note of warning from Peter Lee, whose prescriptions for history edu-
cation locate it firmly in the upper semi-circle.
In sum, the four chapters in this section provide analyses of history educa-
tion in schools around the world as being poised in different ways in various
contexts, to address political, social and cultural divisions. Distance and
proximity, emotion and reason, power and resistance are key variables as
history educators forge workable tools to help the next generation deal with
the legacies of difficult pasts.
Note
1. This framework was published in Public History Weekly, where it became the
subject of an extended exchange. See Seixas (2016). Here is the Sexias, 2016 cita-
tion, in an endnote
77
Section 2
Teaching and Learning

Indigenous Histories
79
5 Teaching and Learning
Difficult Histories
Australia
Anna Clark
Do you think it’s important to learn about Indigenous history today?
Mel: To an extent, yeah.
Jenny: But not over-do it.
Sophie: Yeah, if you over-do it, people start to not care.
—Year 10 students, Independent Girls’ School, Perth
Introduction
As in many settler societies, the pressing challenge facing Australian history
and history education concerns the colonization of its Indigenous people:
How do we collectively remember a national “birth” that was also char-
acterized by violent confrontation, dispossession and Indigenous dispersal?
How do we teach that troubling and contested past in school?
Such questions have spawned heated, highly politicized debates over the
ways that colonization should be recognized and collectively remembered
in Australia’s national narrative in recent decades. These “history wars,”
as they’ve come to be known, play out over the representation of Austra-
lia’s colonial history in museum exhibits, national anniversaries and public
monuments: Should “Australia Day” fall on January 26 (the day in 1788
when Governor Arthur Phillip and the First Fleet of convicts landed in
what is now Sydney)? Should the Australian War Memorial commemorate
Indigenous victims of the Frontier Wars? These are questions that go to the
heart of this difficult history (Attwood, 2005; Macintyre & Clark, 2003;
Manne, 2003).
School history has been a particularly heated site of dispute. Successive
state and federal governments have fought significant public battles over the
terminology of Australia’s colonial memory, inserting and deleting words like
“settlement” and “invasion” in turn; “discover,” “pioneer” and “genocide”
have been similarly fraught. Yes, disagreement over teaching Australia’s “dif-
ficult history” has literally been as a crude as that (Clark, 2006, 2008). Only
recently, the federal Education Minister ordered a review of the new national
history curriculum because of its supposed ideological bias. “We think that
of course we should recognize the mistakes that have been made in the past,”
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82 Anna Clark
Christopher Pyne acknowledged. “But we don’t want to beat ourselves up
every day” (Kids should learn about Anzac Day: Pyne, 2013).
Yet, at a time when debates about the subject reached their crescendo, it
seemed that the very people over whom these contests were being waged
were missing from public discourse: Where were the voices of students and
teachers? While pedagogical questions about how to teach history were tak-
ing place among professional circles of teachers and history educationists,
classroom perspectives have been largely overshadowed by the public and
political context of the school history wars.
This chapter is a response of sorts, and is based on a qualitative proj-
ect I conducted a few years ago into Australian history education. It was
never intended to be a statistical survey of students’ historical knowledge. 1
Instead, I wanted to ask how students connect with the past. What do they
find interesting about Australian history? What don’t they enjoy? Do they
think it should be a compulsory subject? If so, how should it be taught?
Despite the increasing political traction and contestation of Australian his-
tory, such questions have largely been absent from public debates over the
subject.
In all, 246 people from around Australia were interviewed for the study:
There were 182 high school students (who were interviewed in small focus
groups), as well as 43 teachers (including five student teachers) and 20 cur-
riculum officials from around Australia. (A smaller, comparative set of inter-
views with 78 participants—56 students, 17 teachers and five curriculum
officials—was conducted in four Canadian school districts in British Colum-
bia, Ontario, Québec and New Brunswick.)
This wasn’t a representative sample by any means, but a national col-
lection of interviews about teaching the nation’s history. The project was
motivated by a desire to present real voices from the classroom, not tables of
survey results. As such, the interview questions ranged across students’ and
teachers’ experiences with topics such as local history, Australia’s federation
in 1901, Australians at war, contemporary political history, and attitudes to
Australian history more broadly, rather than any specific factual knowledge.
Democratizing Australian public debates over history education might
have been a noble aim, but it uncovered some deeply troubling results. For a
start, the subject continues to be an anathema for many schoolchildren—as
one Year 12 student from Darwin said to me in an interview in 2006, she
would rather learn any history than her own nation’s: “I remember doing it
heaps in primary school and it was really boring, and it still is, and Austra-
lian history just makes we want to cry. It’s so boring and I can’t stand it.”2
Worryingly, it is Indigenous history in particular that stands out as one
of the most scorned areas of Australian history. Unlike other jurisdictions—
such as Japan, or Russia, for example—the challenge to teach Australia’s
difficult history of colonization is not a matter of overcoming entrenched
social attitudes or political censorship (Bollag, 2001; Buruma, 1995; Hein &
Seldon, 2000; Wertsch, 2002). That debate was had in the 1960s and 1970s.
Difficult Histories: Australia 83
After more than 40 years of concerted and sustained efforts to include
Indigenous perspectives in Australian history syllabi, an uncoordinated
overexposure to this history now seems to be the problem. Despite the
emphatic shift towards critical Indigenous readings of Australian history,
students say they’re no longer interested. It is that tension, between the
expectations of historians and history educators and the day-to-day real-
ity of teaching and learning that history in the classroom, which I want to
explore in this chapter.
From Historical Silence to Overexposure

Given the centrality of Indigenous history to the history wars in Australia,
students’ dismissive views about the topic were surprising, to say the least. In
schools around the country, students described being “over” Indigenous his-
tory. Emily from Hobart explained how some bits “were interesting but some
were really boring.” “I can’t actually remember what was boring,” she says,
“I just remember being bored out of my brains.” 3 Sophia, a Year 12 student
at a public school in Adelaide, complained that Indigenous history was end-
lessly repeated in her early years: “Like I did it all the way through primary
school, and you kind of learn the same thing again and again and again.”4
If their comments seem repetitive, that’s because their experiences with
the same topics are as well. At a public high school in Brisbane, Kai com-
plained that Indigenous history “was like repetitive and boring.” His class-
mate Tracy had the same experience: “Yeah, we just learnt the same thing
every year. It wasn’t very interesting.”5 Students were just as exasperated at
another Brisbane school:
Have you ever studied Indigenous History?

All: Yes.
Zach: Every year!
Miranda: Every year. It’s always the same stuff too.6
At a girls’ school in Perth, Mel’s response was pretty much the same. “It
was the same stuff like over and over again,” she says, “like, ‘What hunt-
ing tools do they use?’ and ‘What are the common tribes?’ and blah, blah,
blah—it’s so Grrrr ”7 Negative responses to Indigenous history were so
pervasive that some Indigenous students I spoke with clearly didn’t want to
talk about the topic or their attitudes to it in front of their classmates. Two
whom I spoke with even said they didn’t think it was particularly impor-
tant to learn about. I suspect they can’t bear to be seen as the “Indigenous
spokesperson” for their class.
It appears Australian history is faced with a troubling contradiction in
its schools: Students complain that they’ve “done” Indigenous history and
culture—and they’ve clearly studied it all the way through school—but their
actual knowledge is patchy at best. Tamsyn, a teacher from Canberra, felt
83
84 Anna Clark
that her students simply don’t know enough about the very history they
complain of: “They do say ‘Oh we’ve done this before’, but they haven’t
done it at the depth they need to.” 8 In Adelaide, Lara admitted that there
is often only a “smattering” of knowledge among her students. “You don’t
know how much they’ve done and how much they haven’t,” she says.9
Part of the problem could be that Indigenous history teaching doesn’t
have a long history of its own in Australia. Many teachers didn’t learn about
it themselves at school, and if they did it wasn’t a large aspect of their educa-
tion. A generation ago, Indigenous perspectives were marginal at best, and
until waves of new historical writing emerged the 1960s and 1970s, Austra-
lian history was relatively untroubled by the questions it posed. It was, as
the anthropologist W.E.H. Stanner famously said in his 1968 Boyer lectures,
a “Great Australian Silence” (Stanner, 1968).
Influenced by the civil rights movement in the U.S., a growing land rights
movement in the 1970s and the politics of Aboriginal self-determination
corresponded with a growing critical view that the pioneering European set-
tlement of Australia was in fact a bloody and ruthless invasion. Phrases such
as “White Australia has a Black History” became increasingly prominent in
this effort to rewrite Australia’s past (Attwood, 1996; Bohemia, 1993; Pear-
son, 1998; Reid & Reid, 1991; Rose, 1984). This revisionist push exposed
and overturned the now glaring omission of Aboriginal perspectives from
conventional Australian narratives. The efforts of Indigenous and non-
Indigenous writers, historians and activists to increasingly fill in this silence
by incorporating Indigenous perspectives greatly changed Australian history
and history teaching over the last few decades (Haebich & Kinnane, 2013).
The rewriting of history syllabuses and teaching documents wasn’t far
behind the growing reappraisal of Australia’s past. Educators expressed
unease about the inadequacy of much of the syllabus content and avail-
able teaching methodologies. Their concerns reflected changing ideas about
Australian history, and the gradual inclusion of Indigenous perspectives in
syllabuses and school texts challenged the traditional national narrative and
its transmission in schools (Barlow, 1977; Davison, 1987; Hoban, 1986;
Jones, 1987; O’Conner, 1998; Woods, 1998).
In the 1970s and 1980s there was a huge shift in history teaching in Austra-
lia: An increased emphasis on multiculturalism and ethnicity was noticeable
in both syllabuses and teaching literature from the late 1970s; 10 curricu-
lum documents increasingly took Indigenous perspectives into account, and
State Education Departments such as New South Wales even enacted their
inclusion across all curricula (Butler, 2000; Young, 1987, 1997). If you take
the time to look back over the various professional journals of the History
Teachers’ Associations from around the country during this period, there is
a noticeable effort to accommodate the histories of women, migrants and
Indigenous people in their teaching practices and approaches.11
This inclusion, and even mandating, of Indigenous perspectives funda-
mentally altered the ways Australian history was conceived and taught in
the classroom. In just one generation Australian history teaching under-
went a radical reworking, and many of the curriculum designers and teach-
ers I spoke with had personal experience of this reorientation. Greg, who
taught at an independent girls’ school in Brisbane, seemed mortified by his
early approach to Australian history: “And, to my embarrassment, when
I started teaching in the 1970s,” he said, “we didn’t, we just didn’t teach
Aboriginal history. If we did it was boomerangs and woomeras. I would
have had Aboriginal kids in my class in those years! So I’m embarrassed that
I’ve ignored students in my class.”12
Meanwhile, one Indigenous student teacher I spoke with said the fact that
she was taught so little Indigenous history during her time at school moti-
vated her to become a history teacher. Where Kylie went to school, “Aborig-
inal history wasn’t being taught,” she said. She was “the only Aboriginal kid
in class in an era when Aboriginal people weren’t really part of history.”13
Despite contributing to the radical shift in public perceptions of Austra-
lian history, this curriculum reorientation was not conducted in any coher-
ent manner. In fact, until now, the opposite has almost certainly been the
case: By the time they leave school, “most students will have experienced a
fragmented, repetitive and incomplete” Australian history education (Tay-
lor & Clark, 2006, p. 34). While students are generally receptive to issues
of social justice and acknowledge the importance of including Indigenous
perspectives in Australian history, they’re not so keen on being taught the
same thing over and over again.
Comments from students and teachers show how this lack of coordina-
tion is especially true for Indigenous history. Lee, a Year 12 student from
Canberra, said that it isn’t the topic itself that’s the problem, but the way
it’s organized: “Well, when you’re first taught about Indigenous history it’s
interesting. But each year, when they teach it again and again, it might lose a
bit of interest.”14 Instead of an increasingly complex and recursive approach
to Indigenous history, there has up until now been a repetitive approach—
and a significant backlash from students.
The current implementation of a new national history curriculum is the
latest attempt to try and arrest this student revolt. While many teachers
worry that any mandating of the subject will turn students off Indigenous
history further, others are hopeful that greater centralization of curriculum
design and delivery will prevent some of the repetition and student backlash
(Taylor, 2008). Only time will tell—and that’s only if the current govern-
ment’s review does not impede the 2015 national rollout of the curriculum.
A Pedagogical and Historical Challenge

It isn’t simply curricular barriers that impede teaching and learning this dif-
ficult history: It is difficult to teach Indigenous history well. In the 1970s, the
huge shift to incorporate Indigenous perspectives also brought new difficul-
ties for teachers and students. While the previous exclusion of Indigenous
85
86 Anna Clark
voices and perspectives perpetuated a narrow and limited version of Austra-
lian history, its overturning has highlighted questions about historical voice
itself—namely, who can tell this story, and how?
A number of teachers I spoke with for this research felt reluctant to touch
on aspects of Indigenous history in their classes because they’re not comfort-
able speaking about someone else’s experience. They know enough history
to have been influenced by the postmodern and post-colonial turns, but
not enough to confidently manage the questions of historical authority such
movements raised (Boucher, 2013).
Neil from Canberra said that, “It’s not an area, to be honest, in which
I feel particularly confident.” When he has “wanted to do anything other
than the straight politics of Aboriginal rights in a White society,” he says,
“I’ve tried to get in Indigenous guest speakers because I feel more comfort-
able with them telling their own story than me.” Teachers worry that by
speaking for Aboriginal people, they may in fact be maintaining the very
silence they hoped to overturn. But who is able to bring in an Indigenous
expert every time the topic is raised? And when they can’t, does that mean
Indigenous history is off-limits?
These aren’t easy questions to answer. The inclusion of Indigenous
perspectives has fundamentally challenged the way Australian history is
approached (and we ignore them at our historical peril). But not to teach
it altogether would be even riskier. I suspect the wariness that a number of
teachers feel about this topic has contributed to some of the repetition stu-
dents have experienced. Teachers end up offering what they know, what is
safe, simply because there aren’t the resources or the possibilities for profes-
sional development to do any differently.
This is a recurring bone of contention with teachers. Many of them (and
often experienced ones at that) are troubled by the opportunities available
to them to teach Indigenous history to their kids. It means that history les-
sons often feel too one-sided, says John, who teaches at a public girls’ school
in Sydney:
We visit museums, like the city museum, and we have the people talking
to them. And we see the artefacts, performances and so forth. But that
really sort of is Aboriginality “on show,” isn’t it, rather than coming to
a real understanding.15
For Tamsyn in Canberra, there are also problems with resources at her
school: “I think we’re sometimes strapped for resources,” she says. “And
I’ve heard kids say, ‘Oh we’ve watched Rabbit Proof Fence. We watched it
in Year 6, we watched in English. I don’t want to watch this anymore.’ So
you have to be careful about that.”16
Even in areas with a high proportion of Indigenous students, Indigenous
history is a contentious and problematic topic—and perhaps its very pres-
ence in those classrooms makes it all the more difficult to grapple with. At
a large public school in central Australia, Jane explained that when she first
arrived at the school and taught a unit on the Myall Creek massacre, she
thought she’d tie it in to the Coniston massacre, which had occurred locally
in 1928, as a way of contextualizing the topic. But “I didn’t really realize
it was quite as sensitive as that,” she says. There are “still people around
who were babies, young children at that time, and there’s still a great deal of
disagreement between people around here.” It “was far too close to home,”
she admits, and “I realized that without knowing I touched on something
that I shouldn’t have touched on.”17
David, who teaches in a small town in central Australia, has also come up
against local resistance:
I tend to stay away from it here in this area because there is . . . you
know, this is fairly local and [there were] a few massacres in this area
with some of the local tribes so one has to be careful how you dance.
His position is a tricky one, he says:
it’s actually considered that most of we white people are considered to

be the invaders and we’re the ones responsible for you know I’m
not old enough to have done massacres but I mean it comes from first
encounter times.18
Indigenous history isn’t ancient history, as these teachers remind us. It’s
playing out every day in their classrooms. At a school near Darwin, Tanya
says that her kids have a “very rural mindset.” “I don’t like using the word
redneck,” she says, “but a lot of the kids come from redneck backgrounds
and I feel that’s in one way why we’ve steered clear from doing straight
units on Indigenous history because there does get a bit of antagonism.” As
a teacher, she has to negotiate not only the needs of her Indigenous students,
but the politics of the area she lives and teaches in, as well as the topic itself:
We do actually have a high population of Indigenous students here but

if it’s taught as Indigenous history, quite a few of the kids get their backs
up and ‘what are we learning about this for’ and blah, blah, blah. So
you have to be quite careful.19
When that carefulness was not adhered to, students could be vehemently
defensive. “ ‘Invasion’ is a guilt trip,” insisted Samantha from an indepen-
dent girls’ school in Melbourne. “Like we’re meant to feel that our ances-
tors came and like killed a billion Aborigines,” she said, “and took over
a country and gave them diseases.”20 Several teachers also picked up on
this apparent backlash. Neil, who works at a senior secondary college in
Canberra, said his students “don’t like being made to feel guilty for some-
thing that they didn’t have any control over.”21 Other teachers made similar
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88 Anna Clark
connections. Esther’s students also didn’t want to feel responsible for Aus-
tralia’s colonial history: “I think also some of them,” she says, “depending
on how it’s taught and so on, have a sense of guilt, and ‘This is meant to
make us feel bad.’ ”22 Despite the efforts of historical inclusion and revision,
for many students this has generated a problematic backlash, where ideol-
ogy and pedagogy are difficult to disentangle.
“Indigenous History Still Matters”23

Despite these difficulties, despite the endless “we’ve done it before” com-
ments from the classroom, teachers and students overwhelmingly acknowl-
edged the need for Indigenous history in school. While they deplored the
repetition they’ve experienced, students understood its importance in Aus-
tralian history. There was a strong sense in the interviews that despite the
difficulties of teaching Indigenous history, not teaching it would be far, far
worse.
Says Mary, a high school teacher in Brisbane, “I have a five year rule: If I’m
selecting things, I want either the content or the process to matter to them
in five years, and I think Indigenous history still matters.” 24 Jenny, another
Brisbane history teacher, also insists its place is central in the curriculum:
Indigenous history is obviously an integral element of Australian his-

tory, and to deny that is to deny who we are. I think increasingly people
have acknowledged that—that it’s not a particular perspective. It’s sim-
ply a dimension of the whole, and it can’t be overlooked.25
It isn’t just the tangible benefits of knowing this history that drives teach-
ers. For Greg, studying Indigenous history is important:
it’s a brand new perspective. It’s a bit like when feminism arrived in the
1970s and gave us a whole new way of looking at previous interpreta-
tions. Well, this is another perspective that gives us new ways of
looking at old evidence, so it’s exciting for that reason.26
Brian also senses the intellectual significance of the topic:
It’s an integral part of understanding who we are, and if history’s going

to have any role if studying history in school is to give kids the criti-
cal dimension of understanding their society’s place in the world, who
they are as an individual and at a societal level, then I think it’s a really
important part of our story.27
While respondents in so many of these interviews expressed frustration at

how Indigenous history has been taught, their belief in its presence in history
syllabuses has been as strong. Like their teachers, students also consistently
acknowledged the need to understand Indigenous history. Sam from Ade-
laide warned that, “if we didn’t have any knowledge of what happened
between Europeans and Aboriginals” Australia would remain divided: “It
would make reconciliation a lot harder if there wasn’t any knowledge of
the background issues.”28 At a state high school in Hobart, Tenealle com-
pared her education to her parents’: “When our parents [went to school] . . .
they didn’t learn anything. They learnt that the Aboriginals had all gone,
and they didn’t really learn anything about what happened to them.” 29 In
Melbourne, Ellie thinks “it’s really important” to learn Indigenous history.
“I mean I think it’s pretty evident that there’s still a lot of, you know, non-
accepting people in Australia of different cultures.”30
It’s clear these students believe in the significance of Indigenous history
despite the repetitive nature of what they’ve been taught. In fact, when
I asked a group of students in Brisbane whether it was important, they
framed their response in these terms precisely. Yes, it is important, they said,
but it has to be better managed:
Lindy: Yeah, I think it’s really important, especially Aboriginal history,

because that is really our heritage, despite the European coloni-
zation or invasion or whatever.
Miranda: It’s important, but they need to broaden the curriculum in what
they teach, instead of just doing the same things.
Lindy: And maybe teach what’s happening today, rather than just what
happened then, because it’s still history.
It’s heartening that students still sense the interest and importance of this
topic. They recognize that it offers different perspectives on the past, and
it challenges them to think differently. That’s certainly what Mal hopes to
achieve through his teaching. As an Indigenous teacher, he’s a rare voice in
all of this, but he says “the satisfaction I get out of it is when kids walk away
and they think, ‘Oh, I didn’t expect to think about those sort of issues.’ ”
He teaches Indigenous history so that his students “can understand some of
the issues without a blind, you know, view of things. That’s how I want my
students to go through, to get that sort of result.”31
Yet many classes are caught in a mismatch between good intentions and
good curriculum. Students want historical complexity that’s well planned,
and they don’t want repeated messages, says Ellen, who teaches at a public
high school in Darwin: “They’re not interested in hearing this kind of potted
version of the Dreamtime and all that sort of rubbish you know.” Students
don’t like “bullshit,” she argues. “I think they like anything that’s real and
true. But as soon as you start trying to push a line down their throat they
get a bit anti.”32
Her comments were backed up by a number of students. Annie, for
one, explained that she didn’t want a simple story of Indigenous history:
“Like the political struggle for land and that kind of thing is probably more
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90 Anna Clark
interesting than learning about what they ate, to be honest.” 33 In Hobart,
Allie likes it when the teacher can “question you and you have big class
discussions about it.”34 Ultimately, said Ellen, picking up on that classroom
backlash about “guilt,” students don’t want a safe, tired narrative of Indige-
nous people: “I think the assumption that kids want some sort of . . . I don’t
know, panacea or some sort of an apology, apologist history or something
I think is wrong.”35
In fact, far from learning a “safe, tired narrative,” Annie and her Can-
berra classmates reckon it’s the complexity of Indigenous history that has
helped them understand its importance:
Felicity: Because it makes us respect what has happened here and it makes
us respect what the Aboriginals went through when Europeans
came and how things have changed.
Annie: It also allows us to create . . . we’re not exactly ignorant anymore
and we’re able to found our own opinions. Although, of course,
sometimes you get in class and it’s a little one-sided. Our teacher
is really great. She’s really open and everything, so we can estab-
lish what we really believe and how we feel about the situation.
Felicity: Like you can’t go through life not knowing that there was people
here when the Europeans invaded. Like little kids, they just think
“oh yes, that’s it, we’ve been here forever,” but the Aboriginals
call that Invasion Day.36
Students haven’t been completely closed off from Indigenous history—it’s

just that most of them have had very sporadic approaches to the topic,
with far too much repetition, not enough material with which they can
engage and teachers who don’t feel confident with the material they have.
This means it’s just that much harder to get them switched on again. Jan-
ice admits that her students “often come initially with, ‘Oh not Aboriginal
history again’. But once they got into it,” she says, they “saw that we were
trying to build” on their previous knowledge. The students got interested
because “we had a slightly different approach, I suppose, a more mature
approach than just, you know, ‘this is the Dreamtime story.’ ”37 Brian, a
teacher from a government school on the north of Sydney described it as
history’s “critical dimension”: “I think it’s a really liberating, empowering
subject to teach,” he said, “and students I believe walk out of my classrooms
feeling more empowered than they do out of other subjects. It’s the idea of
knowing it’s okay to think critically.”38
As a part-time history educator, Brian’s comments about history’s criti-
cal dimension—the capacity to read between the lines of historical sources,
to engage with multiple perspectives and to recognize the tension of judg-
ing the past from the present—perhaps aren’t so surprising (Seixas, 2001;
Seixas & Morton, 2012; Taylor & Young, 2003; Wineburg, 2001). What’s
significant is the student responses, which suggest that it’s precisely this criti-
cal, contested dimension of history that engages them in the first place.
Responding to the question “How do you learn history best?” for exam-
ple, a Year 12 class from a public school in suburban Melbourne said:
Tony: Debate in class helps a lot. Because some people might actually
bring something up that might not have come up before.
Michelle: I guess class discussion, where our teacher will put up a ques-
tion on the board that everyone has to answer in a paragraph,
and then she’ll say ‘who wants to say something’, and you’ll
get a lot of people put something in so you get a lot of different
perspectives.
Mal: Anything that shows two perspectives.39
These Year 12 students from a public school in Darwin also wanted to learn
through discussion and debate:
Natalie: We did a lot of debating last year, like arguing our different sides,
and I think one of the really big components is having good
teachers. I think what made that so interesting was that we had
really good teachers who know their stuff and have like actively
engaged us and they’ve questioned our opinions, and it’s just
been a really good experience.
Gabby: I think on the whole, I don’t want to speak for everyone in our
history class, but I get the feeling that we all learn better through
the discussions. Through being able to ask those questions
and that sort of thing, rather than just reading dates out of a
textbook. Although that is helpful in some instances, I think as a
whole a lot of our learning has been through discussion.
Natalie: Because it’s engaging your mind, and through talking about it you
learn more and it sticks in your brain more because you’ve actu-
ally tried to think about it, and actively.40
Conclusion
It’s confounding that so many Australians seem to have had such dreadful
experiences learning Indigenous history. For a subject that arouses so much
heated public debate, students themselves couldn’t be less inspired by it. But
it’s also clear from their interviews that they genuinely think Indigenous his-
tory is important to understand—and this little window of interest means
there’s still potential to turn students’ attitudes towards the subject around.
While the impact of the new national curriculum to reduce topic rep-
etition remains to be seen, it’s clear that beyond any curricular organiza-
tion, what’s needed is increased teacher training to explore and manage the
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92 Anna Clark
contentiousness of Indigenous history—for it’s in that very “difficulty” that
students’ engagement with the topic lies.
Notes
1. This research was published as History’s Children: History Wars in the Class-
room (Sydney: New South, 2008).
2. Interview with “Natalie,” public high school, Darwin, June 21, 2006. Inter-
views for this paper were conducted as part of a large research project based at
Monash University and funded by the Australian Research Council. Curriculum
officials who were interviewed agreed to be identified in this research, however
the names of teachers and students have been changed.
3. “Emma,” public high school, Hobart, May 3, 2006.
4. “Sophia,” public high school, Adelaide, June 13, 2006.
5. Interview with students, public high school, Brisbane, July 26, 2006.
6. Interview with students, public high school, Brisbane, July 25, 2006.
7. “Mel,” independent girls’ school, Perth, May 24, 2006.
8. “Tamsyn,” history teacher, public high school, Canberra, August 18, 2006.
9. “Lara,” history teacher, public high school, Adelaide, June 13, 2006.
10. For example, see Agora in the early 1980s. Teacher journals around Australia
increasingly published articles, teacher resources and even lesson plans about
how to incorporate different perspectives and approaches into their Australian
History classes.
11. Try, for example, Teaching History (NSW), History Teacher (Queensland),
Agora (Victoria) or the national journal, the Australian History Teacher.
12. “Greg,” history teacher, independent girls” school, Brisbane, July 24, 2006.
13. “Kylie,” student teacher, University of Sydney August 18, 2007.
14. “Lee,” senior secondary college, Canberra, August 18, 2006.
15. “John,” history teacher, public girls” high school, Sydney, August 21, 2006.
16. “Tamsyn,” history teacher, public high school, Canberra, August 18, 2006.
17. “Jane,” history teacher, public high school, central Australia, June 16, 2006.
18. “David,” history teacher, small public high school, central Australia, June 20,
2006.
19. “Tanya,” history teacher, public high school, Northern Territory, June 22, 2006.
20. “Samantha,” independent girls” school, Melbourne, April 11, 2006.
21. “Neil,” history teacher, senior secondary college, Canberra, August 18, 2006.
22. “Esther,” former history teacher, Canberra, August 18, 2006.
23. “Mary,” history teacher, public high school, Brisbane, July 26, 2006.
24. “Mary,” history teacher, public high school, Brisbane, July 26, 2006.
25. “Jenny,” history teacher, public high school, Brisbane, July 25, 2006.
26. “Greg,” history teacher, independent girls” school, Brisbane, July 24, 2006.
27. Brian, history teacher, public high school, NSW Central Coast, August 22,
2006.
28. “Sam,” co-educational independent school, Adelaide, June 14, 2006.
29. Interview with students, public high school, Hobart, May 4, 2006.
30. “Ellie,” public high school, Melbourne, March 30, 2006.
31. ‘Mal’, history teacher, public high school, Northern Territory, June 22, 2006.
32. ‘Ellen’, history teacher, public high school, Darwin, June 21, 2006.
33. ‘Annie’, independent girls’ school, Canberra, August 17, 2006.
34. ‘Allie’, independent co-educational school, Hobart, May 3, 2006.
35. ‘Ellen’, history teacher, public high school, Darwin, June 21, 2006.
36. Interview with students, independent girls’ school, Canberra, August 17, 2006
37. ‘Janice’, history teacher, co-educational independent school, outer Adelaide,
May 16, 2006.
38. Interview with ‘Brian’, public high school, Central Coast NSW, August 22, 2006.
39. Interview with students, public high school, Melbourne, March 30, 2006.
40. Interview with students, public high school, Darwin, June 21, 2006.
93
94 Anna Clark
6 Pedagogies of Forgetting
Colonial Encounters and Nationhood
at New Zealand’s National Museum
Joanna Kidman
Introduction
Beyond the steel elevators and the espresso café where customers sip their
cappuccinos and peer at Teremoe, the enormous, elaborately carved Māori
waka taua (war canoe) placed opposite on a high plinth, the Treaty exhibi-
tion at the Museum of New Zealand is in near darkness. People tend to
lower their voices as they approach the big hall with its backlit spaces that
cast a golden glow across a glass-encased replica of one of the most contro-
versial icons of New Zealand’s national identity.
At 26 feet high and weighing in at over half a ton (more than 1,000
pounds), this giant reproduction of the Treaty of Waitangi, a pact signed
in 1840 by agents of the British Crown and the indigenous Māori chiefs of
New Zealand, is an imposing sight. The Treaty of Waitangi is considered
by many people to be the founding document of the modern New Zealand
nation and its replica forms the centerpiece of Treaty of Waitangi: Signs of
a Nation, a permanent exhibition at the Museum of New Zealand Te Papa
Tongarewa, New Zealand’s national museum (hereafter referred to as Te
Papa). In this exhibition, the Treaty is represented as a near sacred artifact
set in a deliberately cathedral-like environment high above the museum visi-
tors who must gaze upwards to view it.
Yet on closer inspection one notices some interesting peculiarities about
the Treaty replica. The document in its heavy glass case does not reveal a
pristine object carefully and reverently preserved over time but a tattered,
rat-gnawed, yellowing partially disintegrated scrap of parchment. In fact, the
Treaty of Waitangi has been incorporated into the iconography of national
identity only in very recent decades. It was mislaid in the late 1880s and
rediscovered in 1908 moldering in a basement of the Government Buildings
where it had suffered extensive damage from dampness and hungry rodents.
Thus, despite its contemporary significance, it was lost and largely forgot-
ten by earlier generations of New Zealanders and it was not until the 1980s
that it was integrated into a redemptive national narrative that has come to
embody New Zealand’s uniquely bicultural nationhood and its apparently
reconciled relationships between Māori people and the Crown. As such, it is
a symbol both of the nation’s memory and of its forgetting.
96 Joanna Kidman
Historical forgetting is an important but little understood phenomenon
that plays a significant role in post-settler imaginaries of the nation. Work
has been done previously on the ways that cultural memory regimes inter-
sect with historical narratives in the recounting of a nation’s foundational
stories (Sturken, 1997; Doss, 2010) but in this chapter I am more con-
cerned with how the ideologies of cultural forgetting underpin historical
accounts within the nationalist discourses of post-settler nations. I argue
here that examples of the strategic, selective and racialized nature of cul-
tural forgetting in these societies are seen most clearly in their sites of
national significance such as state museums and national monuments, in
national days of remembrance or commemoration, and in heritage activi-
ties in the public sphere. In particular, I examine the way that cultural
forgetfulness is structured around the tensions and unresolved injustices of
the colonial past at Te Papa, New Zealand’s national museum, and how
its educative function is designed in ways that reflect this troubled history
of forgetting.
Cultural Forgetting and Indigenous Peoples

Social and collective forgetting has been a focus of attention for many
“race”1 relations historians and social scientists in the southern hemisphere
and is the subject of several earlier studies. In the late 1960s, for example,
the Australian anthropologist William Edward Stanner talked about the
“great Australian silence” (p. 25) that pervaded public discussions about
historical relationships between white Australians and aboriginal peoples.
In his 1968 Boyer lecture, Stanner noted,
What may well have begun as a simple forgetting of other possible

views turned under habit and over time into something like a culture
of forgetfulness practised on a national scale. We have been able for so
long to disremember the aborigines that we are now hard put to keep
them in mind even when we most want to do so.
(Stanner, 1969, p. 25)
These “disremembered” histories continue to be deeply troubling in mod-

ern post-settler nations, where the construction of common or agreed upon
memories are an important component of the nation-building process. In
this regard, state efforts to “map history onto territory” (Edensor, 1997,
p. 194) in the construction of official memory regimes are integral to the
creation of national identities that are aligned with particular geographies.
In states where indigenous territories have been invaded and expropriated,
however, national memories are often diverted away from accounts of the
nation’s troubled past and redirected towards conflicts that took place
elsewhere. The Australian historian Henry Reynolds (1999) notes that
Pedagogies of Forgetting: New Zealand 97
Australians expend a great deal of time and effort commemorating wars
that that have taken place outside Australian borders. He comments:
Australians rarely appear to concern themselves with the obvious fact

that at Gallipoli we assisted the invasion of a country about which we
knew little, with which we had almost no contact, which had never
presented any threat to Australia, and in the process killed thousands
of young Turkish men who were legitimately defending their homeland.
We commemorate the event in the manner of innocents. It was the occa-
sion for personal heroism, noble sacrifice and collective pride. But
we find it hard to know how to respond to the destruction of Aboriginal
society. It is surely a strange paradox that we can celebrate our failed
assault on Turkey but feel embarrassed about the successful invasion of
Australia.
(p. 181)
The tensions surrounding these kinds of historical events bring the selective
nature of national memory-making into focus. More than this, however,
these unresolved and unsettled histories also create the conditions whereby
cultural forgetting comes into play in ways that characterize and frame post-
settler memory regimes. The more avidly wars and military combat abroad
are commemorated, the less is apparently remembered, recorded and
reported about the devastating military incursions and assaults on
indigenous communities that have taken place within national borders and
which provide the foundation upon which many modern post-settler states
are built.
Indeed, in his co-edited book, The Art of Forgetting, Adrian Forty (1999)
suggests that the 20th century was characterized by an obsession with mem-
ory. He notes, “witness its colossal investment in museums, in heritage, in
memorials to the dead of its many wars, in information technology, and its
passion for ever-larger and expanding archives” (p. 7). Yet despite enormous
public and government investment in memory, Forty argues that public for-
getting, rather than collective remembering, has come to characterize the
way that historical relations between indigenous peoples and the modern
state are represented. Certainly, from the point of view of many indigenous
populations in former British colonies the art of forgetting continues to be a
persistent and vexing aspect of public displays of national identity.
The nature of these late 20th and early 21st century debates, according to
Erika Doss (2010), reflects heightened anxieties about who and what should
be remembered in the foundation stories of the nation and as such are fre-
quently at the forefront of contemporary debates about nationhood, patrio-
tism and citizenship. She contends that in the American context, heated and
often very passionate arguments about how the past shall be represented
and what shall be commemorated are often an attempt to come to terms
97
98 Joanna Kidman
with those tensions and to control particular narratives about the nation
and its publics.
National and state museums play an important role in representing
national histories, and the control and shape of these narratives are much
debated by museologists. Increasingly, traditional curatorship that celebrates
and affirms official accounts of historical events have been superseded by a
more reflective approach (Lehrer & Milton, 2011). In line with this, the
politics of heritage are taken into consideration to a much greater extent
alongside a growing awareness that history cannot always be celebrated. To
this end, attempts are made to open up contemporary museum spaces for
visitors to explore of some of the darker elements of the past, including dif-
ficult or shameful historical events relating to colonial invasions, intergen-
erational violence, acts of genocide against indigenous populations and the
expropriation of tribal lands and resources. Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett
(2000) calls these “museums of conscience” (p. 9) and notes that their inten-
tion is to unsettle the historical canon and interrogate historical injustices
rather than deny them or minimize their legacy. Here, the museum actively
redefines itself in terms of its decolonizing sensibilities and democratizing
mission and undertakes an educative and civic function (Ross, 2013).
Drawing on the earlier work of Deborah Britzman, Erica Lehrer and Cyn-
thia Milton (2011) argue that curators often struggle with the representation
of “difficult knowledge” (p. 4) or knowledge about the past that induces a
sense of shame, discomfort or anger. Difficult knowledge forces the recogni-
tion that understandings of our collective selves or national identities are
partial and incomplete and often rely on factual misrepresentation as well as
a degree of structural forgetting about the colonial past. This kind of knowl-
edge differs from what they call “lovely knowledge” (Lehrer & Milton, 2011,
p. 8). Lovely knowledge, they contend, “allows us to think of ourselves—
due to our identifications with particular groups—as, for example, timelessly
noble, or long-suffering victims, and to reject any kind of information about
ourselves or others that might contradict or complicate the story” (Lehrer &
Milton, 2011, p. 8). In this respect, lovely knowledge stems from a profound
belief that the nation and its origins, history, “race” relations and founding
stories are premised on morally sound principles that can withstand the test
of time. In line with this, Healy (2008) suggests that museums appear to have
moved on from being “memory machines for colonialism to being memory
machines for a postcolonial future” (Healy, 2008, p. 133).
These views reflect Benedict Anderson’s (2006) argument that people
come to identify strongly with national identities through common memo-
ries and understandings of the past. When those understandings are dis-
rupted, however, or when the legitimacy of the nation’s foundational stories
are called into question, public allegiances are tested. It is at those times that
official narratives tend to adapt and change in order to persuade citizens
that they can continue to support, endorse and defend the nation and iden-
tify themselves closely with its future (Attwood, 2013).
The civic and educational function of contemporary national museums,
including those where an awareness about the troubled past is featured in
exhibitions and public displays, continues to be one that involves telling
the story of the nation in ways that allow people to identify with its mis-
sion, aims and aspirations. Michael Kammen (1991) argues that cultural
memory comes to the fore in nationalist discourses when the past is in dis-
pute whereas historical “amnesia” figures more prominently when there is
a desire for reconciliation. In post-settler societies, where historical injus-
tices against indigenous populations have not yet been fully resolved, the
desire to create redemptive narratives about harmonious “race” relations is
often very strong. To this end, even when there is an inclination to represent
and remember historical conflict between indigenous groups and the state,
national museums frequently depict “race” relations as being both recon-
ciled and transcended in the interests of nationhood. In the next sections,
the forgetting that characterizes the Treaty of Waitangi and its representa-
tion at Te Papa is explored and linked to the way in which racialized power
relations are inscribed within the pedagogies of the museum space.
The Treaty of Waitangi in Nationalist Discourse
Background to the Treaty of Waitangi

The Treaty of Waitangi was signed by representatives of the British Crown
and Māori leaders in 1840. It established a set of guiding principles that
were to shape the future relationship between Māori and the state. In par-
ticular, it stated that Māori would become British subjects but promised that
they would retain exclusive and undisturbed sovereignty over their tribal
lands, forests, fisheries and the things they held precious and central to their
way of life.
Almost immediately, it was clear that the parties to the Treaty held very
different understandings about what they had agreed to. Part of the problem
was that two versions of the Treaty were in circulation in the year that it
was signed. One version was written in English and the other was a Māori
translation. While nearly 500 Māori tribal leaders signed the Treaty, only 39
signatures were made on the English version. The Māori version, however,
is not an exact translation of the English and the wording relating to sover-
eignty was cast in radically different ways. This fundamental difference in
interpretation has become the basis of bitter and prolonged conflict between
Māori and the Crown that has extended over a period of 175 years.
In the decades following the signing of the Treaty, the Crown systemati-
cally violated the terms of the agreement especially regarding the acquisi-
tion of land. Consequently, throughout the 19th and early 20th centuries,
the tribal land base was whittled away, often by violent or militaris-
tic means. According to official estimates, by 1920, Māori retained just
4.8 million acres out of an original area of over 66 million acres—and this
99
100 Joanna Kidman
was not, in the main, sufficient to sustain many tribal communities (Bin-
ney & O’Malley, 2014).
Māori rancor about the loss of tribal lands, resources and sovereignty
intensified throughout the 20th century, and by 1975, widespread pro-
test and civil resistance about what was known as the Pākehā land grab
(‘Pākehā’ refers to New Zealanders of European descent) began to pose a
serious threat to public order (Celermajer & Kidman, 2012; Hamer, 2004).
In an attempt to assuage Māori anger and resolve the increasingly hostile
relationship between tribal groups and the state, a permanent commission
of inquiry known as the Waitangi Tribunal was hastily established. Its origi-
nal role was to investigate present-day breaches of the Treaty of Waitangi,
although in 1985, its brief was extended to examining historical injustices
against Māori dating back to 1840 (Celermajer & Kidman, 2012). Thus,
part of the nation-building process in late 20th century New Zealand cen-
tered on restoring memories about the injustices of colonial past to the offi-
cial narratives of state history. This has involved extensive and often deeply
fraught debates about historical events. The Tribunal is still investigating
Treaty claims and the tensions associated with this process remain at the
center of contemporary cultural and political conflict between Māori people
and the state as is discussed later in the chapter.
Biculturalism
The Waitangi Tribunal was heralded as a positive move forward in “race”
relations. It positioned the Treaty of Waitangi as a guiding moral force in
state engagement with Māori and a site of political and jurisprudential
authority whereby indigenous groups could claim restitution and repa-
ration for the harm caused to them by the Crown over time (O’Sullivan,
2014). At the same time as the work of the Tribunal was getting under
way, new expressions of Pākehā national identity were also beginning to be
articulated. Anchored in the local environment, these expressions of iden-
tity reflected some of the broader social and political shifts that were taking
place in New Zealand society during the 1970s and 1980s. Richard Hill
(2004), for example, argued that during this period, nationalist narratives
focused on addressing a growing sense of dislocation and “homelessness”
amongst Pākehā, many of whom did not consider themselves to be settlers
and no longer saw Britain as their motherland. Consequently, many New
Zealand–born Pākehā began to formulate a national identity that connected
them culturally and emotionally with the land of their birth (Hill, 2004).
During this time, elements of indigenous culture also began to be more
widely referenced by state organizations, and Māori cultural symbols and
images were increasingly incorporated into nationalist rhetoric (Bell, 2014;
Smits, 2014).
Establishing a sense of place, territory and peoplehood within nationalist
space is a complex matter in settler cultures, where cultural and national
identities and place attachments compete with the claims of indigenous
groups. In New Zealand, the Treaty of Waitangi is seen by many New Zea-
land–born Pākehā as providing them with the legitimacy to claim a national
identity, as a co-founding people, with roots in the land and its history (Bell,
2006). As Avril Bell (2009) comments,
Since the 1980s the New Zealand state has officially espoused a bicul-
tural nationhood in which Maori and Pakeha are both “founding peo-
ples” of the nation whose origins are deemed to lie in the signing of the
Treaty of Waitangi between the British Crown and Maori in 1840.
(p. 148)
Part of the problem, however, is that despite the rhetoric about the partner-
ship between two peoples, and the financially reparative nature of Treaty
settlements for historical injustices, there are no coherent or sustained poli-
cies of distributive justice within New Zealand’s political and social insti-
tutions that support and enact these claims (Lashley, 2000). In addition,
Marilyn Lashley notes that significant disparities in income, health, edu-
cation and crime statistics between Māori and Pākehā have neither less-
ened over time (indeed, they have significantly increased) nor made amends
for the damage caused by economic marginalization and detribalization
(see, for example, Kawharu, 2015). Alongside these inequalities, the wide-
spread refusal of many Māori tribal leaders, communities and individuals to
endorse state narratives of New Zealand as a culturally reconciled nation-
state have exposed the difficulties that Pākehā face in constructing identities
based on shared understandings and agreements about the past. Bell (2006)
suggests that as a result Pākehā cultural identities are more often linked to
softer forms of place attachment and belonging rather than to narrations
of colonial history, which more often trigger feelings of discomfort, shame,
defensiveness or distress. In order for these identities to be enacted, however,
a measure of forgetting about the unsettled past needs to take place but this
too creates tensions. These tensions are played out in the Treaty of Wait-
angi: Signs of a Nation exhibition at Te Papa, as is discussed next.
The Treaty of Waitangi: Signs of a Nation—Te Tiriti o

Waitangi: Ngā tohu Kotahitanga Exhibition
The Treaty of Waitangi: Signs of a Nation exhibition is a central feature of
the exhibition space on the museum’s fourth floor where the story of New
Zealand society is on display. The main concourse is comprised of two sepa-
rate exhibition areas, the geography and architecture of which are premised
on bicultural principles. The area to the northeast of the building houses
items and artifacts from Māori society and culture. This exhibition space is
called Mana Whenua—a reference to Māori ancestral, tribal, spiritual and
cultural relationships with the land (whenua)—and it is situated in direct
101
102 Joanna Kidman
alignment with the harbor and the surrounding hills of Wellington beyond
(Attwood, 2013; McCarthy, 2007; Williams, 2006).
Standing opposite Mana Whenua is the southern wing, which houses
the Tangata Tiriti (People of the Treaty) exhibition. Tangata Tiriti faces the
urban spaces of the city beyond the Museum and is dedicated to exhibi-
tions with a Pākehā/European focus (Museum of New Zealand Te Papa
Tongarewa, n.d. a). Indeed, the Tangata Tiriti exhibition space is designed
as a series of interlocking grids to reflect the “patterns of European settle-
ment” (Te Papa, n.d. a). This “two worlds” perspective whereby Māori and
Pākehā face outwards and away from each other frames Te Papa’s vision of
bicultural nationhood. The “two worlds” approach is further reinforced by
the alignment of Māori with the natural world, with the hills, forests and sea
that are considered the domain of Papatuanuku (Earth Mother), while the
stories of Pākehā New Zealand are positioned alongside, and in tune with,
urban and built environments.
This staging of dichotomous bicultural identities within the architectural
and intellectual space of the museum speaks to the notion of a set of under-
lying cultural texts that have come to symbolize modern New Zealand citi-
zenship. The natural world, rurality and the ability to live in harmony with
nature is associated with Māori culture and spirituality while the industri-
alized world of capitalist accumulation is associated with Pākehā identi-
ties (Williams, 2006). Underpinning these ideas is the centrality of “race”
in New Zealand’s understanding of itself as a nation (McDonald, 1999),
Indeed, “race” is fundamental to the story of the nation, and sitting at its
very heart is the unsettled relationship between Māori and Pākehā.
The stark division between Māori and Pākehā within the exhibition spaces,
however, is rendered traversable by the Treaty of Waitangi: Signs of a Nation
exhibition (hereafter referred to as Signs of a Nation) which is located at
the intersection of the Mana Whenua and Tangata Tiriti areas in a triangle-
shaped connecting space (see Figure 6.1). Publicity material for the Signs of
a Nation exhibition describes it as occupying “an imposing wedge-shaped
space, underneath a high cathedral-like ceiling. But with its comfortable seat-
ing and calm ambience, the setting offers a place for quiet contemplation”
(Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa, n.d. b). Here the mobilization
of images of holiness and sanctity work together to consecrate and embed the
Treaty of Waitangi in New Zealand’s birth of the bicultural nation narrative.
The two versions of the Treaty of Waitangi, one in Māori and the other
in English, are reproduced on opposite walls, and as visitors enter the area,
they pass through a cluster of tall poles. Each of these poles (or “talking
posts”) contains its own audio recording. Through this device, a range of
diverse and conflicting perspectives about the Treaty of Waitangi are voiced,
indicating the unsettled nature of public opinion about the role of the Treaty
of Waitangi in New Zealand society. For example, one speaker comments,
“the Treaty is a Bill of Rights for us all,” while another growls, “the Treaty
is ancient history. It should stay in the past where it belongs.”
Figure 6.1 “Talking Posts” in the Treaty of Waitangi: Signs of a Nation exhibit
Image used with permission of Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa.
These talking posts exemplify the interactive pedagogical approaches

taken in many modern museums whereby discovery learning that draws
on constructivist ideas directly engages visitors in the exhibition space as a
learning environment (Witcomb, 2015). Andrea Witcomb notes that iden-
tity politics are central to these kinds of displays, where visitors can push
buttons or pick up telephones to hear multiple voices providing a range
of different viewpoints or experiences. She identifies these educative strate-
gies as part of a “pedagogy of listening” (p. 160) but suggests that in more
recent times, the challenge for museums has not been the representation of
multiple voices and identities but rather finding new pedagogical techniques
that instruct people how to live with diversity rather than simply tolerate
it. The representation of difference, Witcomb argues, is no longer enough:
Museums are increasingly taking an educative role in showing people how
to interact with each other. The talking posts in the Signs of a Nation exhi-
bition deploy the Treaty of Waitangi as the basis for some of these difficult
and provocative conversations—but these are, perhaps, conversations that
are both too complex and too abstract to take very far within the museum
context.
103
104 Joanna Kidman
The reason for this, Paul Williams (2005) argues, is that since the Treaty
of Waitangi continues to be a source of considerable dissension in 21st cen-
tury New Zealand, it has not been successful as a symbol of national unity.
He suggests, however, that there are no other birth-of-the-nation metaphors
on offer. In this regard, the representation of the Treaty in Signs of a Nation
locates the origins of the nation as a negotiated and mutually agreed-upon
covenant between two peoples rather than as a result of the invasion and
expropriation of Māori land and culture. This idea is taken further with the
assertion that New Zealand citizens and the wider public have a direct role
in shaping the Treaty relationship between Māori and the state (Williams,
2005). Indeed, the instructional function of the exhibition is communicated
in Te Papa’s publicity materials, which encourage and invite new and con-
temporary applications of the Treaty relationship, for example:
The Treaty of Waitangi is living social document—debated, overlooked,

celebrated. Is it a vision of peaceful co-existence or the cause of dishar-
mony? An irrelevancy or the platform on which all New Zealanders
can build a future? Treaty of Waitangi: Signs of a nation | Te Tiriti o
Waitangi: Ngā tohu kotahitanga is a contemporary commentary on the
Treaty of Waitangi and its centrality to the wider New Zealand com-
munity. . . . Treaty of Waitangi: Signs of a nation is also responsive
to contemporary events and provides a forum for New Zealanders in
which new analyses—creative, intellectual, and social—can occur.
(Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa, n.d. b)
Here the pedagogical voice in Te Papa’s celebratory exposition of the cul-

tural relations between Māori and Pākehā comes to the fore. Kirshenblatt-
Gimblett (2000) argues that Te Papa has a strong focus on validating the
cultural identities of museum visitors and takes the view that people need
to feel emotionally engaged with the broader iconic and symbolic narratives
about the nation that are placed on display. Thus the rallying call to New
Zealanders and the affirmation that the Treaty of Waitangi is still vitally
relevant today is a means of educating visitors about their own roles as
citizens and decision makers. At the same time, the Treaty itself is cast in Te
Papa’s publicity material as a timeless and enduring document that provides
New Zealanders with a way of making sense of the nation as an apparently
bicultural union of Māori and Pākehā peoples:
This double-layered icon speaks to us across time. The deepest layer car-
ries an enlargement of the original signed Māori version of the Treaty in
the tattered form it has come down to us today. Therefore some signa-
tures are missing. This is a reminder both of its years of obscurity and
its capacity to somehow survive.
(Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa, n.d. b)
In this regard, the Treaty of Waitangi is essentialized and represented rev-
erentially as a tangible reminder not only of the nation’s history but also its
capacity to forget.
“Lovely” Bicultural Citizens and the Pedagogies

of Forgetting
Benedict Anderson (2006) argues that the nation is imagined as polity that
is defined not by its historical conflicts but by “a deep and horizontal com-
radeship” regardless of the material inequalities that divide it (p. 7). In New
Zealand, the vehicle for this kind of imagining has been biculturalism: an
imagined comradeship and esprit de corps between two peoples. The prolif-
eration of bicultural rhetoric in public life allows Pākehā citizens to imagine
themselves as partners with Māori in the nation-making quest. In this sense,
it exists within nationalist discourse as a form of “lovely” knowledge that
permits people to visualize their role within the nation’s story as benign,
altruistic and at times, even heroic.
“Lovely” bicultural knowledge, however, proves difficult to sustain
because “difficult” knowledge persistently intrudes on these comfortable,
“safe” or noble renditions of “race” relations (Lehrer & Milton, 2011). Dif-
ficult knowledge forces people to confront the possibility that the material
circumstances of indigenous and white post-settler lives and the way that
cultural and national identities are formulated and enacted may be sub-
stantively different from how they are commonly and agreeably imagined
(Lehrer & Milton, 2011). When difficult knowledge surfaces about past
events that have been largely forgotten or officially denied, the recognition
of the benefits that post-settler groups continue to accrue from the colonial
past interrupts the narrative in uncomfortable ways. Likewise, the nation-
alist rhetoric of partnership at times overshadows long-standing claims by
Māori for justice and sovereignty. Thus, in New Zealand, lovely knowledge
sits alongside the awareness that deep, systemic inequalities persist between
Māori and Pākehā in almost every sphere of public life.
The instructional nature of Te Papa’s Signs of a Nation exhibition,
however, is centered on notions of an ideal bicultural citizenship and the
uncomfortable intrusions of the past are largely ignored or smoothed away
(Bozić-Vrbancić, 2003). While conflicting views about the role of the Treaty
of Waitangi are recognized and represented, no alternative vision of poten-
tial cultural encounters is offered. In this regard, the Museum represents
New Zealand as an irrevocably bifurcated nation (Labrum, 2012) at the
same time as typifying relationships between Māori and Pākehā as recon-
ciled and inextricably entwined. This fundamental contradiction frames
what might be termed a “pedagogy of forgetting” that relies on the persis-
tence of certain key silences in the recounting of those national histories that
shape public understandings about citizenship in the present.
105
106 Joanna Kidman
These tensions are part of the phenomenological anxiety of post-settler
states that seek to define themselves in relation to indigenous groups with
whom history is neither settled, reconciled or agreed upon. Insofar as muse-
ums are concerned, Margaret Werry (2012) argues that the circulation,
appropriation, consumption and experience of culture in institutions such as
Te Papa constitutes a “soft” form of belonging whereby the exercise of polit-
ical rights and responsibilities as a central component of membership in the
state is substituted with a sentimental form of cultural citizenship (p. 29).
This kind of belonging, Werry argues, can be seen as a type of political
containment, a space where an apparently obliging, reconciled and united
citizenry can reflect nostalgically on its links with the nation’s heritage.
Collective memory and collective forgetting involve complex and difficult
decisions on the part of a nation’s citizens. Sometimes it is necessary to make
agreements to forget the past. Certainly, orchestrated forgetting is often
required in order for societies to forge peaceful relations after a period of
conflict (Rigney, 2012). This kind of forgetting can be seen as a type of cul-
tural or collective amnesia that is triggered by an act of state where historical
forgetting is considered to be in the interests of the body politic (Connerton,
2008). These agreements to forget are especially important in societies where
civil war, human rights abuses, genocide or other atrocities have framed the
encounter between peoples (Karn, 2006). They allow a nation’s citizens
space to draw breath and establish that sense of “horizontal comradeship”
that Benedict Anderson argues sits alongside the invention of nationhood.
Whilst orchestrated forgetting is an important part of the peace process,
there is, however, always an implicit risk that reconciliation narratives that
have been built on a foundation of engineered amnesia can “foreclose an
awareness of past crimes” (Rigney, 2012, p. 253) especially if one party con-
siders that their stories have not yet been told. In New Zealand, accounts of
historical injustice against Māori are still being investigated by the Waitangi
Tribunal and new information is still coming to light. While this contrib-
utes significantly to the nation’s production of knowledge about the dif-
ficult past, the last stories have not yet been told. Thus, reconciliation and
the agreement to set aside anger, like the proverbial curate’s egg, are good
only in parts. Likewise, the Treaty of Waitangi, which has had an enormous
influence in shaping New Zealand’s political culture and social relations in
the late 20th and early 21st centuries, is enshrined within the pedagogical
field within the nation’s museum as an integral part of the birth of the nation
story where it is offered as a guide for modern citizenship. As a symbol of
the history of encounters between peoples, however, it continues to divide
as much as it apparently unites.
Note
1. The term “race” is placed in quotation marks to signal the contested nature of
this construct. While the term has no basis in human biology, in this chapter it
refers to colonial notions of racial superiority that continue to have currency
amongst some groups in New Zealand in the present.
107
108 Joanna Kidman
7 “People Are Still Grieving”

Māori and Non-Māori Adolescents’
Perceptions of the Treaty of Waitangi
Mark Sheehan, Terrie Epstein
and Michael Harcourt
Introduction
The Treaty of Waitangi (commonly referred to in New Zealand as the Treaty)
was an agreement made in 1840 between the British Crown and the majority
of indigenous Māori chiefs. The Treaty enabled New Zealand to be incor-
porated into the British Empire and in return, the Crown guaranteed Māori
rights over their lands, forests and fisheries and those cultural practices they
valued. However, over the last 175 years Māori (indigenous) and Pākehā
(New Zealanders of European descent) have typically seen the Treaty differ-
ently, in part because there were differences between the Māori and English
versions of the Treaty, and because settlers dispossessed the Māori of the
vast majority of their land. The Treaty retains its relevance today because in
recent times the government has relied on its principles as the framework to
negotiate the relationship between Māori and Pākehā (including compensat-
ing Māori for historical grievances). Throughout the nation’s history, how-
ever, the meaning and significance of the Treaty has been contested.
This chapter considers the extent to which Māori young people interpret
the Treaty differently than those who identify as non-indigenous. It contrib-
utes to research that indicates that race, ethnicity, gender and religious back-
ground can influence the interpretive frameworks that young people bring to
historical inquiry, particularly inquiries related to difficult histories (Epstein,
2009; VanSledright, 1998; Wertsch, 2002). Given New Zealand’s current
legal status as a bicultural society, young people’s understandings of the his-
torical and legal foundation of the nation are important. Young people’s
views influence the connections they make between past and present and dif-
ferences in young people’s frameworks have pedagogical consequences for
teaching about the Treaty and its aftermath, as well as for creating a sense of
national belonging or identity among young people of all ethnicities.
The Treaty Historically

The prominence of the Treaty within New Zealand society is a recent devel-
opment. The Treaty played little part in New Zealand during the colonization
110 Mark Sheehan et al.
process and successive governments largely ignored the guarantees made in
1840. British settlers considered Treaty obligations to protect Māori lands,
forests and fisheries as a barrier to settlement and the acquisition of Māori
resources (Crosby, 2015). The Treaty also did little to protect Māori from
the worst effects of colonization. By 1900, the Pākehā population outnum-
bered Māori, the majority of Māori land had been either sold or confis-
cated, and the Māori population (many of whom lived in abject poverty)
had declined to less than half what it had been in 1840 (Anderson, Binney &
Harris, 2015).
Although the situation improved over subsequent decades, Māori contin-
ued to be disadvantaged in comparison to Pākehā and both groups saw the
Treaty differently. While Pākehā saw the Treaty as little more than an histor-
ical curiosity (with symbolic rather than legal status) Māori saw the Treaty
as a binding agreement between themselves and the Crown. When Māori
looked to settler governments for redress for grievances, they did so on the
basis of the agreement made between Māori and the Crown in 1840. Māori
commitment to the Treaty as the framework for the relationship between
Māori and Pākehā did not waiver despite it being largely ignored by succes-
sive governments (Orange, 2004).
In the 1970s, in the context of rising tensions between Māori and Pākehā,
Māori activists called for the distinctive features of Māori culture and iden-
tity to be acknowledged and maintained. They argued that although racial
discrimination was illegal in New Zealand, Māori had unique rights as
indigenous people and the Treaty was the basis of the relationship between
Māori and Pākehā. In the context of widespread cultural, social and eco-
nomic changes during the 1980s the Labour government drew up a set of
principles based on the Treaty that emphasized the notion of partnership
between Māori and Pākehā. This became the basis of the official bicultural
framework on which the relationship between Māori and non-Māori is
now based and reflected how many Māori had seen the Treaty since 1840
(Orange, 2004).
Over the last 30 years, successive governments have introduced a range
of legislative initiatives based on the Treaty. One included the establishment
of the Waitangi Tribunal, a government body charged with investigating
Māori claims of historical wrongdoing by the British Crown. Since 1985,
the Tribunal has recommended in several cases that the government return
tribal lands and financially compensate Māori tribes (Byrnes, 2004). Over
the last three decades, official discourses have promoted a nation-building
partnership narrative of the Treaty that downplays its contested and con-
troversial features. The “partnership” or “bicultural” narrative has been
widely disseminated publicly and taught in schools (Naumann, Harrison &
Winiata, 1990, Naumann, 1990). For example, in Te Papa, New Zealand’s
national museum, the Treaty as a negotiated or bicultural partnership has a
prominent position (Kidman, chapter 6 in this volume).
Perceptions of the Treaty of Waitangi 111
The Treaty Today
The central place of the Treaty in contemporary New Zealand is far from
universally accepted (Consedine & Consedine, 2001; Walker, 2004; Bel-
grave, 2005; Binney, 2009; Byrnes, 2009) Opponents reject the notion
that Māori have a unique status. They have claimed that biculturalism can
lead to racial divisions and separatism and that “we are all New Zealand-
ers” (Hynds & Sheehan, 2011). More typically however most politicians
have adopted a pragmatic approach to the Treaty and emphasized the
common interests of both Māori and Pākehā. In New Zealand schools,
history is not mandatory and there are no prescribed topics within the his-
tory curriculum. Teachers therefore have considerable autonomy in how
their courses are shaped, with the only proviso being that their courses are
to be “of significance to New Zealanders” (Davison, Enright & Sheehan,
2014; Sheehan, 2011; Harcourt & Sheehan, 2012).
The concept of significance in history education has generated a substan-
tial body of research. Historical significance is a key concept of the “disci-
plinary approach” to history education, an approach whose advocates see
the purpose of school history as introducing young people to the disciplin-
ary tools that historians use (Counsell, 2004; Hunt, 2000; Lee, 2004; Lee &
Ashby, 2000; Lévesque, 2008; Partington, 1980; Seixas, 1997; Shemilt,
1983; Wineburg, 2001). This approach to historical thinking has largely
shaped the research on teaching and learning history in New Zealand (Davi-
son, Enright & Sheehan, 2014; Harcourt & Sheehan, 2012)). In addition,
researchers also have used sociocultural theory to frame concepts of histori-
cal significance (Barton & Levstik, 2004; Bermudez, 2012; Wertsch, 2002).
Sociocultural approaches emphasize that ideas of historical significance are
filtered through people’s interpretive frameworks, or webs of knowledge
and beliefs related to their identities.
There have been a number of international studies on the effects of young
people’s identities on their constructions of historical significance or nar-
ratives (Barton & McCully, 2010; Epstein, 2009; Goldberg, 2013; Grever,
Pelzer & Hayden, 2011; Peck, 2010; Zembylas, 2013). Two authors have
written about this within the context of New Zealand. In a study of 49 New
Zealand adolescents, Levstik (2001) asked students to select and explain
the significance of a number of historical events relevant to New Zealand
history. She found that many young people used the concept of fairness (or
lack thereof) to structure their explanations, including their explanations of
the Treaty of Waitangi. Within this framing, however, Levstik found ethnic
differences. Most Pākehā students explained the Treaty in terms of sharing
the land or coexistence between Māori and British settlers, which they con-
sidered to have been a fair arrangement, even as some acknowledged that
the Treaty “had not worked out fairly” (p. 83). Others, however, explained
111
the Treaty as significant to Māori in their grievances against the govern-
ment, but not as significant to other New Zealanders.
Māori and Pasifika (“people from Pacific Islands”) students also used the
concept of fairness in their explanations of the Treaty, but were more likely
than Pākehā youth to reference violence between Māori and British settlers
or the unfairness of the Treaty’s effects on subsequent generations. Māori
and Pasifika students also explained the Treaty as a lost opportunity at fair-
ness, representing instead the greed of British settlers.
Barton (2012) also has written about New Zealand adolescents’ historical
understandings. He found that they constructed one of two explanations
for the significance of the Treaty: “either that it was signed to bring peace
between Whites and Māori, or that it was an attempt by Whites to rob
Māori of their land” (p. 101). Barton, however, did not indicate who the
adolescents were, either in terms of ethnicity or locality.
Research Methods
Data Collection
The first author collected data in March 2013 from 2,568 history students
in 29 secondary schools from throughout New Zealand, enrolled in the last
three years of secondary education. He sent an invitation to all history teach-
ers who are members of the New Zealand History Teachers Association
(NZHTA). All students of responding teachers who consented to participate
completed a questionnaire related to history education. The questionnaire
asked participating students (“participants”) to identify the ethnicity that
they most identified with: 74.2% of the sample identified as Pākehā (Euro-
pean), 9.2% as Māori, 6.8% as Pasifika and 10.4% as Asian (see Table 7.1).
The slightly lower proportion of Māori participants (15% nationally)
compared to the national figures may reflect that the majority of students
were from socioeconomically mid-high range schools. The majority of stu-
dents in lower socioeconomic range schools are Māori and Pasifika, and the
sample somewhat over represents students from schools of high socioeco-
nomic status. However, the differences in percentages between the survey
Table 7.1 Ethnicity by nation and survey1
Ethnicity Percentage of New Zealand Percentage of Students

Population Responding to Survey
Māori 15.6% 9.1%

Pasifika 7.8% 6.7%
Asian 12.2% 10.1%
European 74.6% 74.1%
110.2% 100%
data and the national statistics are not substantial, and in the case of Pākehā
(European), Pasifika and Asian much the same. For this chapter, we analyzed
responses to the following question on the questionnaire: “Is the Treaty of
Waitangi significant to New Zealanders today? Why?”
Data Analysis
We analyzed 125 responses from each of four ethnic groups—Māori, Pākehā,
Pasifika and Asian (500 responses in total). Since the data included only
about 125 Māori and 125 Pasifika responses, we randomly selected 125
responses from among Pākehā and Asian participants. The second and third
authors independently read through Māori and Pākehā student responses
and placed them into inductive and deductive categories (Cresswell, 2013).
Deductive codes included those derived from the literature (Barton, 2012;
Levstik, 2001; Seixas & Morton, 2012), such as the Treaty’s effects on
people (“made us who we are today”) or the nation (“made New Zea-
land a bicultural society that we have today”). We coded these examples as
“connection between past and present.” We generated inductive codes from
responses about the Treaty’s significance for some but not all New Zealand-
ers (e.g., important for Māori or for Pākehā); we coded these examples as
“important/not important to Māori or Pākehā.” Each author double-coded
a response if it belonged in more than one category and disregarded non-
substantive responses (6% of the responses).
Once we individually coded the Māori and Pākehā responses, we met to
resolve differences and created four major categories:1) connecting past and
present, 2) the Treaty as an agreement, 3) the Treaty’s importance to Māori
or Pākehā and 4) the role of conflict. We also created sub-codes for the
first two categories, given the range of responses within them. For example,
within the category “Treaty as agreement,” we coded generic responses such
as “it was an agreement” under the category of “Treaty as an agreement.”
However, we coded specific responses like “it was the beginning of the
nation” or “brought Māori and British settlers together” under sub-codes
of “national formation” or “brought two peoples together.” We then used
these categories and sub-codes to code Pasifika and Asian student responses.
We then separately wrote analytic memos synthesizing the analyses of each
groups’ responses and then resolved differences in the memos.
Limitations of the Research

One of the strengths of this study is the large number of responses ana-
lyzed, as well as the number and diversity of schools from which data was
collected. At the same time, we recognize that the study’s limitation is a
lack of depth in responses. Most of the participants did not give elabo-
rate responses; they simply answered the question in one or two phrases or
sentences. Additional research that probes in greater depth young people’s
113
understandings of the Treaty and national history may yield more nuanced
responses.
Findings
Māori Student Responses

Among Māori responses (see Table 7.2), the most common explanations
related to the Treaty as an agreement of some sort (60 responses). Within
this category, the most common responses (41) related to the Treaty as a
generic “agreement between Maori and British” or as founding national
document, which established an “alliance” between Māori and British set-
tlers or the beginning of New Zealand as a nation-state. Nineteen responses
associated the Treaty with having maintained peace or avoided conflict in
the past between Māori and Pākehā or the British Crown.
The second most common explanation (27 responses) described the
Treaty in terms of its importance to Māori. Some responses were in personal/
familial terms: The Treaty is important because “people are still grieving . . .
including my family,” “of what happened to my family and ancestors” or
“only really significant to Māori as my people tried to reclaim what was
taken from them which is rightfully ours.” Others explained the Treaty as
having protected the Māori historically or in the present: “the Treaty pro-
tected Māori from being wiped out,” “gave our ancestors freedom from
the Europeans” or “it’s the reason Māori in New Zealand aren’t treated
like aboriginals in Australia.” Others explicitly mentioned the loss of Māori
land, for example: “Māori have rights to land stolen by Pakeha.” A few
responses attributed significance in terms of keeping “Maori history and
civilization alive.”
A comparably large category of responses (26) related the Treaty’s his-
torical significance to the present. The most general explanations included
“the Treaty shapes the way New Zealand is today,” “who we are today”
or “where we have come from.” Others noted its effects on international
relations, contemporary laws or rights, and/or better relationships between
Pākehā and Māori today. Others, however, referred to ethnic relations in less
salutary terms. The responses referred to issues that still need to be resolved
today: “must be followed when making decisions about Maori,” “without
Table 7.2 Māori student explanations of the Treaty
Agreement: Agreement: Importance Importance Relationship Controversy/

national peace/end to Māori to Pākehā between past conflict
formation of conflict and present
41 19 27 0 26 17
it, there’d be massive conflict over land today” or “if not, Pakeha could
take advantage of Maori.” Four responses related the Treaty to the nation’s
status as a bicultural or multicultural society: the Treaty “is the reason for
multicultural society,” “marks New Zealand as a bi-cultural society” or
“helps people understand how New Zealand became multicultural.”
Seventeen responses referred to the controversial or conflict-ridden nature
of the Treaty. Some noted that the Treaty continues to cause interracial hos-
tility or cultural conflict, for example, “cultural turmoil in New Zealand
over Maori land, beliefs and culture.” Others described the conflict in terms
of land confiscation and its significance: “it’s important today to try to get
our land back.”
Pākehā Student Responses

Like Māori responses, the largest category of Pākehā responses related to the
Treaty as an agreement (56 responses) (see Table 7.3). Thirty-eight responses
identified the Treaty simply as an agreement, as having “brought together
two cultures,” “created a new country” and/or as “been the official document
that created New Zealand.” Eighteen responses referred to the Treaty as hav-
ing created peace or ended the fighting between Māori and British/Europeans.
The second largest number of responses (39) related to the connection
between past and present. These included generic responses such as “explains
present,” “shaped today,” “New Zealand would be different without it” or
“we can learn from our mistakes.” Others referred to the Treaty in more
specific terms: its “consequences still reverberate,” “set a precedent for the
treatment of Maori” or “proves Maori and Pakeha can live harmoniously
today.” Three responses related to the bicultural or multicultural nature of
the nation today: “different cultures can come to New Zealand and live,”
“Treaty allows Pakeha to stay in this land” or “it’s the start of New Zealand
multicultural society.”
Unlike Māori responses, only four Pākehā responses made reference to
conflict or controversy. Three responses noted that the Treaty led to conflict
over land, while one stated that the Treaty “helped lead to the demise of
Maori culture.”
Seven Pākehā responses related the Treaty’s significance to either Pākehā or
Māori only. Four explained the Treaty’s significance to Europeans: “it’s the
Table 7.3 Pākehā student explanations of the Treaty

38 18 3 4 39 4
115
reason for Europeans living in New Zealand,” the Treaty “allowed Europe-
ans to settle” or “when Europeans first came to New Zealand.” Three framed
the Treaty as more important to Māori than others: “may be more significant
to Maori than Pakeha or Asians because some Maori feel wronged.”
Pasifika Student Responses

Among Pasifika students, the largest number of responses related to the Treaty
as an agreement or foundational document (38 responses) (see Table 7.4).
Like Pākehā and Māori, Pasifika responses referred to the Treaty as hav-
ing been an agreement that “kept two different groups of people together,”
“established the nation or the “nation’s independence” or as a founding
document. Seventeen responses referred to the Treaty as having created
peace or prevented conflict.
The second largest category of responses (28) referred to the connection
between past and present. Half of the responses included generic remarks,
such as “makes us who we are today”; “shows how the world has changed”;
or without the Treaty, “it’d be a completely different country.” A few noted
that the Treaty taught people today “not to make mistakes as Europeans did
to Maori culture” or that the Treaty represented “that Maori and Pakeha
work together today for the betterment of the nation.” Two responses cred-
ited the Treaty with having created today’s multicultural society.
The third largest category of responses (23) related to the importance
of the Treaty to Māori or Pākehā. Sixteen described the Treaty as “more
important to Maori” or as having brought peace, independence or rights
to Māori. Others mentioned the Treaty in terms of the loss of Māori land:
“it gave away all our land, give us our land back” or “Maori have a right
to their culture and we should respect that.” Seven responses related the
Treaty specifically to Pākehā or referred to British/Pākehā settlements in the
past or present.
A comparable number of responses (15) related to conflict or controversy.
Several responses noted that there are still conflicts over land and water
today or commented on the unfairness or injustices associated with the
Treaty. Others referred to the “bitterness today about treatment and land,”
as conflict today between the government and Māori, or that the Treaty is
still debated today.
Table 7.4 Pasifika student explanations of Treaty

38 16 17 7 28 15
Table 7.5 Asian student explanations of the Treaty

33 20 10 0 34 6
Asian Student Responses

Among Asian responses, the largest category (53) related to the Treaty’s
importance as an agreement or foundational document (see Table 7.5).
Thirty-three responses referred to the Treaty as having been as agreement
between Māori and British; established a new nation, rights or land owner-
ship; or been the foundation of “our national heritage.” Twenty responses
credited the Treaty with having created peace or prevented conflict.
The connection between past and present was the next largest category
of responses (34). Nineteen were general comments like the Treaty “shapes
the present,” “affects the way we live today” or “is the foundation of laws.”
Fifteen responses referred to the Treaty as part of New Zealand’s national
foundation or heritage. Eight explained its significance in terms of bicul-
turalism or multiculturalism: “created multiculturalism in New Zealand,”
“resulted in diversity” or “marks the start of bi-cultural society between
Maori and Pakeha.”
Ten of the Asian responses referred to the significance of the Treaty for
Māori specifically: the Treaty “greatly affect or affected Maori” or “changed
the life of Maori.” Three responses referred specifically to loss of land or
culture, while two noted the significance of the Treaty to Māori but not to
themselves or newer immigrants. Six responses referred to the controversial
nature of the Treaty, seeing it as a “sensitive issue “or “basis for disputes”
between ethnic groups.
Comparisons Across Ethnic Groups

Overall, the vast majority of students from all ethnic groups considered
the Treaty a significant symbol or event to contemporary New Zealanders
(see Table 7.6). Among the 500 explanations we examined, about 25 (5%)
noted that the Treaty either was not significant or was both significant
and not significant. Given the prominent place of the Treaty not just in
the school curriculum but throughout New Zealand society, it may not be
surprising that the vast majority of students considered the Treaty to have
been a significant event. In addition, there was a large amount of overlap
in responses to the Treaty’s significance among students within and across
the four ethnic groups.
117
Table 7.6 Explanations by ethnic group
Agreement: Agreement: Relationship Importance Importance Contro-

2 cultures peace/end between to Māori to Pākehā versy/
together/ of conflict past and conflict
national present
formation
Māori 41 19 26 27 0 17
Pākehā 38 18 39 3 4 4
Pasifika 38 16 28 17 7 15
Asian 33 20 34 10 0 6
Similarities included responses about the Treaty as an historic agreement

between Māori and the British, as one that created the foundation of the
modern nation and/or as one that promoted peace or avoidance of conflict
between Māori and British. A large number of responses also related the Trea-
ty’s historic significance to the present: although many of the explanations
were generic (e.g., “shapes the way New Zealand is today”), some referred
to the Treaty’s importance in having established the nation’s legal or political
framework, or peaceful relations between Māori and Pākehā in the present.
Differences among ethnic groups also emerged. Māori (27 responses),
Pasifika (16) and Asian (10) responses were much more likely than Pākehā (4)
to refer to the Treaty’s significance only to Māori. Often, the explanations
referenced land confiscation or protection from continued confiscation,
while a few attributed the Treaty’s significance to having become a symbol
of Māori history or culture. In addition, there were significant differences
in responses to the Treaty’s relationship to controversy or conflict: Māori
(17), Pasifika (15) and Asian (6) responses were more than twice as likely as
Pākehā (4) to explain the Treaty as a source of conflict or controversy. Over-
all, while many responses across groups framed the Treaty in relation to
national formation and/or peaceful relations in past and/or present, Māori,
Pasifika and to a lesser extent Asian responses were much more likely than
Pākehā to view the Treaty as significant only to Māori, as well as a source
of controversy or conflict historically and/or today. One notable difference
between Māori and the other three groups was the extent to which Māori
respondents attached significance to the Treaty in terms of its personal con-
nection. These students were more likely to emphasize a sense of personal or
familial loss and ongoing grievance over broken Treaty promises and what
these continue to mean for Māori today.
Discussion/Implications
Within our data, we found overlapping responses across ethnic groups of the
Treaty’s significance as a symbol of bicultural agreement and/or beginnings,
as well as its significance as a document that promoted peace or avoided
conflict. At the same time, significant differences emerged. Māori youth saw
the Treaty as a source of conflict and controversy historically and today,
as well as personally significant to themselves or other Māori. Pasifika and
Asian students also tended to view the Treaty as controversial and/or of
significance only to Māori, while Pākehā youth were less likely to reference
conflict or significance to Māori only.
The findings have important implications for teaching. Historical signifi-
cance as a disciplinary tool is an important resource for teachers and other
educators (Bradshaw, 2006; Counsell, 2004; Seixas & Morton, 2012).
Teachers can use it to support students’ critical engagement with competing
claims of an historical event’s significance, particularly claims by people (or
texts) in positions of power. Teaching young people to understand disciplin-
ary concepts like historical significance is important as well to support their
own conceptions “of the collective past and develop more sophisticated his-
torical understandings of it” (Lévesque, 2008, p. 61). The use of disciplin-
ary tools to construct or evaluate historical significance does not mean that
there is one true or correct judgment about an event’s significance. It does
mean, however, that teachers or students can support their selections or
explanations of historical significance with evidence and rational argument.
At the same time, some have argued that a disciplinary approach to teach-
ing/learning history in general, and difficult histories in particular, is nec-
essary but insufficient (Bermudez, 2012; Epstein, 2009; Zembylas, 2013).
The influence of social identities impact several aspects of historical think-
ing, including the selection and explanation of historically significant people
and events, as well as the assessment of the credibility of historical sources.
To disregard the influence of young people’s (or adults’) identities on their
historical understandings is in itself ahistorical (Cronon, 1992). Recogniz-
ing the political/cultural assumptions of the interpretive frameworks that
underpin specific historical narratives and other forms, we argue, is a form
of historical literacy.
Recent research has begun to investigate the role that social identities
have played in historical inquiry in ways that mobilize and complement
rather than disregard disciplinary approaches. Bermudez (2012) and Gold-
berg (2013), for example, have shown that students’ ethnic identities influ-
enced how they interpreted historical texts or events in ways that favored
their own ethnic group’s historical motivations or actions. In both studies,
individual students were part of larger ethnically mixed discussion groups.
When a student of one ethnicity in the group challenged another’s (of a dif-
ferent ethnicity) comments or interpretations, oftentimes the “challenged”
student resorted to disciplinary analyses or practices (e.g., referring to
the historical text to bolster or refine one’s argument or rethinking one’s
assumptions in the light of counterevidence) to respond (Goldberg, 2013).
Peck (2010) has provided one fruitful path to teaching students to reflect
on the role of their own and others’ identities in historical inquiry. Peck
119
asked students of different ethnicities to select and explain pictures of his-
torical actors and events to construct a narrative about Canada’s historical
development. Not surprisingly, Peck found that students’ ethnic identities
played a central role in determining not just the criteria they used to deter-
mine historical significance; students’ ethnic identities also largely deter-
mined the narrative templates (Wertsch, 2002) or overarching historical
narratives in which they embedded actors and events. She also found that
many students were capable of using “metacognitive thinking” to reflect
on how their ethnic identities shaped their historical narratives. Peck called
on teachers to help students “identify and explore the reasons why they are
drawn to particular narrative templates, and which narratives they take for
granted as the status quo” (Peck, 2010, p. 610). In other words, Peck sug-
gested teaching students to explore both the disciplinary and sociocultural
dimensions of their and others’ historical thinking.
In the context of New Zealand, recognizing and responding to differences
in students’ understandings of the historical significance of the Treaty of
Waitangi can lead the way to creating more culturally responsive policies
and practices. For example, our research shows that Māori students tended
to interpret the significance of the Treaty of Waitangi differently from their
non-Māori classmates, often holding a more personal sense of grievance,
loss and emotional connection to this event. Culturally responsive history
teachers and educators need to deliberately look for differences like this,
exploring, extending and when necessary challenging their students’ pre-
existing notions of historical significance. Policies related to teaching about
the Treaty in schools should recognize and respect, as well as attempt to
broaden, young people’s views of the Treaty as a national symbol of unity
and of conflict. Teachers also can mobilize students’ common and disparate
views of the Treaty to discuss the disciplinary and sociocultural dimensions
of historical thinking. By investigating with students the range of mean-
ings that the Treaty holds for them and others, educators may be able to
broaden discussions of commonalities and differences within and among
New Zealanders and support them to more confidently confront New Zea-
land’s unsettling past.
Note
1. NZ adopts a ‘multiple counts’ approach to the categorization of ethnicity that takes
into account that in some cases individuals identify as more than one ethnicity.
8 “That’s Not My History”
The Reconceptualization of
Canadian History Education
in Nova Scotia Schools
Jennifer Tinkham
Introduction
This study was inspired by a conversation I had with a Mi’kmaw (a First
Nations people indigenous to Canada’s Maritime provinces) student in an
undergraduate teacher education course that I taught. I was discussing my
love of learning and engaging with history and she brushed off my enthusi-
asm with the simple statement: “They call it Canadian history but that’s not
my history.” This caused me to pause. What I had learned over the course
of my education in Nova Scotia was representative of my history and my
culture. I could see myself in the curriculum and I could identify with the
narratives I was presented with. As we discussed this more, I began to see
the gaps for her in her social studies education. She believed that she learned
“real” history in the community and the content found in the school cur-
riculum was inaccurate and not to be trusted. She spoke of competing nar-
ratives between home and school and the tensions involved in navigating
between these two worlds.
As I began to ask other students and to listen more to what diverse stu-
dents were saying in classes I was teaching, I soon learned that this was an
experience that was shared by other Mi’kmaw students in Nova Scotia.
I wanted to know how the students then navigated the historical narratives
in their social studies education classes, and my initial research question
asked: How do Mi’kmaw students situate their own family/community-
based understandings and narratives of Canadian history alongside the con-
tent and teaching of the current curriculum in Nova Scotia’s schools?
Research Methods
In 2012, I generated data with 13 Mi’kmaw students who attended a band-
controlled school (Ni’newey Community School, which is federally funded
and locally controlled) and a provincially controlled school (East Coast High
School, which is provincially funded and provincially controlled) in Nova
Scotia. Seven of the participants lived in Ni’newey and attended Ni’newey
Community School, located within their community and six participants
121
124 Jennifer Tinkham
lived in Welte’temsi and attended East Coast High School, located outside
of their community. Both schools, while funded and controlled differently,
are mandated to follow the provincial curriculum. All participants ranged
in age from 16 to 19 and consisted of four males, eight females and one
transgendered participant who identifies as female.
Using a decolonizing framework and the methodology of conversations
and sharing circles, participants were asked how their social studies courses,
particularly in Canadian history, connected (or not) with what they had
already learned in their homes and communities. The data analysis phase of
this work stemmed from a decolonizing approach where participants played
an active role in interpreting the data. I chose an established Indigenous
model, called the First Nations Holistic Lifelong Learning Model (CCL,
2007), to act as a framework for data analysis. According to the Cana-
dian Council on Learning (2007), it was developed “as a result of ongoing
discussions among First Nations learning professionals, community prac-
titioners, researchers and analysts” (p. 1). At least three members of the
Mi’kmaw community in Nova Scotia played a role in creating this model
and I therefore assume that it is representative of the community for the
purposes of this work. As this work fell under a case study framework,
I used rich description in this chapter to provide depth to the experiences of
each participant. Each context represented an individual case, which I then
analyzed using a cross-case analysis approach.
The Cases
In order to make sense of the differences presented by the participants in
the two schools, it is important to note the differences in populations that
each school serves. Ni’newey Community School is a grades 1–12 (or
Kindergarten–12) institution and all of the students are Mi’kmaw. There is no
senior high school located in Welte’temsi so Mi’kmaw youth must attend East
Coast High School, which is a large provincial high school, grades 10–12, and
located outside the community. By Nova Scotia standards, the school hosts an
international population of about 10%. Therefore, the students at East Coast
High School come from a variety of backgrounds and only a small percent-
age is made up of Mi’kmaw students. There is only one Mi’kmaw teacher on
staff at East Coast High School, while, with the exception of two teachers,
everyone on staff at Ni’newey Community School is Mi’kmaw.
Findings
General Curricular and Pedagogical Concerns

Participants in Ni’newey (the band-controlled school) were willing to allow
Mi’kmaw history and the content contained in the prescribed curriculum to
coexist in complementary ways. They wanted to see more Mi’kmaw content
Reconceptualization of Canadian History 125
woven throughout the social studies curriculum alongside, rather than
against, Eurocentric (or Western) content. Participants did not feel they had
to choose between two knowledge systems and few tensions arose between
their home and school learning. This was largely due to the close connections
between the school and the community and the work of their teachers to
create a more holistic educational experience. When problematic narratives
were presented, teachers were there as nurturing guides to help them navi-
gate. The participants were well aware of the gaps in the prescribed curricu-
lum and credited their teachers for helping to smooth this or fill in the gaps.
Ni’newey Community School participants saw themselves represented in
their learning as a result of action on the part of the teachers and commu-
nity. For the participants, the teachers were strong Mi’kmaw role models
who worked hard to bring in Mi’kmaw content and celebrate Mi’kmaw
culture. Students’ perceptions and understandings of the pedagogical deci-
sions made by the teachers contributed to the participants’ understanding of
the curriculum and their spiritual connectedness to their Mi’kmaw culture.
The open relationships between participants and teachers allowed them to
question the curriculum and ask for more information, and participants
described their teachers as knowledgeable and helpful.
The participants in the Welte’temsi school system told a different story.
They also showed a willingness to present Mi’kmaw content alongside
Eurocentric content, which some participants at times considered to be con-
tradictory. They wished simply to be included in the curriculum in ways
that did not marginalize their culture and history. But unlike Ni’newey
participants, Welte’temsi participants had been left to bridge these gaps on
their own. They had little support outside of their relationship with Ms. K,
the sole Mi’kmaw teacher on staff who fostered their emotional develop-
ment and well-being. Ms. K taught a Mi’kmaq Studies 10 course, focused
specifically on Mi’kmaw history, and participants discussed experiencing a
mirrored approach to learning, where they saw themselves and their com-
munity in the content.
Like the Ni’newey participants, the Welte’temsi participants recom-
mended including more Mi’kmaw content, especially localized content, in
the social studies curriculum. But outside of the course taught by Ms. K,
they believed they rarely covered this content as a result of teachers’ inac-
tion. The participants did acknowledge two other teachers who tried to
connect with them and their Mi’kmaw culture. These two non-Mi’kmaw
teachers were considered to be adopted members of the community and
participants reported that they worked hard to understand and respectfully
represent Mi’kmaw culture in their classrooms.
Columbus’s Discovery of North America

The participants from both schools had been presented with historical
accounts, such as the story of Columbus discovering North America, that
125
forced them to consider the accuracy of the story. Knowing from a Mi’kmaw
perspective that the story of Columbus’s discovery of North America is filled
with errors, teachers required participants to engage with or build a counter-
narrative to reflect their prior knowledge. The participants in Ni’newey
had little to say about Columbus in part because their teachers had taught
them accurate representations of European-Aboriginal contact. Partici-
pants brushed off as an annoying joke the idea that Christopher Columbus
“discovered” a place where Aboriginal people already lived; they had been
taught an approach that realized the problematic nature of “discovering”
land already inhabited.
The Welte’temsi participants, however, had quite a bit to say about the
Columbus narrative and how it was taught. The traditional Columbus narra-
tive had been given more weight in East Coast High School than in Ni’newey
Community School. Because of this, participants felt that the narrative was
hard to problematize in their school. When participants attempted to share
a counternarrative in school, non-Mi’kmaw students expressed discomfort,
and, in some instances, teachers expressed annoyance or exasperation.
Centralization
Centralization is another historical account in the social studies curriculum
that required students to develop a counter-narrative in order to connect
with their prior knowledge. In the 1940s, the government developed cen-
tralization policies that urged Mi’kmaw people to move to central locations
within the province. In discussing centralization policies, the participants
in Ni’newey had a somewhat sophisticated understanding of the reasons
behind the policies. They believed the policies had been an attempt by the
government to assimilate and collect Mi’kmaw people into a specific loca-
tion, which failed miserably (King, 2012). The bulk of their knowledge on
centralization had come from their teachers and community members, and
they felt that their textbooks offered a more sanitized explanation, which
they unanimously rejected.
The participants in Welte’temsi did not expand on their understandings
of the reasons behind the centralization program and largely focused on the
achievements made by the community after centralization, which they felt
were absent from their learning in school. When I asked participants about
centralization practices in Nova Scotia, they recalled learning about this
from Ms. K but claimed not to have learned anything about the centraliza-
tion program outside of their Mi’kmaq Studies 10 course.
Curriculum Gaps and Omissions: Residential Schools

and Treaty Rights
In addition to issues of historical accuracy, the participants in both contexts
pointed out what they believed were gaps or omissions in the social studies
subject matter. Two significant gaps emerged. The first omission related to
the lack of content around residential schooling. The second omission was
the lack of content concerning treaties and treaty rights. Both of these topics
were seen as necessary to understanding Mi’kmaw culture and history, and
participants believed that more awareness and understanding around these
topics would significantly lessen many misconceptions and misinformation
held by non-Mi’kmaw people.
The participants in Ni’newey felt that they had learned a great deal about
residential schooling at home and in the community, and had been given
opportunities to participate in events such as the Truth and Reconciliation
Commission hearings. Angelina, a participant from Ni’newey, had taken
part in the creation of a video on residential schooling that was presented at
the United Nations headquarters. Participants felt that their school was an
open place for them to discuss residential schooling. The topic was closely
tied to the community; their teachers had used real examples from survi-
vors living in Ni’newey. The students had benefited from learning about this
from people they knew and had connected the course content to stories of
real people from their community.
The participants in Welte’temsi had much to say about the lack of cover-
age of residential schooling at East Coast High School. While they believed
they had learned about residential schooling only in a class with Ms. K, they
desired to expand their learning. When given the option, many chose to do
projects on residential schools. All participants felt that they had learned
more about residential schooling from their homes and community than
from school and wished to see this topic covered on a deeper and more
personal level, as well as learn from the stories of survivors. They discussed
connecting school topics like the Holocaust with their community stories of
residential schooling practices.
The second omission in the curriculum is the topic of Mi’kmaw treaty
rights. Both groups of participants felt that treaty rights were significant
and should be covered in their secondary school courses. The participants
in Ni’newey felt that the topic had been covered in greater detail in the
elementary grades than in their senior high school courses; they believed
that treaty rights should be reviewed in Grade 12 to ensure students leave
school with the information fresh in their minds. An understanding of trea-
ties, the participants believed, would help Mi’kmaw people educate others
and defend these rights.
In contrast, Welte’temsi participants felt that treaty rights had not been
covered at all during their schooling. They believed that all students should
know Mi’kmaw treaty rights, with one participant suggesting that students
should be tested prior to graduation. They believed that an understanding
of treaties would significantly reduce misconceptions and racist attitudes,
especially around taxation. Both groups of participants felt that a lack of
understanding around treaty rights caused a divide between Mi’kmaw and
non-Mi’kmaw communities in Nova Scotia.
127
Teacher Pedagogy and Teacher-Student Relationships
According to participants, the Mi’kmaw teachers at Ni’newey Community
School added to the existing curriculum by including historical Mi’kmaw
narratives and raising questions about the gaps in the prescribed curricu-
lum. Teachers played a key role in supporting some aspects of Mi’kmaw
ways of being by tying content to Mi’kmaw culture, bringing traditional
practices into teaching, supporting attendance at cultural events and bring-
ing out the Mi’kmaw aspect of “everything.” The participants felt that these
pedagogical extensions had allowed for spiritual development and well-
being. They wondered how this might look in a provincial school with few
to no Mi’kmaw teachers on staff, showing that they understood that the
cultural knowledge of the teachers played a large role in their approaches to
curriculum and pedagogy.
The participants also mentioned that their teachers provided a great deal
of scaffolding with outdated textbooks or resources, remained available to
students in and outside of the classroom, enacted their cultural practical
knowledge (Orr, Paul & Paul, 2002), and maintained and fostered close
relationships that allowed for open and honest dialogue in the classroom.
Overall, participants believed that the teachers at Ni’newey Community
School had brought creative elements into their teaching, encouraged an
advocacy lens and provided support for action.
In contrast, East Cost High School participants felt that with the excep-
tion of Ms. K, their teachers did not appear to provide the much support
for their learning. Although some teachers asked them to consider alternate
narratives to the “official” stories presented in the prescribed curriculum
or question the history they were being taught, participants usually did not
feel comfortable discussing gaps or alternative perspectives because they
believed this might be an annoyance for other students. As learners, par-
ticipants continually questioned their learning and wished for more cultural
connections in school. They felt that only Mi’kmaq Studies 10 had allowed
for spiritual connectedness; in their other courses, the learner had to bridge
this gap on his or her own.
Many also felt that the dominant structure of the school also margin-
alized Indigenous knowledge. They believed that the lack of connections
to their culture in social studies courses represented a lack of respect for
their identities. They did, however, outline numerous recommendations that
teachers could enact to help foster spiritual development and well-being for
Mi’kmaw students in social studies. Fortunately, they believed that their
connectedness to culture had allowed them on their own to create spaces for
representation within their learning, and through this they connected school
material to their out-of-school experiences and knowledge.
The participants also expressed some negativity towards their non-
Mi’kmaw teachers because the teachers did not understand Mi’kmaw
culture and learning styles. Although participants had some positive
responses to teachers who sought to understand Mi’kmaw culture and learn
the Mi’kmaw language, they felt that the majority of the staff did not reach
out to learn about participants’ culture. They described a general lack of
relationship with teachers, relationships that might have fostered a climate
that respects and values Indigenous knowledge. Overall, participants did
not believe that their teachers were committed to Aboriginal education.
Extracurricular Opportunities
The participants in in Ni’newey provided many examples of opportunities
for extracurricular experiences such as craftsmanship, hunting trips, tradi-
tional games, projects, travel and attending the Truth and Reconciliation
Commission hearings. They attributed the opportunities to teachers’ and
administrators’ efforts to include Mi’kmaw culture throughout the curricu-
lum and school. The participants in Welte’temsi described no examples of
opportunities to engage in similar activities or experiences; there were no
traditional practices within the social studies curriculum or classroom to
foster physical development and well-being.
Racism and Resilience

The participants from Ni’newey were quite concerned about how Mi’kmaw
history and culture was viewed in schools outside of Ni’newey. Similarly,
they talked about misunderstandings and misconceptions surrounding
Mi’kmaw culture and history and described various connections to racism
and racist attitudes. They voiced a need for more information and aware-
ness in schools across the province. Participants in Welte’temsi were upset
and angry that their history and culture were not covered in school or that
people outside of the Mi’kmaw culture did not understand their heritage
and culture.
The participants in both contexts described how other people’s lack of
respect towards Mi’kmaw culture and history caused them to be more
sensitive to racist attitudes and beliefs. However, one significant difference
between the two contexts is that the participants at Ni’newey Community
School encountered racist attitudes and beliefs outside of the school and
community, but for the participants at East Coast High School, these beliefs
and attitudes were very much present within the school. The participants
in both contexts also were positive and hopeful for change, but the par-
ticipants in Ni’newey showed more evidence of feeling empowered and
possessing emotional and spiritual connections to culture both inside and
outside of school. The participants in Welte’temsi, however, were resilient,
working to overcome stereotypes, and maintaining a positive and hopeful
attitude in the midst of what they described as racism towards their culture.
129
Discussion
My initial research question asked: How do Mi’kmaw students situate
their own understandings and narratives of Canadian history alongside
the content and teaching in the current curriculum in Nova Scotia’s band-
controlled and provincially controlled schools? The participants in Ni’newey
were willing to allow Mi’kmaw history and the content found in the pre-
scribed curriculum to coexist in complementary ways. They wanted to see
more Mi’kmaw content woven throughout the social studies curriculum
alongside, not against, Eurocentric (or Western) content. The participants
in Welte’temsi also showed a willingness to lay Mi’kmaw content alongside
Eurocentric (and, for them, sometimes contradictory) content. The main
difference between the two groups was that the participants from East
Coast High School had been left to bridge these gaps on their own. I did not
get a sense that the participants wished to replace Eurocentric content with
Indigenous content. Rather, they wished simply to be included in the curric-
ulum in ways that did not marginalize their culture and history. Both groups
of participants recommended including more Mi’kmaw content, especially
localized content, in the social studies curriculum.
I initially set out on this research path with an interest in how Mi’kmaw
students were resolving any tensions between their learning at home and in
school. My findings were context dependent. For the participants in band-
controlled Ni’newey Community School there was very little evidence of
having to choose between two knowledge systems and few tensions between
their home and school learning. This was largely due to the close connec-
tions between the school and the community and the work of their teachers
to create a more holistic educational experience for them in social studies.
When textbooks or other resources presented problematic narratives, such
as the story of Columbus discovering North America, Ni’newey teachers
were there as nurturing guides to help students navigate. The participants
in the provincially controlled school system told a different story. Those
attending East Coast High School under provincial jurisdiction had to take
an active role in resolving any tensions between contradictory home and
school knowledge. They sought out connections on their own and had little
support outside of their relationship with Ms. K. The education for the
participants at East Coast High School could not be considered as being
representative of holistic learning.
Participants in both contexts discussed historically inaccurate content and
outlined significant gaps within the social studies curriculum. Thomas King
(2003) advised, “once a story is told it cannot be called back . . . so you
have to be careful with the stories you tell, and you have to watch out for
the stories you are told” (p. 10). King’s words are a warning, reminding
teachers and curriculum developers to be careful about what it is that is
being taught. He stressed the need to be responsible for the content that is
brought forward in classrooms. King (2012) also cautioned: “most of us
think that history is the past. It’s not. History is the stories we tell about the
past. Such a definition might make the enterprise of history seem neutral.
Benign. Which of course it isn’t” (p. 2). Believing that stories are “not cho-
sen by chance” (p. 3) and overwhelmingly represent “famous men and cel-
ebrated events” (p. 3), King encouraged teachers and curriculum developers
to examine the narratives using a critically literate approach that calls for
the examination of historical accounts for logical inconsistencies, omissions,
oversimplifications, errors and distortions (Ada, 1988). History is not static
or neutral; rather it is made up of collected stories about the experiences of
individuals and collectives, and is therefore subject to perspective. Teach-
ers and curriculum developers need to consider from whose perspective the
stories emanate and who benefits, and who loses, from the portrayals they
present to students.
According to the final report from the Truth and Reconciliation Com-
mission hearings (2015), teaching about residential schools is of extreme
importance. The report underscored the importance of understanding the
issues behind residential schooling and the resulting legacy, believing that
this will help students understand issues of family breakdowns, addic-
tions, physical and sexual abuse, poor achievement in schools and poor
health, all of which are currently present in many Aboriginal communities
across Canada. Believing that “reconciliation will come through the edu-
cation system” (p. 12), the people who attended the hearings made direct
requests. One of these is that “they want control over the way their chil-
dren and grandchildren are educated” (p. 12) and “they want the full his-
tory of residential schools and Aboriginal peoples taught to all students in
Canada at all levels of study and to all teachers, and given prominence in
Canadian history texts” (p. 12). The Truth and Reconciliation Commis-
sion outlined numerous formal recommendations within the interim report,
notably: “The Commission recommends that each provincial and territo-
rial government undertake a review of the curriculum materials currently
in use in public schools to assess what, if anything, they teach about resi-
dential schools” (p. 28). Judging by the responses of participants in both
contexts, this curricular examination needs to happen in Nova Scotia. The
Truth and Reconciliation Commission also recommends the development
of “age-appropriate educational materials about residential schools for use
in public schools” (p. 28), which is in keeping with the recommendations
from the participants in this study. It is however, important to highlight that
the participants in both contexts wished for this content to be localized and
rooted in community perspectives that are reflective of a Mi’kmaw world-
view. It is not enough to borrow content from other provinces or territories
because this content would inherently be unable to speak to local Mi’kmaw
issues and contexts.
In terms of respecting and valuing cultural capital, Lipka, Mohatt &
The Ciulistet Group (1998) described a culturally negotiated pedagogy.
They explained this must be rooted in a both/and approach rather than an
131
either/or approach. They stated that an either/or mindset “seriously con-
strains the educational possibilities, limiting and disempowering the com-
munity” (p. 30). Lipka et al. indicated that “indigenous teachers and student
teachers possess cultural knowledge that can point to better ways of teach-
ing” (p. 85). The Mi’kmaw teachers at Ni’newey Community School clearly
demonstrated an approach to teaching that is tied to cultural knowledge, as
reflected in the participants’ reflections on their schooling.
By focusing their teaching on including traditional practices and Mi’kmaw
ways of knowing, the teachers at Ni’newey Community School encouraged
the participants to connect with their Mi’kmaw history and culture in ways
that did not place Mi’kmaw knowledge on the periphery. When asked about
being Mi’kmaw, and Mi’kmaw content in social studies, the Ni’newey par-
ticipants felt that their teachers had been able and willing to approach
social studies content from a traditional perspective, using practices that
were rooted in Mi’kmaw culture and representative of Mi’kmaw history,
which had helped them further their connections to Mi’kmaw culture. The
participants in Ni’newey felt that their teachers had been able to “show the
Mi’kmaq in everything,” which had in turn helped them to better under-
stand the content.
Other jurisdictions in Canada are responding to the increasing need to
better respond to Aboriginal students in their classrooms through the devel-
opment of teaching resources and supports, often in collaboration with
local Aboriginal elders and scholars. One such resource guide to support
teachers in their attempts to infuse Aboriginal perspectives in education is
called Our Words, Our Ways (Alberta Education, 2005) and states:
Regardless of their heritage, students learn best when they learn in

context—when they can relate what they are learning to their own expe-
rience. In this sense, Aboriginal students are often at a disadvantage
because many aspects of Aboriginal culture are not reflected in their
classrooms.
(p. 19)
The incorporation of traditional practices enabled the students at Ni’newey

Community School to be more fully engaged with their Mi’kmaw culture.
The participants appreciated their teachers’ work in doing this. They talked
about feeling like they belonged in their school and credited this in part
to their relationships with their teachers. As learners, the participants in
Ni’newey showed pride in their culture and the development of strong
Mi’kmaw spirituality by welcoming content taught through traditional
practices and wanting others to learn this outside of Ni’newey. While the
Ni’newey Community School falls under a provincial curricular mandate,
its teachers have made it a priority—and were given the authority—to incor-
porate traditional culture into all curricula.
The participants in Welte’temsi expressed feeling the opposite. They
appreciated the pedagogical decisions made by Ms. K. because she fostered
an inclusive atmosphere and sense of connection for these participants. But
they did not feel the same sense of connection in most of their other classes.
Bear Nicholas (2001) believed that community schools were virtually
unable to meet the needs of Aboriginal students because of their desire to
emulate non-Native schools. I argue that the Ni’newey Community School
is in fact able to meet the needs of the Mi’kmaw students it services. Bear
Nicholas stated, “in all but a tiny minority of band-controlled schools
outside of the North, traditional culture is virtually ignored” (p. 9). The
Ni’newey Community School has worked hard to bring traditional culture
into its classrooms and celebrate traditionally rooted practices in its teach-
ing, thereby increasing spiritual connectedness for students.
Ni’newey Community School is grounded in First Nations education and
aligns with Battiste’s (2000) view that education should
draw from the ecological context of the people, their social and cultural
frames of reference, embodying their philosophical foundations of spiri-
tual interconnected realities, and building on the enriched experiences
and gifts of their people and their current needs for economic develop-
ment and change.
(p. 21)
Racism was another significant factor in participants’ experiences with

social studies. I also believe that by not acknowledging racism and address-
ing some of the issues around this I would not be acknowledging the lived
realities of these participants. Tupper and Cappello (2008) cautioned:
To pretend that students do not experience racism, or to create curricula

that obfuscates these experiences, is to yet again privilege the vantage
point of the dominant (white) students who do not experience racial
discrimination, and who can remain unaware of the privilege they carry.
(p. 576)
Similarly, St. Denis (2007) pointed out that “the argument that addressing
racism and doing anti-racist education is too negative and that we need to
focus on the positive often results in tinkering with the status quo” (p. 1086).
I believe that for non-Aboriginal students, teachers, administrators, teacher
educators and researchers to ignore racism as a present condition and press-
ing concern for Mi’kmaw students contributes to the fear of and resistance
to talking about and interrogating race.
Lipka et al. (1998) wrote that “teachers must have the power to structure
classroom organization, curricula, and social interaction and the relation-
ships between parents and the school in culturally congruent ways” (p. 87).
133
Based on what I learned from my participants, I believe that the teachers in
Ni’newey had been given and were using this power to create an inclusive
setting for their students. I do not believe that the teachers at East Coast
High School had been given opportunities to determine what the cultural
compatibility might be for their pedagogy in relation to their Mi’kmaw
students.
Perhaps if provincially controlled schools were given the tools to estab-
lish a culturally negotiated pedagogy, the gaps would lessen for Mi’kmaw
students. A negotiated partnership between Indigenous and Western knowl-
edge would represent what Lipka et al. describe as a “third reality” (p. 197)
where cultures in contact are represented not by an either/or approach but
rather as both/and, lessening the struggle over whose knowledge is of most
worth. This third reality aligns with the views expressed by the developers
of the First Nations Lifelong Learning Model (CCL, 2007), who indicated
that Western and Indigenous knowledge should be presented and received in
complementary ways. I believe the participants in both contexts in this study
were committed to this idea. Neither group wanted to replace one knowl-
edge base with the other, but rather wished to experience more Mi’kmaw
content and narratives so that their education could be more well-rounded
and representative of their culture and history.
Sirkka Ahonen
History wars between states tend to overshadow conflicts about the past
within nation-states. The latter arise between a hegemonic majority and
ethnic minorities. The background of such conflicts is constituted by the
colonial past and the institution of nation-states. When the nation-state is
founded on the idea of an ethnic nation, as was the case during 19th- and
20th-century nationalism, an assumption about ethnic minorities is made.
The making of nation-states implied the composition of exclusive ethno-
cultural foundation stories. Historians, writers and artists provided the
hegemonic majority with myths of common origin, iconic stories of national
heroes and military valor. In a typical national grand narrative the majority
presented itself as the founders of the state, even when there was obvious
evidence of the minorities having been “the first nations,” like the Aborigi-
nes of Australia, the Māori of New Zealand and the Mi’kmaw of Canada.
The term “First Nation” was introduced by post-colonial historians of
the 1970s. In historiography, the previously silenced minorities acquired
a voice and put forward their own histories. They developed the historical
consciousness of being active participants in history and dynamic creators
of culture. Cultures that previously had attracted mainly anthropological
interest were now seen in relation to historical processes. Consequently, the
minorities demanded the recognition of their histories in schools and the
rewriting of the history of “the nation” with reference to different ethnic
groups.
In the section “Teaching and Learning Indigenous Histories” the role of
the Aborigines in Australian history education is recounted by Anna Clark
in chapter 5; the position of Māori in the national museum of New Zea-
land by Joanna Kidman in chapter 6; the duality of historical significance
of a historical treaty in New Zealand by Mark Sheehan, Terrie Epstein and
Michael Harcourt in chapter 7; and the recognition of the Mi’kmaw in
Canadian history curricula by Jennifer Tinkham in chapter 8.
Australia is famous for a history war between the Labor Party and the
Conservatives. The Labor Party, when in government, has advocated an
anti-colonial apologetic view of the historical ordeal of the Aborigines,
whereas the Conservatives, when in power, have jeered at “black armband
135
historians” who disregard the heroic White settler saga. The war has been
vividly studied by Stuart Macintyre and Anna Clark in The History Wars
(2004). In the book, Anna Clark gives voice to students and teachers. She
claims that teachers align with the anti-colonial approach to Australia’s his-
tory, while students may be cynical; when asked about their experience of
studying the history of Indigenous Australians, students complained about
being bored by the lessons. Clark bases her research question on this para-
dox: Why would progressive teachers have cynical students?
Clark looks for the answer from two educational perspectives and asks,
Is the boredom due to the substance of history or to the structure of the
curriculum? Approaching the substance of Aboriginal studies critically, she
points out the intriguing choices of the terms that frame the studies of colo-
nial history. Contrasting terms are used to refer to same acts and events,
like “settlement” and “invasion,” “discover” and “disrupt,” “pioneer” and
“exploit.” In addition, public memory includes material and immaterial
artifacts the meaning of which depends on the receiver, as evidenced in the
question, “Should the Australian War Memorial commemorate Indigenous
victims of the Frontier Wars?” (p. 81).
During the 1970s and 1980s, state education departments in Australia
reconsidered the substance of history lessons. They added progressive and
post-colonial concepts of Indigenous studies to syllabi and stressed criti-
cal historical thinking. In Clark’s interviews, teachers approved the policy
unanimously. This might be due to the historiography of the time. Teachers
were inspired by the new “Black history” and, in practice, felt post-colonial
lessons refreshing to teach. For older teachers, the existence of Aboriginal
history was a revelation. Some of them felt occasionally not confident to
teach the history they had not studied in university, but found the way to
overcome the hesitation by inviting Indigenous guest speakers to teach dif-
ficult lessons.
The history war was not fought by teachers but by politicians who wanted
to project their partisan views on history education. The Labor Party favored
Indigenous studies and the Conservatives the traditional White settler saga.
The teachers, according to Clark’s interviews, trusted their own professional
competence. They acknowledged the curricular problem of the repetition
of the same Indigenous events and urged the restructuring of the curricu-
lum to enable in-depth studies and space for teaching critical thinking. It
was students, however, who made the Indigenous studies into a pedagogical
problem. According to Clark, the problem concerned the structure rather
than the content of the curriculum. Students were unmotivated to return
recursively to the same Aboriginal narrative. Only a few students raised
the question of historical responsibility, asking how young people could be
held guilty for the cruelties of the distant colonial period. Others, however,
recognized transgenerational responsibility.
Anna Clark’s chapter illuminates how a post-colonial turn was imple-
mented in history curricula and how Indigenous history was received in
137
138 Sirkka Ahonen
classrooms. Even though the history of Aborigines was introduced into the
official curricula a generation ago, there are still obstacles in implementa-
tion. Some teachers of European background carry the burden of ancestral
racial prejudices, but far more teachers, including those of Aboriginal back-
ground, worry about negative student attitudes: students regard Indigenous
studies as unchallenging and boring although in principle, students believe
it is fair to include Aboriginal studies. Clark hints at the structure of the
curriculum as the crucial problem: Indigenous studies can seem repetitive
when the same historical events are revisited across grade levels and there
is an air of political correctness in their presentation. Clark suggests active
discussion and problem-oriented inquiry as one solution.
Joanna Kidman’s article aligns with Clark’s in the quest of an adequate
implementation of the post-colonial turn in history education. Her focus is on
museum education and more specifically New Zealand’s national museum.
Museums as public memory complement school education and contribute
to the formation of historical consciousness among people. Today museums
range from the traditional ones that reinforce the grand national narrative
of the community (hence “national” museums) to “museums of conscience”
that bring up moral issues of historical guilt and victimhood.
Kidman studies the moral issue of ethnic inclusion in New Zealand and
asks: How far are the identity needs and cultural heritage of the indigenous
Māori recognized in the permanent exhibition, Treaty of Waitangi: Signs
of a Nation, at the national museum? Representatives of the British Crown
and Māori chiefs of New Zealand signed the Treaty of Waitangi in 1840.
The Treaty was rediscovered in the 1980s and interpreted as an embodiment
of New Zealand’s bicultural nationhood and the harmonious relationship
between Māori people and the Crown. In her chapter, Kidman rejects the
interpretation presented by the exhibition and argues that the exhibition is
an example of a “culture of forgetting.”
When building her argument, Kidman adheres to the concept of a post-
colonial turn. She refers to an early representative of post-colonial history,
Australian William Edward Stanner, who in 1969 claimed that White Aus-
tralians had “disremembered” the Aborigines by refusing their due inclu-
sion into the national narrative. Kidman claims that the “Pākehā” (i.e., New
Zealanders of European descent) had the same problem: The inclusion of
the Māori people into the national grand narrative was shunned. The exhi-
bition Treaty of Waitangi: Signs of a Nation, created in 1980, appeared to
be ethnically inclusive but hid an antagonism between the rhetoric of the
Treaty signed in 1840 and the subsequent historical reality.
Kidman’s key concept of “cultural forgetting” refers to a phenomenon
within public memory, specifically in museums. Cultural forgetting custom-
arily accompanies official politics of forgetting. There are other examples
of states sanctioning a policy of forgetting a difficult history. In Spain, after
General Franco’s death, the political groups agreed to a “pact of silence”
concerning the atrocities conducted during the dictator’s regime. In the
1990s, it became obvious that such a pact was not sustainable. A culture
of exhumations spread in the country, as people wanted to know what
had happened to the relatives and friends who had “disappeared” during
the Spanish Civil War (1936–1939). The history war flamed up, and the
Catholic Church reacted by beatifying priests who had been killed by the
Republican army that fought Franco’s Falange. In Spain, the difficult past
was not forgotten in collective memory; it serves as an example that states
pursuing reconciliation after a civil war may not be able to trust in collective
forgetting.
When explaining the omissions in the hegemonic national narrative of
New Zealand and the gaps in the Waitangi exhibition, Kidman first refers
to universal historical injustices, like acts of genocide against Indigenous
populations and the expropriation of tribal lands, and then she refers to the
museological problems of curators who struggle with the presentation of
“difficult knowledge.” She juxtaposes “difficult knowledge” with “lovely
knowledge,” the latter being expected by the larger public. While the for-
mer kind of knowledge forces the public to explore the dark side of the past
and reconsider their national identity, the latter allows people to cherish the
national narrative. The Waitangi exhibition did just the latter: It provided a
“lovely” story of a bicultural nation.
Kidman deconstructs the idea of New Zealand’s fair bicultural develop-
ment first by pointing out the ambiguities in the Waitangi document itself: a
number of Māori chief signatures was missing in the English-language ver-
sion of the Treaty, and wording in the Māori and English versions did not
correspond to each other. Second, Kidman refers to Māori people’s claim of
historical injustices, presented by Māori since the 1970s. The “lovely” his-
tory presented by official historical accounts was turned by the Māori into a
dark picture of land grab and other breaches of Waitangi “harmony.”
Kidman admits that the Waitangi exhibition utilizes the tools of modern
museum pedagogy to facilitate critical thinking among the visitors. Interac-
tive “talking posts” provoke visitors to reconsider the established interpreta-
tions, refer to controversial evidence and adopt new historical perspectives.
However, the exhibition presents a stereotypical contrast the portrayal of
Pākehā and Māori: the Pākehā as urban and dynamic agents of history and
the Māori as nature-oriented people who mainly attract anthropological
interest.
The reification of the concept of “cultural forgetting” is a fine effort by
Joanna Kidman to bring up the subtle way of denying a people historical rec-
ognition. She shows how an attempt to claim a bicultural history may actu-
ally turn into an act of hiding a difficult history. Her case is from the world
of museums, but can well be paralleled to developments in post-colonial
school curricula. As Anna Clark illustrated, good intentions of socio-ethnic
inclusion need to be enacted by sensitive professional teachers in school and
curators in museum. And students and museum goers must remember to
ask whose history they are told and whose history eventually is forgotten.
139
140 Sirkka Ahonen
Joanna Kidman’s chapter is beautifully complemented by that written by
Mark Sheehan, Terrie Epstein and Michael Harcourt. While Kidman stud-
ied museum discourse around the Treaty of Waitangi, Sheehan et al. explore
adolescents’ interpretation of the Treaty. The exploration is empirical, con-
sisting of questionnaire responses by 2,568 New Zealand adolescents. The
chapter starts with a reflection on different approaches to history education.
A “disciplinary approach” implies an emphasis on the critical skills of inter-
pretation and explanation, whereas a “socio-cultural approach” stresses
students’ identification with historical content based on social meaning.
Sheehan and colleagues adhere to the latter school of history didactics; they
are interested in the existential significance of the Treaty, that is, what the
Treaty means to today’s young people, morally, judicially and socially. “Sig-
nificance” is used by the authors not as a statistical criterion but as a sub-
stantive term that indicates the social value attributed to a phenomenon.
Significance determines how people identify with an event or institution.
Sheehan et al. argue that the positivistic disciplinary approach is insuffi-
cient in teaching and learning, as history also is related to identity construc-
tion. The socio-cultural dimension often is subordinated to the disciplinary
dimension in teaching and learning, even though the latter is necessary to
make history lessons intellectually sound.
The questionnaire sent out by Sheehan et al. reached a large number of
students. However, the statistical figures do not answer questions about the
nuances of meaning attribution. For example, the negative response by the
Pākehā students about the importance of the Treaty to Māori people is puz-
zling. In public history discussion, according to the authors, the Māori inter-
pret the Treaty positively as a historical promise of a bicultural society. But
no explanation or context is given for why Pākehā students may be cynical
about the Treaty. In this case, the results of the quantitative inquiry would
have been further illuminated with a subsequent qualitative study.
Due to well-thought-out questions, the results of the inquiry allow sug-
gestions of a wide range of existentially and ethically relevant benefits of
history education. History lessons like that of the Waitangi Treaty give
material for the building of collective identity. History is usable for negotia-
tions about inter-community justice. As mentioned earlier, philosophers of
justice regard historical responsibilities as transgenerational. According to
responses to open-ended questions included in Sheehan et al.’s question-
naire, respondents of European descent originally denied, but after second
thought admitted, the historical guilt of British settlers. The research process
was thus somewhat reflexive: Apart from informing the researchers a bit
about young people’s historical reasoning, participation in the research may
have prompted qualified, multiperspectival historical thinking.
With Jennifer Tinkham’s chapter, the geographical context of the research
changes from the southern hemisphere to Canada in the northern hemi-
sphere. The Indigenous community at stake is constituted by the Mi’kmaw
people. Tinkham chose two schools with different ethnic compositions and
institutional characters: Ni’newey Community School is locally controlled
and attended by the Mi’kmaw, while East Coast High School is controlled
by the province and attended by an internationally mixed student popu-
lation, including a small Mi’kmaw contingent. The community-controlled
school can naturally be more supportive of Indigenous students than the big
state school. Tinkham uses the institutional differences to study if or how
school curriculum and teaching can be culturally negotiated. Through inter-
views, she gives voice to the Mi’kmaw students by inviting them to judge
their experience of the schools’ cultural responsiveness.
Tinkham’s discourse is post-colonial. In relation to school curriculum,
post-colonialism implies the necessity of a cultural negotiation of the con-
tent. A post-colonial researcher asks about a curriculum, whether it is eth-
nically inclusive or, if applying a more radical anti-colonial view, provides
an ethnic group with an education related to its own cultural standards,
independent of those of the hegemonic culture. In Canada, a pedagogical
model has been composed for Indigenous education. Tinkman uses the First
Nations Holistic Lifelong Learning Model as the framework for her data
analysis. The model is a result of negotiations between First Nations teach-
ing professionals, community practitioners, researchers and analysts, and is
rooted in the First Nations understanding of learning.
In Canada, a national Truth and Reconciliation Commission has
acknowledged the right of Indigenous people to economic and cultural capi-
tal. Tinkham refers to the Commission’s interim report, according to which
“reconciliation will come through the education system” (p. 131). The Indig-
enous people, according to the Commission hearings, adamantly requested
control over their children’s education. The request had historical and moral
tenets, stemming from the cultural and spiritual exploitation in the notori-
ous residential schools in the past that sought to assimilate the Indigenous
people into a European tradition.
Tinkham’s incentive to do research into cultural inclusiveness came from
a teacher education student, who characterized her history lessons as fol-
lows: “They call it Canadian history but that’s not my history” (p. 123).
The student stated that she learned the real history in the community and
regarded the school curriculum as inadequate. Tinkham wanted to find out
how students navigated between the school lessons and the alternative home
narratives. The state school, which followed the provincial curriculum, pro-
vided an appropriate research case to compare and contrast Mi’kmaw stu-
dents’ experiences in a school controlled by the local community. Tinkham
used ethnographic “thick” description of the interviews as the way to enable
a sensitive analysis of the material. She composed five topical narratives
from each research participant and then conducted cross-case analyses.
The students at the Ni’newey Community School did not experience a
dissonance between school lessons and home stories; they perceived no ten-
sion between their identity needs and their institutional education. The cur-
riculum of the school was aligned with local content, and teachers brought
141
142 Sirkka Ahonen
local traditions and practices into their teaching. Because of a respect for
Indigenous cultural capital, the school, according to Tinkham, is an exam-
ple of culturally negotiated pedagogy. In contrast, the Mi’kmaw students in
the provincial school had experiences that Tinkham criticizes as repressive.
A discord existed between the school’s history teaching and home narra-
tives. Mi’kmaw history was marginalized in the curriculum. Therefore the
Mi’kmaw students could not relate the school lessons to their home envi-
ronment. For a school attended by students from several different cultures,
it may not possible to introduce into the curriculum on equal terms the
heritages of all students, but, according to Tinkham, the Mi’kmaw, as an
Indigenous population, were justified to expect their history to be taught.
According to Tinkham’s participants, the inclusiveness of the curriculum
depends on the teacher. The community school recruited its staff mainly
from the Mi’kmaw community, and non-Mi’kmaw teachers were commit-
ted to the maintenance of the local tradition. In contrast, only one teacher
in the provincial high school was Mi’kmaw and a role model for students.
Tinkham’s participants doubted the commitment to Indigenous education
of other teachers in the school.
Tinkham concluded that Indigenous students’ experiences of cultural
responsiveness depended equally on the structure and content of the cur-
riculum, as well as the recruitment and commitment of the teachers. Teachers
need to be committed to including local Indigenous history and traditions into
their pedagogies as significant learning experience for Indigenous students.
To conclude, the four articles on the teaching and learning of Indigenous
histories indicate that difficult histories within states are as problematic
as those between states. The idea of a nation-state implies an existence of
minorities. Nation-states are historically built on an assumption of a hege-
monic ethnic national identity, bolstered by an elite. In our post-colonial era,
the rights of minorities have been recognized, and democratic legislatures
and administrative bodies have agreed to take care of the cultural rights of
minorities in education. Official curricula ubiquitously include elements of
Indigenous education. Nevertheless, the expectation of cultural recognition
among minority students tends not to get fulfilled. In some cases, the prob-
lem lies in an essentialist view of the national curriculum: The traditional
national grand narrative looms in the minds of educators. Moreover, cur-
ricula depend on political power. Therefore, researchers must acknowledge
a need to reconceptualize history curricula. An open negotiation of the com-
position of curricula promises a balance between the narratives of different
ethnic groups, and the introduction of dialogical classroom discourse may
facilitate the inclusion of the social memories of all populations of the nation.
Section 3
Teachers and Teaching

Difficult Histories
143
9 “On Whose Side Are You?”
Difficult Histories in the
Israeli Context
Tsafrir Goldberg
What Makes a Topic Difficult
What makes a history, or more specifically a historical topic, “difficult”?
When referring to difficult histories it appears most authors are first con-
cerned with content: most notably, the encounter with accounts of trauma
and traumatic events. Traumatic events such as experiences of victimiza-
tion, violence and oppression are usually underrepresented in curricula or
dealt with in general terms. It is assumed that when exploring such topics
in more depth than the normal, desensitized “coverage” approach affords,
students’ encounter and identification with historical figures’ suffering will
prove a difficult experience, arousing strong emotional and moral reactions
(Sheppard, 2010).
This approach appears to stem from the psychoanalytic notion of trauma
as unworked-through experience of injury, haunting the individual (Simon,
Rosenberg, & Eppert, 2000). However, it may be that this notion is not fully
transferable to the collective level, in which historical trauma is a cultur-
ally mediated memory, not a relived experience (Ziv, Golden & Goldberg,
2015). While traumatic events or experience of atrocities may indeed be
themselves difficult and unsettling experiences, learning about these issues
may not always be so. Perhaps with the passage of time, or due to changes
in dominant international norms, national trauma or victimization appears
to be seen almost as an asset (Fassin & Rechtman, 2009; Sullivan, Landau,
Branscombe & Rothschild, 2012). Learning about the role of a group as
a righteous victim may buttress its comparative moral status and help its
members achieve a positive social identity (Abrams & Hogg, 1990).
Some other aspects of content may also be at work even more strongly
than the memory of trauma. First and foremost among these is the possibil-
ity that the historical account will expose immoral aspects of the learners’
community. Depictions of group members as perpetrators in the past prove
difficult as they may impact individuals’ present moral esteem and group
image (Goldberg, 2013). This difficulty will increase if the difficult history
or “dangerous memory” could bear on the present and carry disruptive
political and social implications (Zembylas & Bekerman, 2008). Such may
be the case with histories of ongoing conflict or unresolved tensions.
145
146 Tsafrir Goldberg
Historical topics undermining strongly held beliefs and religious convic-
tions may prove to be difficult for both teachers and learners. On a somewhat
different trajectory, topics that arouse and activate learners’ stereotypes and
prejudices against groups or people may also be perceived as difficult. But
as may be quite evident by now, it seems that, regarding difficult histories,
we cannot rest with discussing “what,” but move on to ask, who makes a
history difficult? For it is by now clear that the difficulty lies also, or pre-
dominantly, in the stances and reactions of agents involved in perceiving,
transmitting and sanctioning difficult histories.
Who Has (or Gives Us) a Difficult Time

Some studies point to authorities—officials and decision makers—as those
sanctioning the teaching of difficult histories, stamping them as “taboo”
(Evans, Avery & Pederson, 1999). However, teachers’ strong feelings about
a topic, the anxiety it triggers or their ambivalence about it may also lead
to self-censorship, which often signifies difficult histories (Magendzo &
Toledo, 2009). Last, but definitely not least, we should look at learners as
those who construct histories as difficult. It is of course their moral percep-
tions and emotional responses as well as identification that determine how a
historical topic is experienced (Helmsing, 2014). Learners’ reactions, as well
as that of their parents or community, may also affect teachers’ perception
of difficult histories.
Teaching
While it is tempting to focus on decision makers, it is worth paying attention
to those who carry the actual burden of implementation. Teachers’ motiva-
tions and methods should be central in a discussion of difficult histories. It
appears that most teachers who breach the unsure ground of these sensitive
issues are motivated by more than just the duty to cover mandatory curricu-
lum. Some of them are specifically committed to social justice, civic values
or conflict resolution. They are characterized by Kitson and McCully (2005)
as “risk takers,” challenging their community in order to change (heal?) it
(Burch, 2009). However, teachers may also tackle difficult issues as a way of
stimulating discussion and learning. For difficult histories, like controversial
issues (Hess, 2009), may serve not just as moral but also as didactic assets.
When referring to appropriate and effective methods for teaching difficult
histories, some main trends appear. In relation to topics of mass trauma and
atrocities, such as the teaching of the Holocaust (Totten & Feinberg, 2001),
educators are advised to use metonym and personalization. That is, on one
hand, to avoid exposure to horror in all its totality approaching it indirectly
or through a limited focus its more negotiable aspects (for example discus-
sion of children’s songs and games in the Ghetto rather than on children
being exterminated) (Wrenn et al., 2007). On the other hand, teachers are
Difficult Histories in the Israeli Context 147
advised to avoid depiction of incomprehensible mass numbers, in favor of
narratives of individual real people that learners can contextualize, identify
and identify with (International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance, 2010).
Dealing with issues whose sensitivity stems from historical (or more
likely current political) controversy, teachers report working successfully
in a multiple-perspective approach (Barton & McCully, 2007; Wrenn et al.,
2007). In such an approach the teacher structures inquiry around an open
question as to the causes or solution for a historical and human problem.
Materials and instruction should give access to competing perspectives
without taking a stance from the outset. Analyzing contradicting sources
or historical interpretations relying on critical disciplinary practices can
support rational discourse and help contain the strong emotional responses
(Goldberg & Ron, 2014; King, 2009). However, when issues are part of
a charged inter-group conflict, peace education theoreticians claim it may
be advisable to focus on nonjudgmental empathetic listening and mutual
acknowledgement rather than on critical thinking and cognitive approaches
(Albeck, Adwan & Bar-On, 2002).
It should be noted that a multiple-perspective approach is not a panacea
for the challenges of teaching difficult histories. Such an approach might
in some cases deteriorate into a relativistic stance that trivializes historical
interpretations and makes moral response redundant. In topics of human
rights violations and atrocities, educators should take care not to play a
“neutral referee,” implicitly giving equal legitimacy to denial of atrocities or
to the perpetrators’ stance (Wrenn et al., 2007).
Learning
While there are accounts of teaching difficult histories, there is scarce evi-
dence of the effects on learning, whether on process or on outcomes. It
appears that such issues promote student interest and stimulate discussions.
Learners are apparently more enthusiastic than teachers and policy makers at
the prospect of entering the risky realm of charged discussions or disruptive
knowledge (Levstik, 2000). Cognitive research shows that working on top-
ics that arouse negative emotions may lead to longer lasting memory gains
(Berry, Schmied & Schrock, 2008). However, it also appears that learners
evince more identity-related bias in evaluation and causal attribution when
studying a difficult, sensitive issue (Goldberg, Schwarz & Porat, 2008).
Effects of encounters with difficult history on attitudes are somewhat
complex. Encounters with episodes of past victimhood may arouse a gen-
eralized sense of victimhood, and promote antisocial and vengeful attitudes
towards out-groups (Schori-Eyal, Halperin & Bar-Tal, 2014). There is also
some evidence that exposure to information about injustice or atrocities per-
petrated by their group onto an out-group promotes individuals’ empathy
and prosocial attitudes towards the victimized group (Wohl, Branscombe &
Klar, 2006).
147
Where: Difficult Histories in the Israeli Context
Having outlined the conceptual framework, I will now describe some of
its unique manifestations in the Israeli context. I will focus mainly on two
types of difficult historical topics. The first is a history of trauma and vic-
timhood incurred by the learner’s group, for which Holocaust education in
Israel is the prime example. The second is a history of conflict and especially
of perpetration of harm by the learner’s group, for which the birth of the
Palestinian refugee problem will be the main example. Within each topic,
I will relate to decision makers, teachers and learners’ attitudes, reactions
and effects.
I draw on diverse sources of evidence, ranging from empirical studies
to curriculum policy documents and media coverage. I also refer to find-
ings from two research projects focusing on learners’ engagement with dif-
ficult histories. Both studies track the way histories of intergroup conflict
were studied by members of the groups involved in the conflict. Both study
designs included learning of conflicting sources and intergroup discussion of
difficult topics. The first centered on Israeli cultural policy towards Middle
Eastern immigrants (“Oriental” Jews). The second focused on the Jewish-
Arab conflict of 1948 and the birth of the Palestinian refugee problem. For
more extensive description of participants, procedure and materials see
Goldberg et al. (2008) and Goldberg and Ron (2014). Last, I report prelimi-
nary findings from a survey of teachers teaching sensitive issues in Israeli
high schools.
The Paradigmatic Trauma: Engagement With the Holocaust

in Israeli Education: From Silence to Indulgence
The Holocaust is referred to as the classic example of a difficult history, a
trauma never given the chance of becoming fully worked through. There
is no denying the extent of horror and trauma of the Holocaust. However,
over the years the topic has been acknowledged, inserted as elective, and
finally has become a mandatory and expansive curriculum. Educators’ and
learners’ reactions also appear to be somewhat different than those associ-
ated with difficult histories (Gross, 2010).
Although the issues studied within this subject include not only aspects
of victimization, but also problematic topics such Jewish collaboration with
Nazi authorities, teachers report overt student enthusiasm—an enthusiasm
that transfers also to voluntary informal educational activities such as com-
memorations and trips to Poland. While learners certainly identify with the
trauma and victimization (a characteristic of a difficult history) this appears
to actually form a source of attraction and they report high satisfaction
with Holocaust studies (Cohen, 2013). Teachers themselves are apparently
highly committed and eager to teach the subject. This enthusiasm is well
acknowledged by officials—to the degree that history of the Holocaust was
recently chosen as the first topic for alternative evaluation to replace high-
stakes matriculation exams. This risky move was based on the understand-
ing that teachers will not neglect a topic so close to their heart even if it is
not supervised (History Superintendent, 2014).
Does studying a difficult history increase compassion or desensitize learn-
ers? The effects of Holocaust education on Israeli students are mixed: There
is some evidence that Jewish students evince increases in particularistic sen-
timents such as belief in the duty of Jews to live in Israel. However, there
was also parallel increase in universalistic-humanistic attitudes such as the
need to care for minorities or the perception of the Holocaust as a disaster
for all humanity (Cohen, 2013; Lazar, Chaitin, Gross & Bar-On, 2004).
It is also worth noting that Israeli Arab students’ empathy towards Jews
increased following learning about the Holocaust (Abu-Ria, 2014).
Silencing, Smoothing and Stress: The Other’s Perspective

as Difficult History
In the Israeli case, it seems most difficult histories center around the Israeli-
Arab conflict, the phase in history in which the Jewish people have mastered
enough political and military power both to protect itself and to inflict harm
upon others. Around Israel’s 40th anniversary, new and revisionist histori-
cal research attributed the Palestinian refugees’ exodus to several causes,
including cases of atrocities and deportation by Jewish armed forces, trigger-
ing intense public debate (Shapira & Wiskind-Elper, 1995). It took almost
another decade for the topic to make its appearance in history education.
Thereon it elicited a range of reactions and initiatives from policy makers,
teachers and learners.
Officials
Vociferous Silencing
Discussion of the causes of the refugee problem had barely reached the school
history curriculum when an American reporter announced, “Israeli text-
books replace myths with facts” (Bronner, 1999). It was this item apparently,
rather than the paragraph a ninth-grade history Israeli textbook devoted to
the deportation of Palestinians, that triggered an intense public debate and
onslaught. More than 100 references to the issue came up in the media in
the following year. Politicians and publicists attacked the text as a “moral
suicide” equal to “translating the Palestinian textbooks and teaching them.”
Even the teacher union demanded “not to buy and not to teach” a textbook
containing such blasphemy (Naveh, 2010). Incidentally, the book was not
censored and even enjoyed a modest growth in demand due to publicity.
The public campaign seemed to signal the pattern of relating to this topic
and its public construction as difficult history in the coming decade. The first
149
theme—existential fear of exposure to information—implies that acknowl-
edgement of atrocities and deportation would undermine the moral justifi-
cation for Jewish Israeli existence. The second theme is invasion of the other
side’s perspective as a threat to Israeli youth. Teaching unflattering aspects
of Israeli history is equated to switching loyalties or to opening the bastion
to the enemy. These themes reverberate through a highly publicized cam-
paign of moral outrage. In fact, it seems the attempts at silencing difficult
history amount to a shouting contest publicizing the conservative speakers’
commitment to protecting national heritage and identity.
Ten years after the textbook controversy, as the “causes of the Palestinian
exodus” was formally integrated into the mandatory history matriculation
curriculum, the new Israeli minister of education, Gideon Sa’ar, launched
a parallel campaign, this time against teaching the Palestinian perspective
on the topic. The minister publicly admonished a principal in whose school
the Palestinian narrative was taught alongside the Israeli. He later warned
Arab educators not to teach about the Naqba, the Palestinian narrative of
the 1948 war. The ministry also arranged the withdrawal and revision of an
already authorized textbook containing a Palestinian historian’s account.
All of these measures were administered to a large degree through the media
or in reaction to it (Goldberg & Gerwin, 2013).
Still, even as vociferous silencing attempts went on, the difficult topic
made its way into curriculum. Teachers and textbook authors were
instructed to present the causes of the refugee problem and the debate
between Israel and the Arab countries over its solution. Its inclusion into
official history represents a courageous attempt to cope with a charged
issue in spite of its strong political implications. However, the topic under-
went a process of smoothing, streamlining and normalization. While all
books note the Palestinian term for the era (the Naqba) and explain its
significance, they refer to events in neutralizing tones such as “the refugee
issue is an expression of the human cost of every war” (Avieli-Tabibian,
2009, p. 126). The history superintendent herself, attempting to maintain
loyalty both to disciplinary practice and to the minister, prepared a collec-
tion of sources on the topic for teachers. The collection, which is intended
for the practice of critically evaluating and corroborating multiple con-
flicting sources, consists, alas, only of excerpts titled “Palestinian escape.”
That is, excerpts representing the official Israeli narrative (Israeli Ministry
of Education, 2010).
It appears that, in the Israeli context, acknowledging the other’s perspec-
tive and suffering constitutes the ultimate difficulty in studying difficult
histories—even more than encountering information of the in-group’s unjust
actions. This process seems to underscore the dialectics of engagement with
difficult histories. There appears to be an inner dialogicity (Bakhtin, 1981)
even in official attempts to structure an unequivocal official narrative. On
the one hand, an acknowledgement of the need to take the risk of introduc-
ing the topic leads to a disruptive opening. On the other hand is fear of
the other’s perspective filtering in, which leads to attempts at cleansing the
narrative of its presence. Then, loud silencing of the other’s voice makes its
presence all the more present and threatening.
Teachers
The dialectics and drama depicted so far seem to have taken place to a
large degree above the heads of those directly involved in history teaching:
the teachers and learners. What did teachers make of it? Apparently, not
much. Tangential evidence shows teachers reacted with hesitation to teach
the topic and most avoided it all together (a choice that may have been a
favorable outcome in officials’ view). When a question about the unsolved
problems of 1948 appeared in the 2011 Matriculation exam, less than 5%
of the students chose to answer it (History Superintendent, 2013). This may
reflect students’ resistance, but more probably appears to indicate that most
teachers opted not to teach the complex topic, knowing it would form an
elective question.
Some teachers, however, reacted in the opposite direction, taking an active
stance. Lately, following another publicized debate over teaching the Pales-
tinian narrative, teachers working in Israel southwestern border zone, hard
hit by Palestinian rockets, were interviewed and reported that they defied
directives to avoid the topic. These teachers claimed their students couldn’t
understand the conflict around them without encounter with the other
side’s perspective and the roots of the refugee problem (Blumenfeld, 2015).1
Zochrot, an Israeli NGO promoting “acknowledgement and accountability
for the ongoing injustices of the Nakba,” reports that in the past five years
more than 100 Jewish teachers have attended its workshops entitled “How
to Teach the Nakba in School” and have purchased curricula. However,
most teachers quoted in the report preferred to remain anonymous and not
expose their teaching materials (Stul-Trauring, 2010). Beyond the environ-
mental pressures implied by this stance, we can assume that, since most of
the teachers interviewed identified themselves as Zionist, teaching engages
them in complex internal struggles and dilemmas.
In a pilot study currently being carried out by the author, Israeli teachers
and teacher educators almost universally point to the birth of the Palestin-
ian refugee problem as a highly sensitive topic in history teaching. However,
all but a few referred to it as a topic they are highly interested in and teach
about regularly. Unprompted, most respondents referred to such sensitive
issues as promising educational opportunities. Hardly any of them reported
external pressures, criticism or sanctions from peers and superiors due to
teaching such topics, and most strongly believed that their students are
interested in studying them. It should be noted that this seemingly surprising
response probably stems from a strong self-selection bias. Most respondents
willing to tackle the burden of a long questionnaire on teaching difficult
sensitive issues are probably enthusiastic to teach about them.
151
Learners
What do we know of Israeli students’ experience and reactions to studying
about their in-group as perpetrator of harm or encountering the out-group
perspective? Though the topic has not been extensively researched there are
some accumulated findings, as well as findings from adjacent fields such as
social psychology and psychology of emotions. Two projects conducted by
the author furnish some insights as to the effect of learning about in-group
negative historical actions in the context of intergroup tensions. The first
was conducted with two hundred Jewish and Palestinian Israeli adolescents,
studying conflicting accounts about the causes of the Palestinian exodus from
the state of Israel during the Jewish Arab war of 1948 (Goldberg, 2014a).
The second project involved Jewish adolescents of European and Middle
Eastern descent, studying the Melting Pot policy of coercive cultural integra-
tion during Israel’s mass immigration era in the 1950’s (Goldberg, 2013).
Both projects followed similar design and procedure, in which students wrote
short essays prior to and following a study of conflicting historical accounts,
and engaged in self-led dyadic discussion on the historical topic with an out-
group member. The following sections present examples from students’ writ-
ing and discussions in both projects, as well as students’ engagement with the
depiction of their in-group’s negative historical actions as difficult histories.
Preconceptions and Bias

It appears that sensitive issues arouse and challenge students’ social identifi-
cation. Even prior to studying difficult histories, students approached them
with a preconception of events, which may be seen as a defense of positive
identity. Jewish students’ identification with their group was associated with
what social psychology terms their “intergroup attribution bias.” This bias
is reflected in the degree to which in-group members’ negative historical
actions were depicted as stemming from external constraints rather than
intentional while out-group negative actions are depicted as intentional. As
a Jewish student wrote, “They’re responsible. Because they tried all the time
to invade Israeli territories . . . which caused us to go on war and drive them
off the territories.”
This means the more a learner was identified with his group, the more
the narrative construction mitigated in-group responsibility for its negative
actions. The significance of this finding is that students who are most identi-
fied with their group are likely to put up stronger defenses (perhaps because
they feel most threatened). Teachers should bear this disposition in mind.
Learners come to the study of a difficult history with some sense of its pos-
sible implication in terms of their group moral status, shame or guilt. There-
fore, the narrative constructions they consciously or unconsciously create to
avert these implications may frame and affect students’ learning and engage-
ment with information.
Reactions to Information
Information about atrocities committed upon out-group members—such as
harassment, deportation or massacre of Palestinians by Jews—could be seen
as harmful to Jewish students’ positive identity. For Arab learners, informa-
tion shedding doubt on Palestinians’ steadfastness in clinging to their land
appeared to pose a similar threat. For Western (“Ashkenazi”) Jewish Israeli
students, the vision of their grandparents coercing Oriental (“Mizrachi”)
newcomers to abandon their traditional culture clashed unfavorably with
current pluralistic self-perceptions. Oriental Jewish students were faced with
a depiction of their ancestors as primitive in the eyes of the Israeli founding
fathers (with whose nation-building ideology they tended to identify). In all
these cases difficult historical episodes had explicit or implicit implications
for leaners current self-perception.
Beyond implications for self-image, difficult history could also be reflected
in current situations. As an Oriental Jewish student wrote, “You still have
the weak and poor Oriental and the European descendant strong and wise
and rich” or as two Western Jewish students noted in hushed voices, “This
hatred still goes on today.” Discussion of the responsibility for the refu-
gee problem is assumed to affect the resolution of the Jewish-Arab conflict
and to have material and demographic repercussions. It is no wonder then
that learners reacted to difficult history in ways that may be interpreted as
related to in-group identification and defense of group image.
Facing difficult historical information, students tended to avoid it or dis-
credit its reliability in various ways. As a Jewish learner commented, “It
is such leftist questions that antagonize and cause people to become right-
wing.” Quite a few Arab learners, for example, simply dismissed Jewish
textbook excerpts as propaganda, giving reasons such as, “I will never
believe any text written by them.”
It may be telling that following study of the difficult topic, when prompted
with a question about the responsibility for the Palestinian refugee problem,
some of the students chose voluntarily to use words directly associated with
guilt (“guilty,” “to blame,” “at fault”). The guilty party was usually the out-
group. A plausible interpretation for the recurrence of these expressions is
that difficult history arouses collective guilt. Since guilt is a disturbing feel-
ing, students attempted to divert it to the out-group.
A somewhat parallel phenomenon appeared in student discussions of the
Melting Pot policy. While students were mainly asked to assess the effects of
the policy, many of them focused also on its initiators’ goals and intentions.
More than a third of the Western Jewish participants contrasted historical
in-group members’ good intentions with the negative outcomes of the policy
they initiated (Goldberg, 2013). This phenomenon can also be interpreted
as a way of mitigating collective guilt. The distinction between intentions
and effects occurred less frequently among Oriental Jewish students, who
could be seen as identified with the new immigrants affected by the policy.
153
Between Dominance and Bias
The examples of bias and mitigating cognitions provided earlier give an
impression that students demonstrate mainly defensive reactions to studying
difficult histories. It may also be inferred that such reactions are expected
mainly from learners belonging to groups that could be perceived as per-
petrators in the historical episodes. However, it is worth noting that, in
general, members of the dominant group demonstrated less identity-related
bias in evaluation and attribution than minority members. In fact, dominant
group members appeared to be quite critical of their in-group involvement
in the difficult historical episodes discussed.
This phenomenon runs contrary to what may be expected according to
reports of teaching difficult history as well as social identity theory. The
dominant group suffered the risk of depiction as perpetrator and had more
to lose in terms of positive identity from engagement with the difficult his-
tory. One possible interpretation would be that open engagement with dif-
ficult histories entails confidence and security (Sheppard, 2010). It appears
members of the dominant group are in a more secure and established posi-
tion, which allows for a less defensive reaction.
Engaging With the Other’s Voice

Even more challenging than reading threatening information was the
encounter with the victimized other’s voice or taking the out-group per-
spective. Students’ negative reactions can range from outright rejection to
suspicion of a teacher’s loyalty, as one Jewish student, presented with a
Palestinian historian’s account, challenged the teacher: “On whose side are
you?” It may be that the student felt his identity was challenged and his loy-
alty to in-group compromised when engaging with a Palestinian’s account.
It should be noted that the fear of disidentification is to some degree justi-
fied. Learners who took to heart the core threatening information contained
in the difficult history also evinced some decrease in in-group identification.
Let us compare the small group of learners who accepted in-group responsi-
bility for negative events to those who did not change their mind (regardless
of initial position) and/or those who rejected responsibility. Learners who
accepted in-group responsibility demonstrated a small decrease in glorifi-
cation of their nation. While these learners’ national attachment did not
change, they appear to express some demystification of their nation’s glo-
rified image. (For example, Jewish learners showed a reduced agreement
with the item “Israeli Defense Force is the best army in the world.”) This
outcome may be seen as detrimental or beneficial according to educators’
worldviews, but it should be considered as one of the potential effects of
teaching difficult histories.
However, direct exposure to the other’s voice and trauma also had a less
threatening effect. When Arab learners shared family histories of atrocity and
deportation with Jewish peers, the latter frequently accepted their narrative
empathetically and quite uncritically. Students who empathetically engaged
with difficult emotional content of out-group narratives increased their
interest in out-group perspective as compared to those studying an official,
“smoothed” narrative (Goldberg, 2014). Students who engaged with difficult
history through out-group narratives also conducted less-confrontational
discussions about the difficult topic with out-group members.
Discussion
This chapter has tried to show how historical topics become difficult his-
tories through various trajectories, from “above” or “below.” These range
from official censorship to student reactions. In between, we should note the
focal mediating role of teachers’ ambivalence or risk taking. While some of
the literature focuses on difficulties constructed by learners’ experience, in
the Israeli case, the role of pressures from above may be seen as more deci-
sive. This may be due to the centralized nature of Israeli educational policy.
Top-down pressures may also have to do with governmental involvement in
the ongoing Israeli-Palestinian conflict and current political implications of
historical topics related to it. Publicized silencing campaigns define what is
not to be said, while low-profile curricular directives smooth and streamline
what started out as comparatively daring attempts to tackle difficult histo-
ries. Echoing the polarization and intolerance of Israeli public opinion there
is also some evidence of student and community reactions that make the
teaching of conflict-related topics difficult.
Nonetheless, in spite of media coverage of these pressures, Israeli teach-
ers’ reports rarely mention their effects. Teachers claim to have a free hand
at choosing topics, and they portray difficult histories as stimulating discus-
sion boosters about which students are quite eager to learn. Perhaps due to
the inherent self-selection bias, teachers describing the teaching of difficult
histories demonstrate mainly “risk taker” characteristics. The influence of
the Jewish-Arab conflict may be indicated not just by the fact most teachers
referred to it as a source of difficulty. It is also reflected in the stress of many
“risk taking” teachers on intergroup tolerance and conflict resolution as
goals of teaching difficult histories (rather than simply seeking “the truth”
as in parrhesiastic motivation).
The roots of difficulty can be conceptualized in various ways, starting from
the dominant psychoanalytical perspective in which difficult histories parallel
unworked-through trauma. But an anthropological interpretation as “taboo”
and the social psychological interpretation of difficult histories as harming
positive social identity may also be applicable. In the past, engagement with
Jewish victimization and persecution by other nations was restrained or
evaded. However, in the current Israeli context even the paradigmatic col-
lective trauma, the Holocaust, is enthusiastically taught and studied. On one
hand, this may reflect classical phases of working through a trauma (Gross,
155
2011). On the other hand, learners’ engagement with the other’s trauma and
with the in-group’s role as perpetrator is increasingly more problematic. Thus
the social psychological interpretation for the roots of difficulty appears to be
more relevant (Wohl et al., 2006). Again we may see this as the effect of pro-
tracted intergroup conflict. The atmosphere of competitive victimhood and
mutual denial of out-group trauma can lead to a view of the other’s voice as
disruptive to in-group comparative moral image (Noor, Shnabel, Halabi, &
Nadler, 2012; Sullivan et al., 2012). Consequently, difficult histories of in-
group aggression threaten self-esteem and social identification while memory
of in-group trauma may actually be seen as an asset.
The social psychological perspective (social identity and social cognition
theories) is somewhat more useful in a discussion of the characteristics and
effects of learning difficult histories. We should expect learners to demon-
strate identity-defensive phenomena while studying difficult histories. These
defenses show up at the outset of learning as preconceived narratives and
attribution biases. Such preconceptions apparently also frame learning
through the processing of information and biased evaluation of evidence.
Finally, they may occur as reactions to learning a difficult history and in the
formation of attitudes and construction of narratives following it.
How can educators work with, around or against such reactions, espe-
cially in the context of an ongoing conflict? It appears that two approaches
are possible here, although they may be seen to some degree as mutually
exclusive. On the one hand, educators should create a setting of care and
an affirmative approach to narratives and emotions. Such an approach may
stress nonjudgmental listening and acknowledgement of trauma (and in some
cases of shared suffering, to alleviate competitive victimhood (Noor, et al.,
2012). In the context of such an approach, encounters with difficult histories
have been shown to promote empathy and interest in further knowledge.
On the other hand, teachers could promote critical disciplinary practices
to encourage students to overcome bias and emotional reactions. While
this approach can enable bolder engagement with in-group transgressions,
it seems to contradict nonjudgmental listening and may be used also for
rejection of troubling evidence. Initial hypercriticism towards the threat-
ening information (or out-group narratives) can and should be modulated
through teacher modelling, to include also critical appraisal of learners’
own narratives. Achieving a disciplinary identity (as a member of a “histo-
rians’ community of learning”) can also serve as a means of self-distancing
or positioning within a superordinate identity. Such positioning can help
handle the disruptive aspects of difficult histories and even promote more
egalitarian and rational dialogue between adversaries.
Note
1. However, it may be instructive of the difficulty endured by those risking such
difficult topics, that the news report attracted over 130 talkbacks within hours,
all but 6 highly derogative, some going to the extent of calling to prosecute the
teachers for treason.
157
10 Teaching History and Educating
for Citizenship
Allies or “Uneasy Bedfellows”
in a Post-Conflict Context?
Alan McCully
Introduction
In societies experiencing conflict and emerging from conflict, history teach-
ing can play a significant role both in contributing to division and in help-
ing transformation from conflict. In such situations history teaching in the
past often has had a negative role (Bush & Saltarelli, 2000; Davies, 2004;
Smith & Vaux, 2003;). Promoting the historical narrative of the dominant
group is likely to support an ideological position that bolsters that group’s
political control at the expense of those deemed “suspect” or “inferior.”
Thus, it acts to discriminate, stigmatize and exclude minority or underprivi-
leged groups from proper recognition by the state. Consequently, in the
wake of a peace accord, or new political accommodation, history teach-
ing is frequently highlighted as an aspect of educational policy that should
respond positively to changing circumstances (Cole, 2007; Smith & Vaux,
2003). A history curriculum that opens the past up to the consideration of
different interpretations, provided that these are underpinned by valid his-
torical evidence, can challenge prevailing ideological certainties and open up
possibilities for reconciliation. Advocacy for this disciplinary-based, multi-
perspective approach has been central to curriculum policy in countries such
as Northern Ireland (NI) and South Africa since the early 1990s and, subse-
quently, has been endorsed by international agencies working in the field of
peace building and education. For example, first the Council of Europe, and
then the European Association of History Educators (EUROCLIO) have
made this stance a platform of their work in supporting democracies emerg-
ing in Central and Eastern Europe after the demise of the Soviet Union and
Yugoslavia (Eidelman, Verbytska & Even-Zohar, 2016).
A strong rationale is offered in favor of this disciplinary or inquiry
approach in post-conflict situations. In deeply divided societies, the likeli-
hood of constructing an agreed historical narrative pertaining to a disputed
past is remote (McCully, 2012). Therefore, by identifying competing ver-
sions of the past as voiced by former adversaries, a forum is created within
the rules of the disciplinary framework of history both for evidential scru-
tiny and reasoned debate. From this educational process, young people can
Teaching History and Citizenship 161
gain a greater understanding into the nature of conflict and can acquire
insight into the thinking of the “other” and develop critical faculties which,
in turn, might help them move society beyond conflict.
However, the advocacy for inquiry-based multiperspective history has
tended to run ahead of research studies that confirm its efficacy in bringing
personal and group transformation. This may result from a conviction by
progressive educators that a constructivist approach offers a clear pathway
in situations where emotive positions are deeply held. However, there is a
small body of empirical research with young people that does (tentatively)
indicate positive outcomes from an inquiry approach. For example, Bar-
ton and McCully (2005, 2010, 2012) in a study conducted in NI, suggest
that inquiry-based history was a likely factor in influencing the way young
people engaged in Bakhtin’s (1991) idea of “internal persuasive discourse”
(IPD) (p. 346) when trying to make sense of the history that they encoun-
tered informally in the community and that they learned in schools. In
recent work in Israel, also framed by IPD, 52 Israeli Jewish and 52 Israeli
Arab students interrogated evidence and shared interpretations dialogically
(Kolikant & Pollack, 2015). The outcome was some greater understanding
and acknowledgement of the other’s viewpoint. Again in Israel, Goldberg’s
(2013) work involving Jewish children from different cultural backgrounds
in evidence-informed discussion around controversial historical issues indi-
cated that those exposed to the historical process adopted a more open,
critical awareness of difference.
Therefore, there is justification for approaching sensitive history in post-
conflict societies from a disciplinary perspective. That would suggest a
consensus, internationally, as to the approaches to be employed in the con-
struction of curriculum and the application of particular methodologies.
Closer examination reveals that while there is a terminology associated with
such teaching—terms such as “inquiry,” “evidence,” “empathetic under-
standing” and “multiperspectivity” are common—there is also considerable
variation in the extent to which historical learning is perceived as an agency
of societal change. Slater (1995) made a distinction between “intrinsic” and
extrinsic” aims of history teaching. He defined the former as those aims
that remain within the confines of history as a discipline, and the latter as
those broader educational objectives that seek to identify history’s potential
contribution to wider societal change. Counsell (2002) has problematized
this distinction, particularly in regard to the interdisciplinary relationship
between history and citizenship education:
The idea that the discipline of history might be used in order to serve
some other moral, social or simply curricular agenda has always made
us jumpy. I think we should stay jumpy. When nurturing the intellec-
tual development of teenagers, it will always be hard to agree on pro-
fessional guidance that secures a distinction between acceptable and
unacceptable uses of the discipline. This is a live issue for all history
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teachers and we are not helped by burying it under the carpet or crass
oversimplification.
(p. 2)
In support of Counsell’s caution, I argue here that those seeking to apply
history teaching to societal change, particularly through addressing sensi-
tive aspects of the past, might benefit from establishing greater clarity as to
where they stand on the intrinsic/extrinsic continuum.
The momentum for a disciplinary approach to history teaching did not
originate in the context of conflict-affected societies. Indeed, the Schools
Council History Project (SCHP) of the 1970s in England was positioned
firmly in the intrinsic camp while recognizing the worth of applying histori-
cal learning to the understanding of contemporary events (Sylvester, 1994,
pp. 15–18). In succeeding years, innovative teachers in NI, and in other
contested places, saw the potential to use evidential inquiry and perspective
taking to prise open students’ partial understandings of the past formed in
community silos. As a consequence, the balance between disciplinary rigor
and social utility in pursuit of better community relations, identity forma-
tion, group reconciliation and even prejudice reduction has shifted and is
influenced by how the curriculum is structured. Where history remains a
core subject there may be disquiet that historical rigor is being eroded. The
challenge for educators is to define the role that history can (and cannot)
play in providing young people with insight and agency into conflict-affected
societies without compromising the disciplinary rigor which underpins the
foundation of the subject’s criticality.
This chapter examines this dilemma as it is playing out in practice in NI.
It investigates literature relating to history’s role regarding the extrinsic aims
of the wider curriculum, and especially its relationship to citizenship educa-
tion, by identifying opportunities and limitations to this relationship. First,
the implications of previous research (Barton and McCully, 2005, 2010,
2012) for teaching history in NI and other contested societies are outlined.
Then, four case studies of recent initiatives are analyzed in relation to these
implications. Finally, history’s disciplinary framework is revisited in the
light of this analysis.
Approaches to History Teaching in NI
In the 1970s and 1980s innovative teachers in NI saw the potential of the
inquiry-based, disciplinary approach of SCHP to challenge “certainties” by
establishing the notion of historical learning as provisional and open to
alternative viewpoints. The first NI Curriculum introduced in 1991 adopted
this approach alongside a strong core of content drawn from contested
aspects of Ireland’s past (DENI, 1991). When the curriculum was revised in
2007, nine years after the Belfast (Good Friday) peace accord, the inquiry
dimension was consolidated and the focus on history’s social utility was
strengthened. For example, it is now a statutory requirement of the current
curriculum that teachers explore the impact of history on students’ sense of
identity, culture and lifestyle; its role in influencing stereotypes; and the way
the past can be used and abused in contemporary politics (CCEA, 2007).
Research in NI indicates that teachers’ rhetoric regarding the adoption of
inquiry may be stronger than their practice (Conway, 2003; Kitson, 2007).
However, findings also suggest that young people understand attempts to
examine different perspectives and to apply evidential criteria, and that they
value school history because of its pursuit of objectivity (Barton & McCully,
2005; Bell, Hansson & McCaffery, 2010).
Barton and McCully’s (2005, 2010, 2012) research was conducted
with 253 students, aged 11–14, in 11 schools of differing types. Students
welcomed the opportunity to interrogate the difficult past, and did so
by valiantly trying to make sense of all sources of information, whether
encountered in school, or in the community. However, the research also
demonstrated how difficult it is for students to move beyond the narrative
schematic templates (Wertsch, 1998) formed in families and communities.
Two criticisms of existing pedagogy emerged. The first was that learning
concentrated too much on cognitive understanding rather than helping stu-
dents to understand the emotive nature of dealing with NI’s sensitive past.
The second was that perspective taking was too focused on the binary posi-
tions of unionism and nationalism at the expense of providing students with
a nuanced understanding of the continuum of difference that exists in NI
society. Arising from the research are a set of principles for the teaching of
history in contested societies. It is the function of historical teaching and
learning to:
1. challenge entrenched and unsubstantiated positions, “myth-bust” and

expose the abuse of history;
2. recognize complexity, initiate informed individual interpretations and
foster debate;
3. enable students to engage in metacognition whereby students can be
aware how their own backgrounds and allegiances might come to influ-
ence the way they interpret the past;
4. involve students in a continuing dialogue between the events of the past
and the present;
5. engage students in an explicit exploration of the relationship between
national identity(ies) and history;
6. help students understand the recent, violent past, including critically
examining personal experiences of those events;
7. provide an informed context for contemporary dialogue and debate; and
8. articulate history’s place in a connected curriculum and its relationship
with citizenship education.
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History Education and Citizenship: Natural Allies
or Uncomfortable Bedfellows?
Before examining recent initiatives through the lens of these eight functions,
it is worth exploring the eighth point further: the relationship between his-
tory and citizenship education. The claim of history teaching to fulfil its
extrinsic objectives rests largely on the specific contribution it might make
to equipping young people to be effective citizens. Yet the extent to which
history education and citizenship are or should be linked is contested, espe-
cially in literature emanating from the United Kingdom and Ireland (for
example Wrenn, 1999; Arthur, Davies, Wrenn, Haydn & Kerr, 2001; Lee &
Shemilt, 2007; Waldron & McCully, 2016). Although Lee and Shemilt
(2007) argue that the case for a “more systematic relationship between his-
tory and citizenship is compelling” (p. 15), they also see that relationship as
potentially problematic when extrinsic objectives override disciplinary prin-
ciples. Similarly, Harris (2011) describes history and citizenship as “uncom-
fortable bedfellows” (p. 186). Lee and Shemilt (2007) put forward three
potential relational models:
1. the cornucopian model, where history’s intrinsic contribution to citizen-

ship needs no further elaboration;
2. the carrier model, where history content is chosen for its potential to
meet the needs of citizenship; and
3. the complementary model, where history’s unique contribution to
citizenship lies in the development of historical consciousness, which
includes temporal orientation.
In advocating for the latter, they see a key role for history in understand-
ing the “contingency and fragility” of democratic structures and culture
(Lee & Shemilt, 2007, p. 18). Barton and Levstik (2004) see the relation-
ship between history and citizenship as more fundamental. Closer to, but
going beyond the idea of a “carrier” relationship, education for democratic
citizenship provides the justification for history’s place in school curricula
in the first instance, with a disciplinary base supporting the development of
“reasoned judgement about human affairs,” “an expanded view of human-
ity” and “deliberation over the common good” (Barton & Levstik, 2004,
pp. 36–40).
The potential synergy between history and citizenship education is illumi-
nated further by Arthur, Davies, Wrenn, Haydn & Kerr, 2001) when they
identify three key connections between the subjects at the practical level of
curriculum design. These are the knowledge dimension, the development of
skills of inquiry and communication, and skills of participation and respon-
sible action (Arthur et al., 2001, pp. 29–43). They see history’s knowledge
contribution as focusing on the evolution of government and political ideas,
and providing a background in national history. Thus, students are better
placed to understand the contemporary political world. History’s second
contribution is through the development of inquiry and communication
skills essential for young people to engage in critical decision making. His-
tory’s third contribution aids participation and responsible action by pro-
viding insight into effective (and ineffective) actions in the past, for example
in relation to the abolition of slavery or the campaign for factory reform.
Students might also be directly engaged around community interpretations
and memorializations of past events, thus developing and refining historical
consciousness as envisaged by Lee and Shemilt (2007).
As Waldron and McCully (2016, pp. 58–59) suggest, Arthur et al.’s.
(2001) indicators provide one productive lens through which the relation-
ship between history and citizenship at a curricular level in NI can be viewed.
They offer a framework to judge how far social utility can be addressed
without compromising the core disciplinary integrity of the subject.
Citizenship and History Education in NI

The evolution of the history and citizenship curricula in NI over the last
45 years has taken place in the shadow of conflict. Wider educational
responses have been documented elsewhere (Gallagher, 2004; Richard-
son & Gallagher, 2011) but, inevitably, history and citizenship education—
as two areas of the curriculum directly impinging on the political, cultural
and social attitudes at the core of division—have been shaped, at least to an
extent, by the prevailing tensions in society.
The NI history curriculum seems well-positioned to interact positively
with Local and Global Citizenship education, which became a statutory
requirement of the revised curriculum in 2007. The 2007 incarnation of
the history curriculum continues to promote the expectation that aspects
of Irish history relevant to the present will be studied in depth. In addition
to strengthening its extrinsic objectives through explicitly aiming to pre-
pare young people to be “contributors to society,” it has freed up content
selection to encourage innovative knowledge choices (CCEA, 2007). Yet
measured against Arthur et al.’s three indicators the result is mixed. First,
there is little evidence that citizenship and history teachers actually plan
together to map and exploit the obvious knowledge conduit between them.
Second, more positively, history teachers, despite limitations in practice, do
endeavor to inculcate their students in the process of critical and discursive
thinking and are conscious that these attributes have utility beyond the his-
tory classroom. Third, with reference to skills of participation and respon-
sible action, some teachers have used the freedom of the new curriculum to
align their subject content to aspects of the past, like the U.S. Civil Rights
movement, that illustrate human agency to effect change—and, particularly
in the context of World War One, interesting work is emerging that explores
different community perspectives on remembrance and commemoration
(Waldron & McCully, 2016). However, the explicit linking of past with
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present to explore contemporary relevance is only slowly developing. Those
working for better community relations often express frustration, not just
in the educational context, but throughout society, that there continues to
be avoidance of those difficult conversations that are deemed necessary for
societies to transform in the aftermath of conflict.
Recent Initiatives: Crossing the Disciplinary Line?

Recent curricular and pedagogical innovations in NI have been directed
mainly at the contribution history teaching might make to bettering commu-
nity relations. Understandably, after a period when support for the revised
history curriculum was minimal, teachers have welcomed this exposure to
innovative practice.
Four Initiatives
Here follows scrutiny of four such initiatives. Three are projects funded
directly through money aimed at peace building and the fourth is a small-
scale oral history experiment. Facing Our History, Shaping the Future
(FHSTF) is a partnership between the international Facing History organi-
zation and the Corrymeela Community and is funded by the International
Fund for Ireland (IFI). Teaching Divided Histories (TDH) is housed at an
acclaimed creative media arts venue, the Nerve Centre, and is mainly funded
by European Union Peace 111 money. Troubled Tales was developed inde-
pendently by two teachers in two schools from different cultural traditions
with the support of the FHSTF coordinator. A Decade of Anniversaries is
a resource created by a history educator and a recent teacher graduate with
financial help from the NI Community Relations Council (CRC) as part of
its response to the centenaries of major events associated with the 1912–
1922 period, the defining decade in shaping modern Ireland.
This exploratory study does not claim to take a systematic, common
approach to evaluating the four projects, but rather each initiative is exam-
ined using the evidence currently available. Respectively, this involves con-
tent analysis of websites, semi-structured interviews with participants, and
references to internal and external evaluations already conducted. It also
draws on the personal engagement of the author either as a member of
project steering committees (FHSTF and TDH), as co-researcher (Troubled
Tales), or as grant holder and coordinator (CRC).
Facing Our History, Shaping the Future

In recent years, the Boston-based organization Facing History and Our-
selves has internationalized its work, particularly in conflict-affected coun-
tries including Rwanda, South Africa and NI. FHSTF has evolved from
the Facing History philosophy, which began with Holocaust education
and the power of human agency to bring change if “bystanders” can be
transformed to “upstanders” in opposition to social injustice. The Facing
History website proclaims that the program brings together “Facing His-
tory’s innovative approach to teaching history with Corrymeela’s expertise
in Peace Building and Citizenship programmes” (FHAOS, 2015). Though
the majority of FHSTF’s teachers have a history background, and the proj-
ect has made great efforts to locate within the revised history curriculum,
the project appeals to all socially committed teachers and proclaims itself to
be “equally at home in the citizenship class” (FHSTF, 2014). FHSTF asks
students to connect past with present and encourages its teachers to tackle
the legacy of the Troubles, the colloquial name given to NI’s most recent
conflict.
The two evaluations carried out so far on SHSTF contain much that is
positive, though it is clear that both critiques are based on mainly opera-
tional rather than philosophical criteria. Judgments reflect the socially trans-
formative aspirations of community relations–oriented funders rather than
the contribution made to disciplinary understanding (IFI, 2013; ETI, 2013).
However, there is reference to the program developing critical thinking and
historical skills, and generating motivation and improved academic perfor-
mance (IFI, 2013; ETI, 2013). It has also been deemed to deepen teacher
understanding of the role of history in divided societies. Overwhelmingly,
positive comments are framed with words associated with societal change:
“reconciliation,” “increased Identity awareness,” “knowledge and under-
standing of prejudice,” “civic preparedness” and “active citizenship.” Fur-
ther, there is praise for the multidisciplinary nature of the work and the
foundations it can provide for cross-community dialogue. FHSTF, then, is
open to criticism that studying the past is merely a vehicle for understand-
ing the present, with all the dangers noted by Arthur et al. (2001) that, “As
soon as we start trying to use history to engineer a change in pupils’ values
and attitudes, and get them to arrive at a pre-determined conclusion, it stops
being history and becomes something else” (p. 103).
Indeed, such criticisms of Facing History are not new, as illustrated by
Schweber’s barbed chapter title, “Facing Ourselves but not History” (2004,
pp. 19–51). In fairness, in NI insider access to the project’s steering group
indicates that history teachers’ concerns, particularly the importance of
using evidence, have been accommodated during the life of the project. The
project director, a trained youth worker and strong community relations
practitioner, noted that ultimately “he has no hang-ups” (interview) as to
where the work is located in the curriculum, provided relationships with
young people are strengthened and students are engaged in issues and activi-
ties relevant to their everyday lives and future. There lies the challenge for
those of us who are precious about disciplinary rigor! It could be argued
that FHSTF has fulfilled conditions 1–6 for history in post-conflict societies
but with 7 and 8 the boundaries of historical thinking have dissolved in the
pursuit of reconciliatory objectives.
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Teaching Divided Histories
TDH defines its work as applying “curriculum linked, digital approaches to
the study of conflict” (Nerve Centre, 2014). Its philosophy is rooted in the
belief that the use of moving images and digital technologies to develop cre-
ative and critical skills can “liberate and empower” young people to engage
practically with issues of conflict and division. Applications include the use
of film, digital imagery, animation, comic books and webcasting. Implicit is
the view that prevailing classroom practice has fallen behind young people’s
creative potential and, therefore, through technology, they must be given
access to active and investigative approaches. Again, the overriding aim is
contributing to peace, understanding and reconciliation. From the outset,
teachers of history and Information and Communications Technology (ICT)
would be central to the work, but it also sought contact with teachers of
citizenship, art, English and media studies. TDH promotional literature fea-
tures the historical terms “evidence,” “interpretation” and “perspectives.”
The ways the work fulfils the curriculum requirements of different subject
areas is identified, but without clearly articulating disciplinary distinctive-
ness, for example that between history and citizenship education.
The Evaluation Report on TDH is a balanced and reflective document
(Gannon, 2014). It gives prominence to a group of history teachers who
have become absorbed in the work and, consequently, have considerably
influenced the direction it has taken. The evaluation report describes these
teachers as “risk-taking . . . with a passion for history and a personal com-
mitment to peace and reconciliation” (Gannon, 2014, p. 21). TDH, too,
understands the importance of grounding itself in curriculum relevance,
both in NI and in the Republic of Ireland, and Gannon indicates that the
history teachers involved showed awareness of the historical traits of criti-
cal thinking, investigation, evidential scrutiny and multiple perspectives. She
concludes that, in turn, students gained insight into “perspectives, view-
points and experiences of the ‘other’ community” (Gannon, 2014, p. 20).
The materials and activities produced by TDH are notable for engaging
with sensitive history of the Troubles, for example, with modules entitled
the “Northern Ireland Civil Rights Movement” and “Conflict” (which
includes treatment of the hunger strikes of 1981).
The evaluation report also comments on potential limitations in TDH
work. It acknowledges the seductive influence attendant in using digital
technology. The great majority of teacher participants surveyed acknowl-
edged that, initially, they were attracted to the project by the prospect of
learning new technical skills rather than by its societal objectives. Though it
is clear that many then bought in to its wider educational aims, there is less
evidence from TDH, compared to FOHSTF, that teachers had opportunities
to engage in the frank interpersonal exchanges deemed vital for teachers
prior to handling sensitive issues with students (McCully & Montgomery,
2009; Weldon, 2016). Gannon (2014) also warns of the danger that student
emersion in digital media production “distracts from the process of critical
analysis” (p. 19). For her the project functioned best when “the ultimate
building block is . . . history teaching and learning” (p. 22). A content analy-
sis of TDH materials also reveals limitations. While they contain a rhetoric
that encourages historical inquiry, there is an absence of big historical ques-
tions that would promote genuinely open-ended investigation. For instance,
perspective taking is claimed to be central to activities but viewpoints tend
to emanate from a core, “given” narrative. Further, they are presented in a
binary framework, which encourages students to consider “both sides” of
the issue instead of supporting students to explore the complexity of posi-
tions across Northern Irish society. Overall, then, there is much in TDH
practice that addresses the eight functions of history teaching. Particularly,
it has succeeded in exciting students and engaging them in the study of the
recent sensitive past through an interdisciplinary approach. However, its
capacity to fulfil all functions, particularly those relating to deeper histori-
cal criticality and history’s relevance to contemporary debate, seems overly
dependent on the quality of its teachers and their capacity to ensure that
disciplinary understanding directs technological application.
Troubled Tales
Troubled Tales is a response to how history teaching might overcome the
barrier sometimes evident in divided societies when history teaching focuses
solely on cognitive learning at the expense of emotional engagement. Else-
where, I have proposed an oral history project involving young people from
different backgrounds working together to collect accounts of adults’ vari-
ous experiences during the NI conflict (McCully, 2010). Crucially, those
stories should then be submitted to the critical analysis of the historical
process, thus stimulating dialogue. The outcomes might be presented at a
public event that, in turn, would stimulate meaningful interaction at com-
munity level. The transition from historical understanding to contemporary
debate would be clearly flagged.
Independently, two history teachers working in schools largely segregated
by religion, and building on a partnership forged during involvement with
FHSTF, put aspects of this proposal into practice. Troubled Tales was a
small-scale, unfunded initiative with Year 10 students (aged 14). A pilot
research study was conducted involving interviews with the teachers and
the FHSTF coordinator, student evaluations and scrutiny of pupil work
(McCully, Scott, O’Hagan & Pettis, 2015). The outcome highlighted the
bond of trust between the two teachers. Both were adamant that the work
must promote sound historical thinking. Students participated enthusiasti-
cally and the initiative generated interest and motivation. Often the stories
that students collected gave them access to sensitive events of the Troubles,
in some cases opening up difficult family conversations for the first time.
In the respective schools, wall displays generated informal dialogue among
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pupils of other classes who used the room. When the work was exhibited at
an event in the Northern Ireland Assembly building it stimulated the interest
of parents and politicians.
Certain obstacles arose to the full realization of the initiative’s objec-
tives. Limited time prevented the oral interviews from being fully inter-
rogated and there was little opportunity for students from the two schools
to share their understanding of events. This is an important reminder that
time and examination pressures are a constant constraint on innovative
practice, particularly when it involves the complexities of cross-community
engagement. More significantly, both teachers reported that they suspected
that the authenticity of some stories collected had been compromised by
a filtering of accounts by interviewees and students. They attributed this
largely to wishing not to cause offense, particularly to those from the other
school. Again, the experience emphasizes that trust must be built over time
if sensitive histories are to be fully revealed and then scrutinized. The archi-
tects of this oral history approach are convinced that it has the potential to
fulfil all of the eight functions of history education. Yet, to their surprise,
it proved more flexible in achieving some of its citizenship aims than in
demonstrating historical criticality. Much more work has to be done to
provide the scaffolding to allow students from different backgrounds to
investigate the sensitive, personal past through each other’s family and com-
munity experiences.
A Decade of Anniversaries
The final initiative is included more as speculation. A Decade of Anniver-
saries (2014) takes the form of material available on the Creative Centena-
ries website, a site dedicated to marking key centenaries from the crucial
decade of 1912–1922 in Ireland’s past in an inclusive and imaginative way.
Primarily for use in schools, its raison d’être is that young people should
be critically equipped to make informed judgments when bombarded by
centenary material from community leaders, politicians and the media. The
resource has been designed to fulfil the eight functions. Using a local case
study of West Belfast in the years 1912–1922 it seeks to examine key events
and assess their historical significance. The work is structured around key
inquiries, underpinned by primary evidence, often using sources not until
now in the school domain, to encourage students to interrogate the period
in question. The circumstances pertaining to sensitive events from the time,
such as sectarian killings of 1919–1921, are investigated but also questions
are asked as to how far this sheds light on contemporary violence. The
commonplace binary approach to NI’s past is challenged by acknowledging
multiple perspectives across society, including recognition of those who at
the time thought very differently from the dominant opinions of the commu-
nity from which they came. A section on myth busting is included to address
popular misconceptions relating to the decade. Past to present connections
are developed by studying how these events have been remembered in the
intervening years, particularly on their 50th anniversaries, several of which
preceded (and may have contributed to) the outbreak of the Troubles in
1968. Finally, informed by historical investigation, activities move deliber-
ately and transparently into the domain of citizenship education to explore
how these centenaries should be remembered today. The material has only
recently become available to schools. Future research will be required to test
its hypothesis that effective disciplinary-based history provides a foundation
for effective citizenship.
Conclusion
This chapter represents an exploratory study, as much designed to question
my deeply held academic position as to enlighten others. A number of points
arise, some of which affirm previous views and others that pose challenges.
First, the examination of the four initiatives confirms that there is a role for
history in contributing to greater understanding in post-conflict situations
and for this to extend to the contemporary debate there has to be crossing
of interdisciplinary boundaries. Two questions arise: How important is it
to make this transition apparent to learners? And how far does adherence
to academic protocols of rigor assist, or get in the way, of education for
social change? Certainly, the FHSTF coordinator’s dismissal of the sanc-
tity of disciplinary boundaries, coupled with his impressive commitment
to affecting transformation, has caused me to reflect as to whether I have
become trapped in my own research paradigm! One combined outcome
of the FHSTF, TDH and Troubled Tales studies is that they emphasize the
importance of innovative approaches, creativity and relevance in motivating
students. This has also prompted me to consider whether or not my work on
A Decade of Anniversaries can sufficiently grab the attention of prospective
participants, given its emphasis on literacy and promotion of higher level
historical thinking.
However, one outcome reassures me: Highlighted in the TDH evaluation,
but common to the other initiatives, is the crucial role played by history
teachers in framing the nature of inquiry and disciplinary understanding in a
way that is engaging, brings out contemporary relevance and leads to inter-
disciplinary connections. Therefore, perhaps, the real challenge for a teacher
educator like myself is not to fret too much that the disciplinary boundaries
of history are under threat but, instead, to ensure that our teachers are well
prepared so that they are intuitively aware when they are operating in the
mode of history and when they are loosening the disciplinary shackles to
allow discourse around sensitive and controversial issues to flow. Equipping
teachers to develop disciplinary rigor is challenging enough, but we should
also be preparing risk takers—those who develop foundational historical
learning to guide their students when they enter the emotional swamplands
of critical contemporary debate.
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11 Teacher Understandings of
Political Violence Represented
in National Histories
The Trail of Tears Narrative
Alan Stoskopf and Angela Bermudez
Introduction
In this chapter we examine how high school teachers understand U.S. history
textbook narratives pertaining to the forced migrations of Indian nations
(commonly referred to as “The Trail of Tears”). Two research questions
have guided this inquiry: How is the violence associated with this historical
episode represented in the dominant narratives of textbook accounts? How
do U.S. high school teachers accept, resist and/or interrogate these narra-
tives when teaching this chapter of U.S. history?
This study is informed by an expanding interdisciplinary scholarship on
the social functions of teaching and learning history. Of particular interest
to our research is an emerging line of work that studies how history edu-
cation in different countries teaches about the violent past and their influ-
ences on the present (Bekerman & Zembylas, 2012; Cole, 2007; Niyozov &
Anwaruddin, 2014; Zembylas, 2014). While narratives of violence prolifer-
ate in national history textbooks around the world, they often remain a hid-
den topic to the learner. Our research project builds off of existing research
by bringing to the surface this paradox in a way that allows teachers to
critically reflect upon and discuss how their classroom practices shape their
students’ understandings of their nation’s past encounters with collective
violence.
Research Design
Textbook Data Collection and Analysis
A qualitative research design (Maxwell, 2013; Stake, 2010) guided our
data collection and analysis for both the textbook and teacher phases of
the research project. Four widely used U.S. history textbooks were selected
based upon our examination of national textbook adoption trends (ATC,
2011) and our consultation with high school history teachers in the school
districts where our study has taken place. They are The American Pageant:
A History of the American People (2009), A People and a Nation: A His-
tory of the United States (2012), Out of Many: A History of the American
173
176 Alan Stoskopf and Angela Bermudez
People (2009) and America: Pathways to the Present (2009). For ease of
readability, we will use title acronyms (i.e., TAP, APAN, OOM and PTP)
throughout this paper.
Two distinct but complementary bodies of theory guided our analysis of
the data. Because of our interest in excavating the inherent social messag-
ing embedded in national history textbooks, we first drew upon models of
discourse analysis. Discourse analytic theories explain how narratives and
particular forms of language use serve different social functions, such as
framing the meaning of events and negotiating personal and collective iden-
tities (Billig, 1987; Gee, 2011; Harré & van Langenhove, 1999; Wodak &
Meyer, 2009). The second theoretical body drew upon cognitive and devel-
opmental perspectives that shed light on how textbook accounts build upon
different historical disciplinary concepts and tools of critical inquiry (Dick-
inson, Gordon & Lee, 2001; VanSledright, 2011). This approach speaks to
our interest in examining how textbook accounts foster or hinder critical
reflection and historical understanding in the reader.
Teacher Interview Data Collection and Analysis
Twenty-two public high school teachers were chosen to do interviews.
Twelve teachers were from public schools in a Northeast metropolitan area
and 10 were from a Midwest urban school district. We wanted a purposeful
sample that as much as possible represented regional, gender, years of teach-
ing experience and cultural diversity among the participants.
Each teacher was interviewed twice. All the initial interviews were
between 50 and 60 minutes and were conducted face-to-face in a setting of
their choice. Follow-up interviews were either face-to-face or over the phone
and lasted between 20 and 30 minutes. A recursive process of emic and etic
coding was employed for each interview (Corbin & Strauss, 2008; Saldaña,
2012) and the emerging coding rubrics were cross-checked with the other
co-author to insure greater inter-rater reliability in the analysis.
Findings
Findings From the Textbook Analysis Phase
Our analysis of how four U.S. history textbooks represent the forced migra-
tion of Native Americans resulted in three central findings. They were:
1. The understating of the degree and depth of violence inherent in the

forced migrations of Indian nations.
2. The silencing of widespread nonviolent resistance to these policies.
3. The marginalization of forced migrations within the dominant narra-
tive of westward expansion, progress, the growth of democracy and
nation building.
Teacher Understandings of Political Violence 177
These findings stand in stark contrast to what is known today about this
chapter in U.S. and Native American history. Debates and tensions are pres-
ent in how the forced migrations are framed by different historians, but
there exists extensive research describing the types of violence that occurred
leading up to and during the forced migrations (Jahoda, 1995; Rozema,
2003; Sturgis, 2006).
Finding 1: Understating the Violence Inherent

in the Forced Migrations
Recent scholarship has provided ample evidence that the forced displace-
ment of Indian nations from the southeastern U.S. to the Oklahoma ter-
ritories in the 1830s involved different forms of physical, psychological and
cultural violence (Akers, 1999; Paige, Bumpers & Littlefield, 2010). Despite
its catastrophic and traumatic effects, textbook narratives tended to avoid,
sanitize or minimize the scope, magnitude and meaning of the violence
intrinsic to this episode of U.S. history.
The four textbooks refer to the forced marches as a “tragedy.” APAN
describes “devastating dislocations” in which “as many as 100,000 eastern
and southern Indian peoples were removed” and “about 30,000 died in
the process” (pp. 237–238). Likewise, PTP refers to a “nightmare journey”
(p. 125), TAP talks of marches that led to “unspeakable suffering” (p. 257),
and OOM tells of an “infamous removal” in which “thousands (perhaps
a quarter of the 16,000 Cherokees) die along the way” (p. 280). However,
little of the violence and suffering endured by Indian peoples is gleaned from
these brief statements.
When textbook accounts refer to Indians’ death or suffering, they empha-
size the brutal physical conditions of the marches due to climate, terrain and
disease. However, nothing is said about why they marched during winter,
why food supplies were short, or why so many got sick and had no treat-
ment. The result is that the ordeal of forced displacements appears more as
a brutal act of nature than as a catastrophe set in motion by multiple social
and political factors and the purposeful action of many historical actors
who gained from the losses of Indian peoples.
Before extensive contact with European Americans and the forced migra-
tions in particular, the Indian nations of the southeastern U.S. developed
rich and varied cultural lifestyles (Calloway, 2012; Miller, 2002). Yet, the
textbook accounts relate very little of indigenous cultural worlds before or
during the forced migrations.
Finding 2: The Silencing of Widespread Resistance to these Policies

Scholarship over the past 30 years has highlighted the long-standing and
active nonviolent resistance to the forced displacements of the five Indian
nations, carried through by different segments of European American
177
society and by the Indian nations themselves (Hershberger, 1999). Textbook
accounts marginalize these massive attempts to resist political violence.
The magnitude and depth of meaning of this silence is better grasped if
placed against the widespread debate, discussion and social mobilizing for
nonviolent resistance that is reported in scholarly literature. Cross-cutting
alliances among white missionary groups, abolitionists, early temperance
reformers and Indian allies engaged in extensive campaigns of letter writing,
petitions garnered, meetings in church halls and editorials in the secular and
religious presses of local newspapers in the 1820s and 1830s.
The textbook accounts provide little if no sense of how these grassroots
protests influenced the Congressional debate surrounding the Indian Removal
Act, which barely passed by three votes in the House of Representatives.
Finding 3: The Marginalization of Forced Migrations Within

the Dominant U.S. History Textbook Narratives
Textbooks characterize the forced migrations as a tragic episode for the
Indian nations. However, there is no suggestion that these events had any
important impact on the political culture or moral fabric of U.S. society then
or today. Instead, they appear as a sad story of hardship of a people outside of
the emerging U.S. nation, an unfortunate but inevitable and ancillary episode
in the larger story of U.S. nation building. This contrasts with the historical
record of the widespread mobilization that this issue generated at the time.
This sense of inevitability is accomplished through disassociating the
forced migration from contextual factors. PTP, OOM and TAP explain
the Indian Removal Act as the embodiment of Jackson’s commitment to a
view of the U.S. as fulfilling a destiny of European American settlement of a
wild continent as well as the product of his determined will and unrelenting
personality.
Putting the Three Textbook Findings Into Perspective

The three central findings point to how textbook accounts sanitized and natu-
ralized political violence, making a human catastrophe tolerable or acceptable
to the reader. The narrative structures in the textbook accounts lead the reader
to regard this episode as a footnote to the dominant narrative that unfolds in the
text. This becomes possible when important aspects of this historical episode
do not appear in the textbook accounts, such as numerous acts of threatened
and actual violence, which were part and parcel of the forced displacement
process or the widespread mobilization against the forced migrations.
Findings From the Teacher Interview Analysis Phase

In our two sets of interviews with the Northeast metropolitan and Midwest
urban teachers we were curious to find out how these practitioners taught
about the forced migrations in their U.S. history classes, what resources they
used in teaching this historical episode, and their responses to our textbook
findings. We thought it was important in the interviews to gain a better
sense of what they believed constituted powerful teaching and learning of
history for their students. This information allowed us to make connec-
tions between what teachers valued most in their teaching and how those
beliefs were confirmed, contradicted or complicated when confronted with
the textbook findings we shared with them.
Three salient findings emerged from the teacher interviews:
1. Teachers believed the teaching of history should have a social purpose

that enabled their students to make informed choices in their lives today.
2. Teachers tended to focus on the actions of the Jackson administration
and less on the experiences of Native peoples when teaching about the
forced migrations.
3. Teachers exhibited strong responses to the textbook findings and dis-
cussed what they would need to teach differently.
Finding 1: Teachers Believed the Teaching of History

Should Have a Social Purpose
In response to the question, “What do you strive for in your history teach-
ing?” all the teachers were clear in their belief that the teaching of history
had to have a social purpose if their students were to be engaged and care
about the subject matter. Teachers believed if they could establish meaning-
ful connections between the past and present for their students they would
have fulfilled an important element in teaching history well for adolescent
students.
The past/present connection was expressed in a variety of ways. For
almost all the teachers, it was about building citizens who could make ethi-
cal and informed choices on matters that affected the lives of themselves and
others. This is evidenced in the following statements.
T1: I want them to be good citizens so they can know enough about their
past that they have opinions about the present and the future. . . .
I just need them to have enough knowledge about the past so they
can inform their decisions about the present. (Interview, March 4,
2014)
T4: I want to build civically responsible students and in order to do that
they have to have some grounding in ethical and moral decision mak-
ing. If they see in the past things that spark emotional and in turn
ethical issues in our history, then maybe they will question current
times more. (Interview, April 17, 2014)
T5: I think it is the responsibility of every teacher in my building to
give students practical experiences in having difficult/controversial
179
discussions, in providing opportunities to act in real ways in tak-
ing action around civic issues they think are important. (Interview,
April 30, 2014)
While the teachers had a common interest in having their students rec-
ognize the importance of how events and choices people made in the past
could inform their own choices today, there was a different emphasis for
some. This difference seemed to coalesce around those teachers who taught
in urban schools and had a higher concentration of students of color and
immigrant students compared to teachers who taught in some less diverse
school districts. The following statements exhibit some of this difference:
T1: I feel that it is sort of always a challenge in trying to get them

to really put themselves in the shoes of people who lived through
experiences different from their lives, and then try to get them to
connect . . . otherwise it’s just wow that is awful but that is not me.
(Interview, April 7, 2014)
T5: Throughout our history, I teach young people of color; I think
exposing them to people who look like them in the past helps them
make choices today. (Interview, April 30, 2014)
T6: I don’t feel comfortable selling the idea of the American Dream,
that everything is perfect and that if you work hard enough then
everything will work out fine [as in textbooks]. How can you say that
and then see what the lives are like for my kids? (Interview, April 26,
2014)
For T1 and most of the other metropolitan Northeast teachers, the chal-
lenge for them in their history teaching was to convince their students that
past events were both real and vital at the time and also mattered for their
lives today. As another metropolitan Northeast teacher put it, “Sometimes
I think the kids are insensitive, apathetic, and detached. They do not empa-
thize with other groups who have been marginalized, sometimes they think
it [past injustices] is over and they do not need to worry about it” (T13,
Interview, April 19, 2014). For the Midwest teachers from a large urban
school district there was often the sense that students could lapse into a
sense of despair because the marginalization and victimization that they
learned about in U.S. history classes was all too familiar for them on a daily,
personal level. As T5 stated, it was important for her students to see how
other groups in the past experienced racism and exclusionary practices but
also recognized there were movements that allowed them to make social
change at the time. T5 elaborated on this point:
Exposing them to examples provides them with the opportunity to see

in themselves people and efforts that have been made in the past. . . .
There is a conscious choice to provide them with the opportunity for
them to understand and to take action on something they care about.
(Interview, 4/30/14)
All the teachers converge around the axis of social purpose and respon-
sibility in their history teaching. For the teachers interviewed in diverse,
urban school settings the stakes seemed to hinge on helping their students
to believe that history could be a tool for their own empowerment and a
guard against giving up on the hope and promise of the society they live in
today. Most of the metropolitan Northeast teachers worked to help their
students appreciate how the relative privileges they experienced today were
built upon what one teacher said was, “the struggle that people have gone
through over the years to help build the nation they live in today” (T2,
Interview, 3/11/14).
In a sense, this finding converges with our textbook analysis in relation
to the social messaging inherent in telling the “American story.” What the
teachers state explicitly about teaching topics in U.S. history, such as The
Trail of Tears, the textbooks convey implicitly. That is, the learning of U.S.
history for high school students has social purposes. Those social purposes
might have very different meanings for the teachers than the textbooks, but
between both there is a common assumption that the learning of history
shapes how what and students should learn for their lives today.
Finding 2: Teachers Tended to Focus on the Actions of the Jackson

Administration and Less on the Experiences of Native Peoples
When Teaching About the Forced Migrations
Most of the teachers concentrated on the motives and policies of Andrew
Jackson and less on the experiences and actions of Native peoples during the
forced migrations. Within this frame teachers demonstrated a wide range
of responses in how they taught about this historical episode, the resources
they chose to use and the amount of time they spent on the topic. The fol-
lowing selected interview statements highlight this approach.
T1: I would have them do outside research and then ask them was
Andrew Jackson justified in his actions. ......... I need two weeks to do
that if I want to do it well. And so what can I do? I was flying through
Jackson, and I do not feel good about it. (Interview, March 4, 2014)
T2: I have them look at their own textbook, which is TAP, and I have
them take another textbook (PTP), which I think is terrible, and then
I give them a reading from The Lies My Teacher Told Me, and I ask
them the question: Do you think we should be teaching all the ugly
details in The Lies My Teacher Told Me? [To me] Is it unpatriotic of
me to teach this way? (Interview, March 11, 2014)
181
T3: We looked at some of the Supreme Court decisions, a documentary,
and a letter from Andrew Jackson..........There are some things that are
like impossible, I think literally impossible for me to teach without
being just ridiculously biased. ........So, because of this I’m one of those
teachers in favor of full disclosure instead of trying to say I do not
have a bias. (Interview, March 6, 2014)
While the examples focus on the actions of Jackson and his administra-
tion, we also see how teachers struggle with what they do. For T1 it is lack
of time due to district mandates about what needs to be covered. T2 won-
ders if the use of James Loewen’s The Lies My Teacher Told Me is patriotic,
and T3 tries to be reflexive about her own “bias” against Jackson. The
comments of T2 and T3, along with some of the other teachers in both the
Midwest and Northeast cohorts, underscore the challenges history teachers
face in thinking about the most productive ways to interrogate historical
episodes that evoke strong, ethical sentiments in themselves.
Despite differences in the amount of time spent on this topic and the
degree to which teachers situated the forced migrations in the 1830s within
a larger historical frame of displacement, there is a strong sense of social
injustice they want to convey to their students. At the same time, in none of
the interviews did we find an explicit focus by the teachers on the issue of
violence itself as a dominant theme that needed to be interrogated. Likewise,
we were struck that none of the teachers emphasized how coalitions of grass
roots groups employed nonviolent or peaceful means to challenge the exclu-
sionary practices of a given historical era.
Finding 3: Teachers Exhibited Strong Responses to the Textbook

Findings and Discussed What They Would Need to Teach Differently
Once teachers were presented with the three findings from our textbook
analysis new layers of reflection emerged within their comments, especially
in terms of what they had said previously in relation to their beliefs about
what constituted powerful teaching and learning of history. The finding
of textbooks sanitizing or understating the violence inherent to the forced
migrations provoked strong feelings from all the teachers.
T1: About all four textbooks understating violence, yeah, I think that
in general, our textbooks do that, and I think in general, America,
I think Americans do that in general. We talk a lot about the hor-
rors of the Holocaust and I feel we, America and Americans in gen-
eral, have this sense of pride and patriotism which sometimes cloud
our, you know, our memory, our historical memory and I think that
is true in our textbooks. (Interview, March 4, 2014)
T3: You know you become so accustomed to it. To me, it’s like the
whitewash of violence in general, in our history. (April 2, 2014)
T6: It’s like they broke some eggs that made an omelet. These are people
we are talking about! And, we just eradicated a whole bunch of cul-
tures. (March 26, 2014)
These responses highlight the intensity of feelings the teachers exhibited

about the textbook representations of violence. Explicitly naming the
understating of violence as a formal research finding seemed to give teach-
ers permission or license to express pent up frustrations and anger they had
toward the textbooks.
In a similar and different vein there also were strong responses to the find-
ing about the silencing of nonviolent protest movements. Rather then a sense
of outrage that came through in their comments, something else emerged.
T2: I should focus more on that part of [Textbook Finding 2]. . . .

I don’t focus enough on if it was debated and how much of a grass
roots effort there was. (March 11, 2014)
T3: Well, I had, I mean, obviously the silencing of the popular resistance
has worked well because I had no idea. (April 2, 2014)
T4: The protests to The Indian Removal Act. I never read about that.
I’ve never seen anything like that in the textbook. (March 24, 2014)
In the three responses cited there were alternating feelings that seemed to
imply a sense of “I did not know about these movements,” “how, as a
critical teacher of history could I not know?” and “I should know this and
somehow teach about it.” The obligation to do something that expanded
their knowledge base and teaching strategies became more manifest in
some of the commentary pertaining to the marginalization of forced migra-
tions within the dominant narratives of westward expansion, progress, the
growth of democracy and the building of a nation.
T4: The inevitability finding, that’s a question I ask students throughout

history, I asked them about the inevitability of all sorts of events in
history . . . who is telling you what is inevitable but I definitely
think the textbook is perpetuating the inevitable nature of American
events. (March 24, 2014)
T5: I think for the most part it reflects what people expect to come
out of U.S. History; they expect that there is this kind of one story
of progress. That idea of American exceptionalism is pretty OK,
and that is the accepted story and anything else is pretty radical.
(March 25, 2014)
The teachers concluded that they wanted to do something differently in

relation to teaching about the forced migrations in particular and more gen-
erally in topics related to collective violence and/or nonviolent resistance in
particular. There was a desire in the very least to complicate the dominant
183
narratives of progress and nation building, especially in relation to historical
episodes of violence and suffering as seen in the forced migrations of indig-
enous peoples. Many of them have to navigate through the curricular and
institutional restrictions they face, as well as the professional school cultures
that often don’t encourage teachers to openly and critically reflect upon and
share their vulnerabilities about doing something differently.
Discussion
While no firm conclusions can be drawn from the small purposeful samples
utilized in this qualitative study, the findings, however, suggest greater inves-
tigation is needed in several under-researched areas of history teaching and
learning.
The Findings Open Up New Ways for Thinking About

What Is Meant by Historical Understanding
Over the past 30 years greater attention has been paid to identifying and
facilitating student cognitive growth in learning such core historical con-
cepts as evidence, causality, agency, significance and continuity and change
(Dickinson, Gordon & Lee, 2001; Stearns, Seixas & Wineburg, 2000).
Based upon our examination of the textbooks in this study and our analysis
of the teacher interviews we would argue there are other important skill sets
needed by teachers and students in understanding history.
Our textbook analysis highlighted some of the important social messaging
that was embedded in the depictions of the forced migrations of indigenous
peoples in American history. Our use of discourse and critical inquiry tools
to unpack this messaging and its intended effect upon the reader was crucial
to the emergence of the three findings. Without this approach the “hidden”
nature of the violence that was part of the range of human experiences
intrinsic to this historical episode would not have been presented in such
sharp relief. Clearly, a sophisticated historical understanding of the concept
of evidence, for example, enables one to develop a plausible explanation
for a particular argument or interpretation in history. Yet, it and the other
core concepts that have formed the cannon of historical understanding do
not in and of themselves focus one’s attention on the discursive functions of
language, narrative structure and the positioning of historical actors within
dominant discourses. With this attention, the reader—or in this case history
teachers and students—has the possibility of interrogating the social and
political purposes of a national history textbook.
Whether it is a textbook or other educational resources that are used
in high school teaching, there are always sets of assumptions that frame
authors’ writing. These materials are not neutral; they have their ideological
stances, however well written or better documented some materials are over
others. National and individual identity construction are part and parcel of
the messaging contained in published materials intended for the learning
of national histories (Carretero & Bermudez, 2012; Carretero, Asensio &
Rodríguez-Moneo, 2011; Fisher, 2013; Foster & Crawford, 2006). Also,
this is part of what the teachers do in their classrooms, even if they are criti-
cal of what they believe the textbooks do or not do.
The teachers’ statements about wanting their students to become “good
citizens,” “appreciate the struggle of others” or “making informed choices”
speak to what they believe make for successful learning in their classrooms.
This does not mean that the teachers did not want their students to become
good readers, learn how to analyze documents and weigh evidence. It is
a recognition that the skill sets that make up investigation into the topics
of national history, in this case the forced migrations of Indian nations,
inevitably carries with it the beliefs of the reader and the creators of those
historical narratives. The teachers’ statements and the findings from our
textbook analysis suggest we need a better understanding of what it means
for readers, teachers and students to be reflexive and skilled at decoding the
narratives of published educational materials and with their own narratives
they have about history and its place in their lives today.
Greater Research Is Needed Into the Investigation of the Ethical,

Civic and Emotional Dimensions of Learning History
The textbook representations of the history of forced migrations and the
evolving scholarship about this historical episode open up dimensions of
learning that expand the boundaries of what has been constructed as tra-
ditional, academic learning. How does one remain detached and removed
when learning about the suffering and deaths of hundreds of thousands of
people forcibly displaced from their homelands? How does one react to nar-
ratives that understate or limit the reader’s emotional and ethical responses
to such situations? These questions relate in part to the issues discussed ear-
lier around historical understanding and the social messaging embedded in
examining all types of presentations of national histories. They also indicate
that different sensibilities are in the “classroom air,” such as the degree of
one’s emotional engagement, ethical reflection and civic awareness when
confronting difficult histories, such as episodes of extreme violence in one’s
own history.
At different moments during the teacher interviews it became apparent
that the academic priority of helping their students learn the subject mat-
ter of American history also carried with it dimensions not usually given a
greater priority in history education research. One of the threads that ran
through all of the teacher interviews in regard to what they hoped their stu-
dents would take away from their classes was an authentic engagement with
the subject matter. Without this engagement students either went through
the motions of learning or simply tuned out of it. This engagement might
produce a range of emotions, including anger, curiosity, degrees of empathy
and/or guilt. The question for teachers was not a matter of ignoring or mak-
ing these feelings “second place” in the learning of history, but it became
185
more a matter of how to negotiate those sentiments in ways that could
facilitate deeper and more complex thinking among their students.
All of the teachers believed they should challenge standard assumptions
embedded in most U.S. history textbooks they encountered. While several
of the teachers had chosen not to use a textbook in their teaching, most
used one of the textbooks we had analyzed, though sparingly. They won-
dered how to provide students with the skills and dispositions to inter-
rogate historical and contemporary accounts of national conflicts so they
could actually leave their course with more than a sense of cynicism and
alienation. At the same time the teachers felt both cut off from evolving
historical scholarship on the topic and rich professional development that
would equip them with skill sets that could more precisely interrogate all
types of historical accounts, not just in textbooks, so they did not come
across as delivering their own kind of “sermons” to students “about the
right way” to think.
For teachers these are important pedagogical challenges and opportuni-
ties. For researchers in history education this is an opportunity to investigate
further into how teachers decide upon and enact curricular and instructional
choices that tap into students’ emotional, ethical and civic selves. Teachers
know students bring those aspects of their identity into their history class-
rooms, especially when confronting topics that deal with human suffering
and oppression as well as resistance to those conditions. As researchers, it
becomes an opportunity for conducting more investigations into how these
dimensions of learning interact with the core concepts of historical under-
standing that are so highly valued in history education.
The Importance of Developing Alternative Communities of Inquiry

Nearly all the 22 teachers interviewed expressed a genuine desire to con-
tinue in some kind of “alternative space” that allowed for greater reflec-
tion and knowledge production pertaining not only to exploring issues of
violence in U.S. history but also to the teaching and learning of history in
general. On this point a teacher stated at the end of a follow-up interview:
It’s sad within the school how limited access we have to time and to
have a conversation like this with the people we work. I need to think
outside of this box; it is nice to use my brain in a different way.
(T14, Interview, April 7, 2014)
This statement by one teacher reflected a widespread desire among all

the teachers that they wanted more time, more occasions and a commu-
nity where they could continue thinking about and discussing the topics
explored in the interviews.
These were not isolated comments that came through over the months of
interviews with the two cohorts of teachers. The teachers had a lot to say,
and they wanted to listen to new ideas and new perspectives. The spaces
in their professional lives were few and limited given the demands of large
classes, prescribed curricula and multiple learning needs among a diverse
range of students. Yet, when presented with the opportunity, albeit in the
form of semi-structured interviews for a research project, the teachers con-
veyed a sense of intellectual engagement. They wanted to learn more and
learn together with other colleagues beyond their own school community. It
was more than going to a professional development workshop or summer
seminar conducted by “expert” historians. They wanted a community of
inquiry that was part of the lifeblood of teaching throughout the year.
The findings from our study, given the limitations of our sample size and
types of data gathered, suggest that if teachers want to become critical inter-
rogators of historical narratives then they need the institutional support and
intellectual partnerships to support and sustain that inquiry. As history edu-
cation researchers, we can begin to partner in this kind of community of
inquiry and bridge the researcher/practitioner divide.
187
12 Teacher Resistance Towards

Difficult Histories
The Centrality of Affect in
Disrupting Teacher Learning1
Michalinos Zembylas
For the last two decades now, education scholars have been engaged with
what Britzman (1998) has called “difficult knowledge”—a concept that
denotes the affective and epistemological challenges in teaching and learning
about/from social and historical traumas (see also Britzman, 2000a, 2013;
Britzman & Pitt, 2004; Pitt & Britzman, 2003). Further theoretical and
research work in recent years has been exploring what renders knowledge
“difficult” in handling traumatic histories in contexts of teaching, learning
and teacher education (e.g., Farley, 2009; Garrett, 2011; Matthews, 2009;
Simon, 2011a, 2011b; Tarc, 2011, 2013; Taylor, 2011; Zembylas, 2014).
This scholarship has made important contributions to literature that takes
on the challenging task of how “difficult histories” may be handled peda-
gogically. Difficult histories are understood here as the histories that are
rooted in the trauma, suffering and violent oppression of groups of people—
such as racism, the apartheid, genocides and the like. They are difficult not
only because of the content centered on traumatic events, but also because
it is challenging to offer a moral or pedagogical response to these events.
One of the issues of growing interest in research is teacher resistance to
engage with difficult histories (e.g., see Bekerman & Zembylas, 2012; Ber-
lak, 2004; Seibel Trainor, 2006; Zembylas, Charalambous & Charalam-
bous, 2012). This research shows that teacher resistance takes place for a
variety of reasons, ranging from teachers’ discomfort with certain perspec-
tives of difficult histories that may be controversial or emotive; teachers’
feelings that it is risky to teach about “difficult” issues in the classroom,
because such issues can be politicized and/or polarize students, teachers and
the community; to teachers’ utter opposition to and rejection of any “alter-
native” ideas emerging from difficult histories because such ideas would
question hegemonic norms in history and history teaching.
While “the concept of resistance has made prolific appearances in social
science publications in recent decades” (Hynes, 2013, p. 559), in education
and particularly in the study of teachers and difficult histories, this concept
has not been explicitly theorized in light of its emerging reconceptualiza-
tion. Crucial to the emerging reconceptualization in the study of resistance
is the notion of affect (Hynes, 2013) and its growing scholarly inquiry in
190 Michalinos Zembylas
the social sciences and humanities (Clough, 2007). Given that “at the heart
of the matter regarding questions of difficult knowledge is the provocation
of affect, that is, affect’s relation to the possibilities of thought” (Simon,
2011a, p. 433, added emphasis), it would be valuable to explore how teach-
ers’ resistance towards difficult histories could be further theorized through
the lens of affect (see also, Zembylas, 2014). Clearly, affect is central in the
formation of “resistance,” but it is also important to explore how affect
may be used for the disruption of this resistance, enabling a more productive
engagement with difficult histories.
To accomplish this goal, the chapter first revisits the notion of difficult
knowledge, highlighting its affective dimensions and its relevance to teacher
resistance. Second, it argues that the role of affect in resistance demands
a different way of conceptualizing “teacher resistance” to acknowledge
both its micro-political and macro-political dimensions; this part of the
chapter also suggests the potential for affective disruption by using But-
ler’s (2004a, 2009) social theory. Finally, the discussion comes back to the
terrain of pedagogy specifically in the context of teacher learning and jux-
taposes the notions of affective disruption and teacher resistance to enrich
theorization of “pedagogy of discomfort” (Boler, 1999; Boler & Zembylas,
2003; Zembylas & McGlynn, 2012; Zembylas, Charalambous & Chara-
lambous, 2012). It is suggested that this renewed theorization of pedagogy
of discomfort may create further openings for disrupting aspects of teacher
resistance towards difficult histories.
Difficult Knowledge
Britzman (1998) used the term “difficult knowledge” in the context of
discussing Holocaust education to highlight the learner’s painful encoun-
ter with trauma and victimization from the past. In particular, Britzman’s
notion of difficult knowledge refers both to representations of social and
historical traumas in curriculum and to the learner’s encounters with them
in pedagogy (see also Pitt & Britzman, 2003). Knowledge becomes diffi-
cult, as Simon (2011a) explains, when it “appears disturbingly foreign or
inconceivable to the self, bringing oneself up against the limits of what one
is willing and capable of understanding” (p. 433). Difficult knowledge, then,
is difficult not only because of the traumatic content of the knowledge, but
also because the learner’s encounter with this content is emotionally and
conceptually unsettling. Therefore, there are two important elements of diffi-
cult knowledge that I want to further discuss here (see also Zembylas, 2014).
The first element of difficult knowledge has to do with the realization
that representations of social and historical trauma can never signify all
of the emotions as well as the consequences resulting from traumatic his-
tories. To put this differently: It is impossible to find ways that do justice
to the signification of violence, loss and victimization. In this encounter
with traumatic histories, the learner experiences affective dissonance (i.e.,
Teacher Resistance to Difficult Histories 191
negative emotions) and struggles to learn from loss: a loss of agency (one’s
feeling of helplessness); a loss of meaning (one’s inability to accommodate
his or her affective dissonance); and the “loss of the idea of the social bond”
(Britzman, 2000a, p. 33; see also Taylor, 2011). The learner, then, cannot
escape being deeply affected by the trauma he or she attempts to address.
As Britzman further explains: “What makes trauma traumatic is the inca-
pacity to respond adequately, accompanied by feelings of profound help-
lessness and loss, and a sense that no other person or group will intervene.
What makes trauma traumatic is the loss of self and other” (2000b, p. 202).
In facing affective dissonance and loss, teachers and learners are also con-
fronted with the impossibility of undoing the harm and suffering that has
taken place.
The second element of difficult knowledge has to do with the pedagogical
treatment of the learner’s affective dissonance and loss. Britzman (2000a) is
particularly concerned with the question of how to make trauma pedagogi-
cal; as she points out, difficult knowledge “requires educators to think care-
fully about their own theories of learning and how the stuff of such difficult
knowledge becomes pedagogical” (1998, p. 117). Britzman is well aware
that difficult knowledge can easily lead into despair and the memoraliza-
tion of loss or even the learner’s denial in order to avoid further affective
dissonance (2000, pp. 33–35). Therefore, she suggests that the curriculum
ought to be organized in such a way that it does not provide (or claim to
provide) “closure,” but rather it needs to create openings so that teachers
and students can reclaim trauma from the past in an effort that is most likely
ongoing.
A number of education scholars in recent years have further theorized the
concept of difficult knowledge and its implications for teaching and learning.
For example, Farley (2009) builds on Britzman’s work, claiming that she
would like to re-write Britzman’s argument to read: It is painful to

entertain the possibility that however one might try to pin down mean-
ings through pedagogy or curriculum, we can control neither the reach
of historical representation, nor the psychical conflicts they invoke and
through which it must pass on the way to becoming meaningful.
(p. 543)
Farley’s theorization highlights in particular the affective force of difficult

knowledge and its impact on the learner’s encounter with trauma (see also
Farley, 2014). Farley’s argument is that the immense affective force of dif-
ficult knowledge and its signification implies that teachers and students will
have “to tolerate the loss of certainty in the very effort to know” (p. 543).
Similarly, Simon (2011a, 2011b) suggests that a pedagogy that accommo-
dates difficult knowledge would have to entail uncertainty and disruption
in how affective dissonance and loss are understood: “In such a pedagogy,”
he writes, “affect is understood as mobilizing thought about the substance
191
and limitations of any given historical narrative and its significance, without
attempting to guarantee in advance what this thought might be” (2011b,
p. 200). This conception of pedagogy requires the development of a new
vocabulary by teachers and students for describing the affective legacies of
difficult knowledge (Simon, 2011a). It is through the exploration to develop
this new vocabulary, maintains Simon, that we might attain a deeper under-
standing of what is gained and what is lost in pedagogies addressing difficult
knowledge.
Jansen (2009) uses the terms “troubled knowledge” or “bitter knowl-
edge,” while writing in the context of post-apartheid South Africa, to
acknowledge the affective impact of a traumatized past—such as the pro-
found feelings of loss, shame, resentment or defeat—that individuals and
communities carry from their participation in traumatic events. The inter-
ruption of troubled knowledge and the emotional challenges involved in
this process—e.g., the fact that both “perpetrators” and “victims” are trau-
matized, albeit from different perspectives—require new pedagogical strate-
gies. These pedagogical strategies, suggests Jansen, require the disruption of
the underlying ideological and psychic attachments at several levels—not
only at the level of the curriculum or state ideologies but also much more.
As he explains:
it is not simply the master narratives of the official curriculum or the

controlling ideologies of state examinations or the capitalist interests
of the textbook industry that are at stake in the critical classroom; it is
also the people there, the bodies in the classroom, who carry knowledge
within themselves that must be engaged, interrupted, and transformed.
(p. 258)
These bodies and the troubled knowledge they carry—as it is embedded in

social structures and ideologies—constitute the starting point for a disrup-
tive pedagogical approach that takes into consideration both the psychic
and the sociopolitical elements of trauma (Zembylas, 2008, 2015). Jansen
suggests a critical post-conflict pedagogy that goes beyond the rational lim-
its of critical social theory and pedagogy in post-traumatic contexts and
takes into consideration the emotional complexities of pedagogies handling
troubled knowledge.
In my own work (e.g., Bekerman & Zembylas, 2012; Zembylas, 2008,
2015; Zembylas, Charalambous & Charalambous, 2012), I have shown
over the years that teachers are not always willing to engage with traumatic
histories: Oftentimes, they resist. Some common reasons for this resistance
include feelings of discomfort—e.g., anxiety, uneasiness and distress—when
their cherished beliefs and emotions about a past event are challenged; dis-
agreements with certain representations of trauma that acknowledge the
loss of the “Other”; and fear and uncertainty to teach about controver-
sial aspects of traumatic histories, because such issues create emotionally
charged responses in the classroom. What defines teacher resistance as resis-
tance in this case is the emergence of an account of beliefs and emotions
that is deemed to be in opposition to a preestablished system of affective
knowledge about traumatic histories. In other words, teacher resistance is
an act of saying no to a particular state of affairs that emerges in difficult
histories. Importantly, though, the set of social and emotional categories
that teachers employ to evaluate representations of trauma are never fully
stabilized or sedimented in deterministic ways. All in all, teacher resistance
is entangled with affect and, therefore, it is valuable to delve deeper into the
affective implications of resistance as such.
Reconceptualizing Teacher Resistance

The term “resistance” has been used to describe a wide variety of actions
and behaviors at many levels of social life (individual, collective and insti-
tutional) and in many different settings (Hollander & Einwohner, 2004).
In their frequently cited review of the status of the concept in the social sci-
ences more than a decade ago, Hollander and Einwohner note that the term
“resistance” has been used in contexts as varied as revolution and women’s
hair styles (2004, p. 538). Nevertheless, they identify two “core elements”
in discussions about the definition of resistance: First, resistance involves
some kind of action; and, second, resistance involves opposition. On the one
hand, by calling attention to these two elements of resistance, Hollander and
Einwohner illustrate the link between power and resistance; on the other
hand, they also emphasize that even while resisting power, individuals or
groups may simultaneously support the structures of domination, because
opposition does not automatically imply a subversion of domination.
In her more recent paper on the status of resistance, Hynes (2013) points
out that since Hollander and Einwohner published their review in 2004
there have been significant shifts in social theory that call for a reconcep-
tualization of what counts as resistance. Crucial to the emerging shift in
the study of resistance, emphasizes Hynes, is the notion of affect. Affects
cannot be reduced to a property of an individual; they are subjectively felt
as potential and emerge through relational encounters and flows (Massumi,
2002). “Love” and “hate,” for example, as intensities and forces exceed
the confinement of a body, while “I love” or “I hate” are subjective expres-
sions of one’s awareness and knowledge within a specific social and cultural
context. On this view, relational flows and movements generate particular
affective spaces (Thrift, 2004). If affect emerges through relational encoun-
ters and flows, it is not difficult to see how emotional practices grounded in
certain perceptions about history, race or ethnicity may be implicated in the
generation of particular affective spaces.
It is with this in mind that I share Hynes’ (2013) argument and further
build on it, concerning in particular how the affective dimension of resis-
tance changes the way resistance is conceptualized. Hynes argues that the
193
shifting focus in recent decades toward everyday forms of resistance—as
opposed to previous conceptualizations of resistance primarily at the macro-
political level—opens up new directions that enable a different theorization
of resistance. Given that affect has both micro-political and macro-political
dimensions, writes Hynes, “it works across, or rather, between, the spheres
of the ‘micro’ and ‘macro’ ” (2013, p. 562, original emphasis). This “mic-
ropolitics” of resistance, for example, acquires an important position in
everyday school practices as a terrain of contestation that holds the possibil-
ity of linking to larger discourses and structures. This link, though, can both
reaffirm and challenge hegemonic discourses and structures—to remember
Hollander and Einwohner’s (2004) argument about the ambivalent conse-
quences of opposition. The conceptualization of resistance through the lens
of affect provides an important link between micro- and macro-political
dimensions (Hynes, 2013).
In approaching the issue of “teacher resistance” through the lens of
affect, it is worth highlighting that neither “classical” works of the politics
of resistance in education (e.g., Giroux, 1983 nor recent calls for a more
robust theory of resistance in critical pedagogy (e.g., Tarlau, 2014) recog-
nize the affective dimensions of action and opposition. Also, these works
limit their theorization to revolutionary educational struggles intending
to change the “conservative” status quo and the existing state of affairs
(e.g., globalization, war). However, as this brief sociological review of resis-
tance suggests, there are different forms of resistance, one of which is resis-
tance to change—such as the sort of resistance identified in the preamble of
this chapter, namely, teachers’ resistance to engage with the discomforting
aspects of difficult knowledge that challenge taken-for-granted beliefs and
emotion about we-and-they (Bekerman & Zembylas, 2012). Seen with an
eye to the affective dimensions of resistance, then, it may be premature to
claim that resistance is always and principally an act of opposition to hege-
monic structures or ideologies.
For example, when teachers claim their opposition to a view that recog-
nizes the Other’s suffering, they address themselves to an existing situation,
elements of which they refuse (cf. Hynes, 2013, p. 568). Such an opposi-
tional resistance, suggests Hynes, “works within the bounds of represen-
tation, necessarily speaking within the parameters that a representational
politics sets” (p. 568, original emphasis). A representational politics limits
the discussion within a set of epistemological boundaries, taking for granted
certain assumptions about who is identifying with which national identity
and who is refusing which elements of an account. Yet, seen through the
lens of the affective dimensions of resistance, the teachers also engage in a
performative political action that goes beyond representation. A performa-
tive approach to resistance, continues Hynes, “recognizes that it is not sim-
ply, and perhaps not even primarily, a question of subjects identifying and
voicing or enacting their opposition . . . since subjectivity is itself an effect
or production of power” (p. 568). This idea emphasizes that there is also
an affective dimension of resistance with implications that are not always
readily acknowledged.
In making a similar claim about teacher resistance in the context of teach-
ing and learning difficult histories, my suggestion is that the affective dimen-
sion of resistance helps educators appreciate and grasp “the operations of
power and resistance at the more indeterminate level of sociality correspond-
ing to bodies and their affective capacities” (Hynes, 2013, p. 572). Affects
and emotions are powerful political forces involved in the (re)construction
of social practices and, as such, in the maintenance or disruption of the
status quo (Burkitt, 2005). By resisting “alternative” dimensions of difficult
knowledge (i.e., ones that do not conform to hegemonic social and political
values within a society), the teachers who engage only with certain versions
of difficult knowledge may in fact make a contribution to the reification of
particular discourses and practices of national identity and history teaching.
The hegemonic rules and norms of what constitutes national identity or his-
tory teaching are not abstract symbolic structures, but they are performed
through teachers’ everyday emotional practices. The teachers’ act of opposi-
tion toward alternative dimensions of difficult knowledge is a performance
that is emotionally regulated by hegemonic structures or norms of national
identity and history teaching (Zembylas, 2014).
Drawing on Butler’s work on performativity (1990, 2004b), as well as her
increasing turn to emotions and affectivity in recent years (2004a, 2009),
I want to explore further how hegemonic emotional norms and structures
could possibly be disrupted. As part of a growing effort to emphasize the
role of practice in the (re)constitution of social, affective and political
space (Rose, 1990, 1998), a performative approach accounts for affective
disruption through everyday acts. For example, instead of relying on the
naturalized, sedimented or ideological to explain the “coherent” nature of
national or other forms of identity and history, the recognition that all of
us as human beings are vulnerable and suffer offers the potential to break
apart rigid ontological frames that come to be reified by dominant accounts.
For Butler, affect plays a key role in the interruption of reified accounts
and rigid frames. In her work following September 11, she is especially con-
cerned with grief and how we are connected emotionally to others in ways
that interrupt the stories we tell. As she writes in Precarious Life:
What grief displays is the thrall in which our relations with others holds
us, in ways that we cannot always recount or explain, in ways that
often interrupt the self-conscious account of ourselves we might try to
provide, in ways that challenge the very notion of ourselves as autono-
mous and in control. Let’s face it. We’re undone by each other. And
if we’re not, we’re missing something despite one’s best efforts, one
is undone, in the face of the other, by the touch, by the scent, by the feel,
by the prospect of the touch, by the memory of the feel.
(2004a, p. 23)
195
Butler is particularly interested in what makes some lives grievable and oth-
ers less grievable (see also Butler, 2009), only to highlight that we are all
confronted by mutual vulnerability. As she writes,
each of us is constituted politically in part by virtue of the social vulner-

ability of our bodies. Loss and vulnerability seem to follow from our
being socially constituted bodies, attached to others, at risk of losing
those attachments, exposed to others, at risk of violence by virtue of
that exposure” (2004a, p. 20). Butler argues that “we cannot will
away this vulnerability.” We must attend to it.
(2004a, p. 29)
By attending to vulnerability, Butler is after a social and political theory

that renarrates grief as a point of departure to do justice to the lives of
others. Butler’s theorization of emotions and affectivity creates openings
for a political analysis of vulnerability and an ethical encounter with the
other’s precariousness. Once we consider how the psychosocial and political
operations of power produce “who will be a grievable human” and what
“acts” are “permissible” for “public grieving” (2004a, p. 37), then we may
begin to realize how the regulation of social and political affect establishes
a prohibition of grieving others’ lives and extends the aims of violence. This
recognition is an important aspect of a pedagogical approach that exposes
the process of regulation of affect. It is precisely this orientation, in spite of
the discomfort it admittedly produces, that may offer pedagogical openings
for affective disruption of teacher resistance to engage with certain aspects
of difficult histories.
Affective Disruption in Learning From Difficult Histories

In the wake of Derrida’s death, Butler (2004c) recalls his life-long project
on what it means to do justice to the lives of others: “Is there justice to be
done to a life? . . . [This question] prescribes a ceaseless task of honoring
what cannot be possessed through knowledge, what in a life exceeds our
grasp” (p. 32). A pedagogy infused by Butler’s politics of affective disrup-
tion through vulnerability might support efforts to ethically orient pedagogy
“towards responding to the sanctity of existence residing in each human
life” (Tarc, 2011, p. 368). This sort of pedagogy—or pedagogies in the
plural, because there might be various forms—implies two things. On one
hand, the challenge is how to do justice to each human life without dismiss-
ing resistance that may even oppose the notion that each life is grievable. On
the other hand, the demands to do justice to such a “different” perspective
of difficult history may not be realizable without some sort of discomfort.
This last part of this chapter focuses precisely on the ethical and emotional
demands of affective disruption in learning from difficult histories, and in
particular “discomfort” as an affectively needy and provocative pedagogy.
It has been argued that a pedagogy of discomfort (Boler, 1999; Boler &
Zembylas, 2003; Zembylas & Boler, 2002) is conducive to encourage learn-
ers to move outside their “comfort zones” and question their “cherished
beliefs and assumptions” (Boler, 1999, p. 176). Central to this pedagogi-
cal approach is the assumption that discomforting feelings are important
in challenging cherished beliefs and normative practices that sustain rei-
fied frames on difficult histories and in creating openings for transformative
learning opportunities. However, it is also acknowledged that a pedagogy
of discomfort is inherently risky and uncomfortable, particularly for those
whose normative frames are questioned. Butler’s framework on vulnerabil-
ity enriches a pedagogy of discomfort by promoting affective solidarity that
could serve as a point of departure for a more productive engagement with
teacher resistance. This framework is grounded in the recognition of griev-
able life as the basis for alternative interpretations of difficult histories and
thus it acknowledges that affective disruption is an important element of a
pedagogy of discomfort.
Through the use of a pedagogy of discomfort in the context of teacher
workshops, I find regularly that my pedagogical choices do not always
“respond” adequately to some of teachers’ emotions and this clearly impacts
on what is possible for them to learn. The challenge is to turn discomfort
into a productive learning experience, yet the fact of unbearable personal
and historical trauma often exceeds any sort of engagement we attempt with
traumatic histories. Yet, what does this “productive” pedagogical space—in
which critical and collective work might be done to address issues of dif-
ficult histories—entail? As Tarc explains:
Done productively, this work can pose new questions and imag-
ine altered possibilities and relations of human existence. Curricular
mourning spaces of remembrance consist of violently dehumanized
human existences. Yet, they hold the imaginative means of psychosocial
production by which a devastated official knowledge and human rela-
tion might find repair and rest, might find peace and, with it, the justice-
seeking bodies of suffering living and violently dead.
(2011, p. 369)
A pedagogy that wishes to develop self-criticality, ethical responsibility

and the prospects of transformative learning opportunities needs to create
conditions for addressing the complex psychosocial dimensions of difficult
knowledge through both critical and strategic engagement with one’s affec-
tive investments in relation to social and political norms. I argue that these
two elements—critical and strategic—are important aspects of a pedagogy
of discomfort in the context of teacher professional development, if teacher
resistance is going to be addressed productively.
In light of the reconceptualization of resistance in the aftermath of the
affective turn (Hynes, 2013), it is important to start from recognizing the
197
emotional burden carried by learners’ affective investments to particular
public discourses or ideologies (e.g., discourses of glorious history; ideolo-
gies of us-the-victims and them-the-perpetrators), especially when the desire
for empathizing with the Other seems to be rejected or eroded. A more
nuanced understanding of the consequences of this emotional burden could
serve as a point of departure for a critical and empathetic engagement with
the complexity and multiperspectivity of difficult histories.
For example, recognition of Butler’s notion of shared vulnerabilities as
well as the idea of “shared complicities” (Keet, 2011) acknowledges that
there are asymmetries of trauma, responsibility and injustice. The notion of
“shared complicities” suggests that there is the potential of evil in all of us
that already makes us complicit in the wrongdoing of others. The discourses
of shared vulnerabilities and shared complicities neither eschew questions of
material suffering nor obscure issues of responsibility and injustice; on the
contrary, they highlight both the symmetries and the asymmetries of vulner-
ability and complicity. That is, although the experience of vulnerability may
be more or less universal, the discourses of shared vulnerabilities and shared
complicities raise important critical questions such as: Whose difficult his-
tories are we talking about? How are vulnerabilities symmetrical or asym-
metrical for different individuals or groups featured in difficult histories? In
what ways could individuals or groups be complicit to others’ suffering and
trauma without knowing it? What can be done to minimize vulnerability
and complicity? Without this double realization—that is, we are all vulner-
able but not in the same manner and we have shared (yet asymmetrical)
complicities in others’ suffering and trauma—our understanding of difficult
knowledge will fail to realize its potential for affective disruption, solidarity
and transformation (see also Zembylas, 2014).
In addition, a pedagogy of discomfort has to be “strategic” too, that is, it
has to use empathetic emotions in strategic ways (Lindquist, 2004). “Strate-
gic empathy,” according to Lindquist, refers to the willingness of the teacher
to make him- or herself strategically skeptical in order to empathize with
the difficult knowledge students carry with them, even when this difficult
knowledge is disturbing to other students or to the teacher (see also Zemby-
las, 2013b). Societies, workplaces and classrooms are deeply divided places
“where contending histories and rival lived experiences come embodied
with indirect (and sometimes direct) knowledge into the same pedagogi-
cal space to create deeply complex challenges for teachers” (Jansen, 2009,
p. 258)—either as learners themselves or as educators in their own class-
rooms. Being strategic about handling the affective consequences of difficult
knowledge means knowing when and how to challenge resistance to an
“alternative” perspective of difficult history so that a productive pedagogi-
cal space is created.
For example, if I, as a facilitator, take sides too early and dismiss or
undervalue the emotional difficulties that some of these teachers experi-
ence about an “alternative” version of difficult histories, I will not take a
productive stance. In fact, when I did so in the past, and disregarded teach-
ers’ fears, concerns and emotional uncertainty toward alternative versions
of difficult histories in Cyprus, I was not strategic and I failed to make
productive space for affective solidarity with the Other (e.g., see Zembylas,
2012 for an analysis of this failure). If my teaching was perceived as a mor-
alistic approach that simply sympathized with the Others’ sufferings, while
ignoring or undervaluing the trauma of “my” side, then it was unlikely to
create pedagogical openings. When I was forced to look deeper into my own
understanding of the emotional complexities involved in handing teachers’
difficult histories, one thing was clear: These teachers expressed some strong
emotions that somehow should have been taken into account rather than
be dismissed as another manifestation of nationalism. It was only with trial
and error that I could gradually see the need to develop both critical and
strategic ways to empathize with teachers’ troubled knowledge, even if this
knowledge was upsetting to me.
Consequently, the affective tensions around issues of resistance must be
placed at the heart of any pedagogy that engages with difficult knowledge
(Zembylas, 2013a, 2015). Understanding the emotional force of a “struc-
ture of feeling” that underpins difficult histories—such as resentment against
the “enemy-Other”—is a key element of using a pedagogy of discomfort,
critically and strategically. It is through a deep emotional exploration with
different perspectives and modes of difficult histories that learners will even-
tually become able to identify common patterns with Others’ emotional
lives, to realize how common humanity is made and what its consequences
are for positioning one’s self in interconnected ways. A pedagogy of dis-
comfort in dealing with difficult histories signifies a willingness to teach
and learn with ambiguity, ambivalence and paradox. Yet, it is through a
systematic and strategic analysis of these complex emotional and affective
elements of learning difficult histories that we might reach a better under-
standing of what is gained and perhaps what is lost through pedagogies of
discomfort.
Conclusion
This chapter explored teacher resistance to engage with certain aspects of
difficult histories and suggested that paying attention to affect does not
only help us understand the formation of teacher resistance but also create
productive openings for its disruption. A pedagogy that attends to one’s
emotional difficulties might support learners to reclaim their engagement
with traumatic histories. For this to happen, there is demand to create peda-
gogical conditions for addressing the complex psychosocial dimensions of
difficult knowledge in both critical and strategic ways. Butler’s framework
for a social and political theory that renarrates grief and vulnerability can
support a pedagogy of discomfort to address issues of doing justice to the
lives of others.
199
A general implication of the argument pursued in this chapter is that the
particular formation of what it means to act as a facilitator in critical and
strategic ways remains essentially a contextual matter. This includes tolerat-
ing both the urgency and the inadequacy of one’s response as a facilitator,
tolerating learners’ emotional difficulties and tolerating learners’ responses
that seem to make others or the facilitator uncomfortable (Taylor, 2011,
2014; Zembylas, 2013b, 2015). What I hope to have added to this con-
versation on difficult histories is the idea that our very attempt to engage
in difficult histories may very well be the starting point for resistance that
we ought to recognize as affectively based. As affectively based, it requires
affective disruption, if we wish to keep the doors open for transformative
learning opportunities.
Note
1. An extended version of this chapter is published in Discourse: Studies in the Cul-
tural Politics of Education (2016) under the title “Teacher resistance to engage
with ‘alternative’ perspectives of difficult histories: The limits and prospects of
affective disruption.”
Maria Grever
The four chapters in section 3 focus on the complications teachers encoun-
ter when dealing with “difficult histories.” Each chapter represents a tell-
ing of a divided or haunted history within a transnational or subnational
context: Israel, Northern Ireland, the U.S. and Cyprus. Tsafrir Goldberg
(chapter 9), Alan McCully (chapter 10), and Alan Stoskopf and Angela Ber-
mudez (chapter 11) combine theoretical reflections with amazing empirical
research. In chapter 12, Michalinos Zembylas philosophizes about teacher
resistance and affective disruption. Reading these impressive chapters made
me realize again how different the contexts of geopolitical entities and com-
munities can be, and how differently the subject of history in each of these
countries is perceived and taught. In 1993, I was invited to deliver a paper
at the Irish Conference of Historians at Queen’s University of Belfast. We
attended a reception in the city hall with lots of people, including several
politicians and entrepreneurs who had no clue about who we were and what
the purpose of our conference was. When I told someone in response to his
question on what my profession was, he immediately responded, “History?
Oh no! History books should be burned, they cause only conflicts.” I was
shocked by this answer but at the same time I became more aware of the
narrative template of my own country. Much later, in 2011, I had a brief
conversation with Alan McCully during a break in a conference in Amster-
dam about the challenging situation of Dutch history teachers in multi-
cultural classrooms when teaching about the Holocaust. He told me that
in Northern Ireland history teachers prefer to teach about the Holocaust,
because it is much easier than to teach about Irish history.
The chapters also reminded me of the public presence of history. His-
tory matters! In some countries, history education has received considerable
funding to support the transition to a post-conflict society and peace build-
ing. Perhaps we can be optimistic despite the difficulties of teaching about
sensitive topics: The provision of state finances may prove the importance of
history in society. Conversely, in some contexts, everyone gets involved and
has an opinion or stake in what the functions and contents of history should
be. Governments in particular like to interfere in history education, which
201
204 Maria Grever
often results in bitter divisions over national identities while increasing the
sensitivity of history as a school subject.
But what kinds of difficulties are at stake here? According to Goldberg,
most authors on the issue of difficult histories reflect on content, referring
to a traumatic past (the Holocaust, the violence in North Ireland, the forced
migration of Native Americans in the U.S., the division of Cyprus). Yet, both
Goldberg and Zembylas point to another level, partly related to content:
topics and approaches that undermine strong beliefs and religious convic-
tions, that challenge taken for granted beliefs and emotions, and threaten a
positive identity and self-image. Zembylas states: “Difficult knowledge . . .
is difficult not only because of the traumatic content of the knowledge, but
also because the learner’s encounter with this content is emotionally and
conceptually unsettling” (p. 190). So there are more dimensions to difficult
histories than teaching about the history of politically or racially divided
nations, dimensions that do not necessarily deal with explicit violence or
traumas.
Teaching about women’s history and the history of sex relations is one
example. A long time ago, every year I taught an introductory course on
gender and women’s history, from Ancient Greece to the 20th century. At
the start of the course male and female students expressed their resistance to
the very idea of “just focusing on women.” And every year, many students—
not all—told me later in the course that they viewed history in another way,
i.e., that to some extent, they had experienced a kind of Gestalt-switch.
Historicizing gender relations by discussing the various social, cultural and
political positions of men and women in the past had made them aware of
their self-evident views on daily life in the present and on their own future. It
required, however, both the will and the skill of students to think in abstract
terms, to look at themselves from an outsider perspective. In other words, it
required self-reflection of the learners—and that is not an easy task.
The research of Tsafrir Goldberg shows that even when students dem-
onstrated critical disciplinary practices, they still focused more critically
on information threatening in-group image than fostering it. This confirms
the findings of Alan Stoskopf and Angela Bermudez that historical thinking
concepts “do not in and of themselves focus one’s attention on the discur-
sive functions of language, narrative structure and the positioning of histori-
cal actors within dominant discourses” (p. 184). Using discourse analysis,
they revealed the “hidden” nature of violence concerning the forced migra-
tions of Native Americans in educational resources by understating, silenc-
ing and marginalizing what actually happened. Their chapter combines, in
a wonderful way, history textbook research with teacher interviews. Fol-
lowing the three-dimensional power concept of the political theorist Steven
Lukes (1974), I think the difficult histories about violence in textbooks and
the teaching practices involve several power dimensions: stories of explicit
violence (the decision making of war, genocides), latent violence (masked
conflict, the threat of violence, silencing) and hidden violence (anticipating
unconsciously hegemonic ideologies; noncoercive sources of power; not
being aware of what is covered up, resulting in the perpetuation of power
relations and violence). Lukes’ approach of power and conflict supports
the analysis of Zembylas about teacher resistance and the structures of
domination.
Lukes’ three-dimensional concept of power might also explain the limits
of implementing multiperspectivity in educational resources and in teaching
practices. Goldberg argues that this concept is not a panacea for the chal-
lenges of teaching difficult histories. Indeed, McCully shows that students
are barely able to move beyond the narrative schematic templates formed
in their families and communities. The existing pedagogy in Northern Ire-
land focused too much on cognitive understanding, marginalizing emotions
when dealing with a sensitive past. Moreover, perspective taking stimu-
lated bipolar positions at the expense of providing students with a nuanced
understanding of variations and differences. Both Goldberg and McCully
advocate an inquiry-based, disciplinary approach to challenge “certainties”
and open up students to alternative viewpoints. An open-ended investiga-
tion, McCully argues, would support “students to explore the complex-
ity of positions” across society (p. 169). In Zembylas’ view, this includes
“tolerating both the urgency and the inadequacy of one’s response as a
facilitator, tolerating learners’ emotional difficulties and tolerating learn-
ers’ responses that seem to make others or the facilitator uncomfortable”
(p. 200). I am curious to know, however, how far Zembylas will go. Are
there no boundaries in tolerating student responses? For instance, in large
Dutch cities, history teachers increasingly face problems with Muslim stu-
dents who resist learning about the Holocaust (Blanken, Tuinier & Visser,
2003; Grever, 2012).
Whereas the chapter by Goldberg analyzes how difficult histories are con-
structed, mediated and perceived, McCully highlights the tension behind
this process between the intrinsic and extrinsic aims of history teaching, or
the balance between the rigor of the historical discipline and social utility.
Focusing too much on the former might alienate history teaching from con-
temporary issues, making the subject less relevant for students. Focusing on
the latter carries the risks of descending into anachronism and presentism.
In that case, I think teachers run the risk of losing the credibility of what
exactly they are teaching, and of being accused of moralizing or even of
promoting propaganda. In sum, McCully reflects on the role that history
can and cannot play in providing students with insight and agency into soci-
eties affected by conflict, without compromising the disciplinary rigor that
underpins the foundation of that criticality. Based on his research with Keith
Barton, McCully formulates eight functions or principles of history teaching
and learning which can be used as criteria to guard abuses of history. In my
view, point 7, which is to “provide an informed context for contemporary
dialogue and debate,” is a particularly important condition to avoid an ahis-
torical approach or the risk of propaganda (p. 163).
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206 Maria Grever
The chapter by Stoskopf and Bermudez indicates that teachers need more
support with their teaching practice. The 22 teachers interviewed expressed
a desire for more reflection and knowledge about the teaching of history
in general. This confirms the findings of a recent pilot study that my col-
leagues and I have conducted in Europe about enhancing historical con-
sciousness and democratic citizenship among key opinion leaders in the
field of history education, heritage tourism and policy making (Van Huiden
et al., 2015). The most important unmet needs concerning historical con-
sciousness included “Enhancing insights, skills and capacities” and “Mak-
ing the past relevant in the present.” Furthermore, Stoskopf and Bermudez
point to the importance of alternative communities of inquiry for teachers
throughout the year. In these communities teachers might reflect on a spe-
cific vocabulary to address difficult histories, as Zembylas discusses in his
chapter. Recently, in the Netherlands a few professional learning commu-
nities of history teachers have been set up in collaboration with academic
specialists. They discuss the latest developments in pedagogy and the history
profession. Some of these communities have contacts with university histo-
rians, members of city councils and museum educators.
I will come to a close. Referring to Goldberg’s chapter, teaching difficult
history can also be a source of motivation. Moreover, teaching about uncon-
tested or “easy” histories without questioning the narrative, without any
interruptions in students’ thinking, seems a rather dull activity and in that
sense rather difficult. But I strongly underline the last statements in Stoskopf
and Bermudez’s chapter: If teachers want to become critical interrogators
then they need institutional support and intellectual partnerships to explore
the opportunities of teaching difficult histories. To me it is obvious that the
chapters in this book are important building blocks to achieve this goal.
Section 4
History and Identity
207
13 Physical and Symbolic
Violence Imposed
The Difficult Histories of Lesbian,
Gay and Trans-People
J. B. Mayo, Jr.
Introduction
Just hours before purposefully stepping in front of a moving tractor trailer
along Interstate-71 in Warren County, Ohio, 17-year-old Leelah Alcorn
posted a suicide note on her Tumblr account. The note—that would be vis-
ible only after her death had occurred—read in part:
If you are reading this, it means that I have committed suicide and obvi-
ously failed to delete this post from my queue. . . . When I was 14,
I learned what transgender meant and cried of happiness. After 10 years
of confusion I finally understood who I was. I immediately told my
mom, and she reacted extremely negatively, telling me that it was a
phase, that I would never truly be a girl, that God doesn’t make mis-
takes, that I am wrong. If you are reading this, parents, please don’t tell
this to your kids. Even if you are Christian or are against transgender
people don’t ever say that to someone, especially your kid. That won’t
do anything but make them hate them self. That’s exactly what it did
to me.
(Malm, 2014)
For the young trans-person who penned this message, the note represents
the symbolic violence she endured each day living an existence that did
not embody who she truly was. In this case, the symbolic violence was
perpetrated by her parents, which led Leelah to inflict the ultimate physi-
cal violence upon herself, suicide. Less recent examples from history also
demonstrate physical violence enacted toward members of the various les-
bian, gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) communities. Some of these
historical incidents include first contact between European explorers and
the indigenous people living in the “New World,” the experiences of gay
and lesbian soldiers serving in the military during times of war, the plight
of gay prisoners of war during the Holocaust and the violent death of col-
lege student Matthew Shepard on October 12, 1998. Though many other
examples exist, they are far too numerous to explore in meaningful ways
209
210 J. B. Mayo, Jr.
in this chapter. Therefore, I will highlight two specific historical moments—
European explorers’ encounters with Two Spirit indigenous people and the
murder of Matthew Shepard—indicating how they exemplify what Britzman
(1998) calls “difficult knowledge,” which she defines as representations of
social or historical trauma in pedagogical situations.
Though Britzman uses the term “difficult knowledge,” some social studies
researchers have also used “difficult histories” to unveil and explain these
complementary concepts. Following is a brief overview of their thoughts.
Difficult Knowledge and Histories

Garrett (2011) cautions “from the onset, we should be careful to under-
stand difficult knowledge as a process of engagement rather than an identifi-
able and quantified notion” (p. 322). For Garrett, it is not as important to
specifically define what difficult knowledge is, but rather, it is more signifi-
cant to notice how and what we learn from another person’s (or group’s)
trauma. In other words, it is the learning encounter that is most signifi-
cant. Although Pitt and Britzman (2003) offer a concrete description of dif-
ficult knowledge, “the representation of social trauma and the individuals’
encounter with them in pedagogy” (p. 755), Garrett warns that the notion
is complex and layered. For example, texts that “represent the Holocaust,
slavery, lynching, genocide, famine, poverty and others can never match
nor indicate the [full] consequences resulting from [these examples of] mass
trauma” (p. 322). Another layer of complexity with difficult knowledge is
that it relates to how an individual makes meaning from those representa-
tions. A person’s own encounters with loss, suffering or grief will influence
their interpretation of those representations (Zembylas & Bekerman, 2008).
As Farley (2009) explains,
Traumatic content poses a challenge to teachers and students, who, in

efforts to understand such knowledge, may be confronted with affective
traces of an internal history made from primal helplessness, disillusion-
ment, and crises of authority and not knowing.
(p. 539)
A third layer of complexity with difficult knowledge, according to Gar-

rett, is how to make one’s thinking about internal struggles with personal
loss, vulnerability, or a painful past pedagogical. He writes, “if learning
about the most terrible parts of human history were not difficult already,
then the difficulty is made more complex by the demand to make it the stuff
of a lesson plan” (2011, p. 323).
Sheppard (2010b) notes that it is fairly common for social studies teach-
ers to “cover” content that “includes issues related to oppression, violence,
and trauma” (p. 21). However, she is quick to point out that there is a vital
difference between covering this content and “asking students to explore
the direct and ongoing effects of oppression, violence, and trauma” (p. 21).
Histories of Lesbian, Gay and Trans-People 211
One may learn about the different points made within the Missouri Com-
promise, memorize various causes of the Civil War and read the various
segments of the Fugitive Slave Law, but it is an entirely different exercise for
teachers to push their students to delve more deeply into individual expe-
riences that defined slave society. According to Sheppard, teachers might
instead “ask students to examine the lived experiences of [enslaved people]
and slaveholders by reading primary source documents such as slave nar-
ratives” or they might “encourage their students to examine the tools of
oppression [like] whips, chains, and branding irons” (p. 21). Here, we come
closer to the concept of difficult histories.
Sheppard (2010a) notes a similar scenario in a college-level history class-
room where the instructor made “pedagogical decisions [that] encour-
aged students to make personal connections with difficult issues, events,
and ideas in history and their lives” (p. 411). Though challenged by a per-
ceived lack of structure, the professor utilized a pedagogical foundation that
secondary social studies teachers could follow: Grounded in a belief that
the construction of historical knowledge is shaped by personal stories and
perspectives, the professor created group-based assessments and gave stu-
dents extra credit when they participated in activities outside of class that
led them to know each other and the content better, and she attempted to
gain her students’ trust by sharing her personal stories (Sheppard, 2010a,
p. 424). Overall, Sheppard (2010b) conceptualizes difficult histories as three
interrelated components:
content centered on traumatic events, which include a focus on the

interrelated topics of suffering, violence, and oppression; a sense of
identification between those studying the history and those represented;
and a moral response to these events.
(p. 24)
Across the literature, social studies researchers and other scholars who have
conceptualized difficult knowledge and histories agree that “summarily, dif-
ficult knowledge is, to put it rather simply, the stuff of social studies educa-
tion. Trauma is present in the curriculum as well as on the socio-political
ground upon which all [of us] in the 21st century move through our lives”
(Garrett, 2011, p. 324). Not only must we be concerned about those individ-
uals and groups who were victims of trauma, but we must also be aware of
what happens to the students and teachers engaged in learning about them
(Hoffman, 2000; Jonker, 2012; Potter, 2011). Difficult knowledge is posi-
tioned both inside and outside and suggests that all researchers and teachers
need to do more than confront the difficulties of learning from another’s

painful encounter with victimization, aggression, and the desire to live
on one’s own terms. [They] also must be willing to risk approaching the
internal conflicts which the learner brings to the learning.
(Britzman, 1998, p. 117)
211
212 J. B. Mayo, Jr.
It is upon this latter point that I now wish to turn and focus my attention.
Difficult knowledge and histories have been (more) commonly explored in
the U.S. with curriculum that centers the Holocaust and slavery (Garrett,
2011), and their impact on students in the classroom (Jewish and African
American students in particular). With this in mind, I wonder about the
LGBT-identified learners who are present in our classes and who may be
deeply impacted by the teacher’s decision to critically engage LGBT-inclusive
social studies curriculum. As one who calls for and fully endorses this brand
of curriculum (see Mayo, 2013a, 2013b; Mayo & Sheppard, 2012; Shep-
pard & Mayo, 2013), I turn now to examples from the past that history
teachers can explore and the potential impact that critical engagement with
these examples could have on students in the classroom.
European Explorers’ Encounters With Two Spirit People

“Two Spirit” refers to the belief among many indigenous people that chosen
individuals are endowed with both the feminine and the masculine essence
within one body (Anguksuar, 1997; Mayo & Sheppard, 2012). This way
of being includes a spiritual connection to the Creator and manifests itself
physically in any number of ways. The individual may appear androgy-
nous, for example, or the individual may have an outward appearance that
does not match the biological sex with which they were born. Presenting
information and leading discussions about Two Spirit people opens oppor-
tunities for teachers to engage their students with an expanded view of gen-
der within the social studies curriculum. In a study that focused on how
preservice social studies teachers conceptualize and talk about gender in
class, Engebretson (2012) noted that students rarely mentioned transgender
people. Further, issues centered on trans-people did not appear in any of the
literature she reviewed. Engebretson also noted that transgender, a category
of gender, was often included in the sexuality literature, but was conspicu-
ously absent from the gender literature within social studies, where it has
a legitimate presence. An examination of Two Spirit people within vari-
ous indigenous groups provides teachers new opportunities to uncover and
simultaneously complicate the gender element, which may lead students and
teachers toward a more nuanced understanding of social education. This
examination of gender-variant individuals—those who disrupt the com-
monly accepted gender dichotomy of male-female—may also represent an
example of difficult histories for those who identify as transgender or gender
nonconforming.
Two Spirit Defined and Placed in Historical Context

Prior to 1990, the phenomenon now known as “Two Spirit” was refer-
enced in research literature as berdache (ber-dash), a term that first-contact
Europeans imposed upon specific indigenous persons in the U.S., and
especially males, who appeared to them as outwardly feminine or in some
cases androgynous. This term is no longer acceptable when describing the
indigenous people who displayed expressions of gender unfamiliar to early
Europeans. “Berdache” is used here simply because it exists as part of the
written, historical record. Texts also reference female-bodied individuals
who performed more “masculine” roles, but male-bodied berdache were
cited more frequently (Jacobs, Thomas & Lang, 1997). Williams (1986)
wrote that the word “berdache” originated from the Persian term bardaj,
which refers to a young man who is “shamefully abused” or “one who
permitted sodomy to be committed on him” (p. 9). This term imposed
European cultural norms (including a static, dichotomous understanding
of gender) and limitations on a number of cultures that had a more fluid
understanding of gender and the world around them. Lang (1997) wrote,
“the acceptance of gender-variant individuals in Native American1 cultures
can be seen as part of a worldview that realizes and appreciates transforma-
tion, change and ambiguity in the world at large as well as in individuals”
(p. 114). First-contact Europeans and those who followed them, however,
chose to focus on what they considered to be perverse sexual practices and
expressions of gender that they could not understand or accept. Therefore,
countless gender-variant individuals were slaughtered, and their ceremonial
roles summarily condemned.
The term Two Spirit refers to indigenous people’s recognition and under-
standing that some individuals are born with the presence of both a feminine
and a masculine spirit within their individual bodies (Mayo & Sheppard,
2012, p. 268). Anguksuar (1997) reports that the term originated from
the Northern Algonquin dialect and gained widespread acceptance among
many indigenous groups at the Third Annual Spiritual Gathering of Gay
and Lesbian Native People that took place near Winnipeg, Canada, in 1990.
Long before this “official” designation, many indigenous groups had tra-
ditional language to describe individuals who performed a variety of roles
not usually associated with their biological sex. The Navajo (more correctly
referred to as the Diné) called these individuals nadleehi (nawd-lay); the
Dakota referred to them as winkte (win-tay); among the Crow, they were
known as bade (baw-day); and the Zuni called them lhamana (la-ma-na).
The original Northern Algonquin term, niizh manitoag, refers to the under-
standing that “all humans bear imprints of both [the feminine and the
masculine], although some individuals may manifest both qualities more
completely than others” (Anguksuar, 1997, p. 221). This term does not indi-
cate or determine an individual’s sexual activity, but it does determine the
characteristics that define a person’s social role and spiritual gifts.
Clearly, traditional indigenous teaching included a more fluid and
expanded conception of gender. Consequently, various indigenous soci-
eties created roles for all members of their communities to fill, regardless
of an individual’s gender expression. Indeed, research reveals that those
individuals, who in modern times would be called Two Spirit, performed
213
214 J. B. Mayo, Jr.
highly respected and important spiritual, medical and economic roles within
various indigenous groups (Brown, 1997; Gilley, 2006; Jacobs, Thomas &
Lang, 1997; Roscoe, 1998; Williams, 1986). They were ceremonial lead-
ers and the interpreters of dreams; they performed the duties of shaman/
priests who acted as therapists and medical doctors; they were compassion-
ate caretakers and “effective teachers of the young” (Brown, 1997; Mayo &
Sheppard, 2012); and they served a vital economic role within various
groups, serving as weavers and cooks without the responsibility of infant
care (Gilley, 2006; Jacobs, Thomas & Lang, 1997; Roscoe, 1998; Williams,
1986). Mayo (2012) reports that “Two Spirit individuals played vital, posi-
tive roles within [indigenous] societies without the negative stigma that is
now attached to people who violate expected gender norms” (p. 258). In
addition, scholars have examined the experiences of contemporary indig-
enous people living in the U.S. who explain their connections to more
traditional understandings of Two Spirit roles (Red Earth, 1997; Walters,
Evans-Campell, Simoni, Ronquillo & Bhuyan, 2006) and the ways in which
modern-day Two Spirit individuals strive to correct Western misconceptions
of indigenous knowledge (Anguksuar, 1997).
Two Spirit or Transgender?

Though I am making some explicit connections between the terms “trans-
gender” and “Two Spirit,” there is a clear distinction between these con-
cepts that must be acknowledged in this discussion. The former describes
a scenario where the individual’s true gender identity does not match the
body in which that identity resides. In an effort to explain feelings that are
quite complex and nuanced, some trans-people have described feeling as if
they were born in the “wrong body.” Two Spirit people, however, do not
believe there is anything “wrong” with their state of being. On the con-
trary, they fully embrace having both the masculine and the feminine in one
individual body—in essence, the person possesses multiple genders simul-
taneously. Despite this distinction, I bring these two ways of being into
conversation together because in both scenarios, the individual transgresses
gender norms, disrupting the notion of gender dichotomy, while simultane-
ously affirming people whose gendered identity goes beyond the restrictive
boundaries of “boy” and “girl.” It is this transgression of expected gen-
der expression, however, that has caused others to persecute, and in many
cases, viciously attack trans-people across the U.S. and in many places
around the globe.
Trans-People Under Attack

Despite the recent positive conversations and worldwide media coverage
that center on the emergence of Kaitlyn Jenner, the authentic identity of
former Olympic champion Bruce Jenner, violence against transgender
individuals has recently increased in schools and in communities world-
wide. Greytak, Kosciw and Diaz (2009) find that “transgender youth are
harassed and assaulted at higher levels than their non-transgender peers”
(p. ix). According to Allison Woolbert, founder of the Transgender Violence
Tracking Portal (TVTP), there remains a “disproportionate rate of violence
against transgender people. The suicides, the violence, the missing persons
and the murders are all directly related to a person’s gender identity” (Hell-
man, 2014). Further, the TVTP revealed that 102 transgender people were
murdered in 12 countries from January to April 2014 (Hellman, 2014).
Since March 2014, 1,935 incidents of murder spanning dates from 1970 to
2014 were reported through the TVTP as well as 97 violent incidents, 18
suicides, six missing persons and four suspicious deaths. In addition, the
TVTP has 2,164 backlogged articles and news reports of murders and vio-
lent acts against trans-people, and a team of 47 researchers and five admin-
istrators is currently working to accumulate data and input information
into the system (Walkley, 2014). One recent article (Hellman, 2014) reveals
the attack of a 15-year-old transgender teenager who was verbally accosted
and then stabbed in the back while riding the Green Line Metro in Wash-
ington, D.C. According to friends of the victim who witnessed the attack,
the 24-year-old assailant approached the group of teens inside the train,
insulting the victim’s appearance, asking why she was wearing a wig and
commenting on what she was wearing. Though the young victim repeatedly
asked the (male) assailant to leave her alone, NBC News 4 in Washington
D.C. reports that he persisted with the verbal assault, yelling, “Are you a
boy? Are you a boy? Why you be looking like a girl?” Moments later, the
assailant pulled out a knife and stabbed the young trans-teen in the back.
Given the verbal assault that occurred just prior to the physical attack, the
perpetrator clearly acknowledged his dislike and outright disgust with the
teen’s appearance and revealed his perception that the teen had violated
gender norms. Though the teen survived the attack, the malicious intent
behind the violent acts is unmistakably clear: The perpetrator wanted to end
this young person’s life. Significantly, this incident and countless others are
reminiscent of the attitudes and (violent) actions taken by European explor-
ers who first encountered Two Spirit indigenous people centuries ago.
Like the near-destruction of Two Spirit individuals mirrors the modern-
day persecution of trans-people, a more recent murder of a young, college-
aged gay man serves as a reminder that violence is also a common experience
for members of the lesbian, gay and bisexual (LGB) communities. When
discussed in classrooms, these incidents may be considered difficult histories
for students, teachers and school personnel who identify as LGB or queer.
The Murder of Matthew Shepard

On October 12, 1998, 21-year-old Matthew Shepard died in a Fort Col-
lins (Colorado) hospital, igniting a national debate for federal hate crimes
215
216 J. B. Mayo, Jr.
legislation. An openly gay college student in Laramie, Wyoming, Shepard
had previously met up with his attackers, Russell A. Henderson and Aaron
J. McKinney, at a local bar in Laramie. At the time, little was known about
why the meeting took place, but it was widely reported that robbery was a
motive and that Henderson and McKinney “lured” Shepard to their vehicle
by claiming that they, too, were gay (Brooke, 1998). Later that night, these
two men attacked Shepard, pistol-whipping him and leaving him in a field
to die tied to a fence in the cold October air. One official reported, “Mr.
Shepard suffered a dozen cuts to his head, face and neck, as well as a mas-
sive, and ultimately fatal, blow to the back of his skull” (Brooke, 1998).
Had it not been for the keen eyes of a mountain biker who happened upon
Shepard 18 hours later, he may indeed have died on that fence, but upon the
gruesome discovery, the biker contacted authorities, who arrived in time to
transport Shepard to the nearest critical care hospital in Fort Collins, Colo-
rado. According to Rebecca Isaacs, political director of the National Gay
and Lesbian Task Force, “There is incredible symbolism about being tied to
a fence. People have likened it to a scarecrow. But it sounded more like a
crucifixion” (Brooke, 1998).
Violence Toward Lesbian, Gay and Bi-Sexual People

Horrific in its own right, the murder of Matthew Shepard is but one of
countless examples of violence committed against people who identify as
lesbian, gay, bisexual, or queer. Statistics from the Federal Bureau of Investi-
gation (FBI) “consistently shows that lesbian, gay and bisexual people, and
those perceived to be LGB, are attacked more than heterosexuals relative
to their estimated population size in the United States” (Marzullo & Lib-
man, 2009, p. 2; original emphasis). In 2007, for example, more than 1,250
LGB-biased hate crimes were reported to the FBI (a 6% increase from the
previous year) and a record 14 homicides of LGB people were reported to
various LGBT advocacy groups, including the Anti-Violence Project and
the National Coalition of Anti-Violence Programs, between January and
March 2015 (Ahmed & Jindasurat, 2014; Shapiro, 2015). Further, sexual
orientation consistently ranks as the third-highest motivator for hate crime
incidents, coming in at 17% of total attacks. Only attacks motivated by race-
based bias (51%) and religion-based bias (18%) rank higher (Mar- zullo &
Libman, 2009). But there is a widespread belief that attacks against LGB
people are severely underreported for several reasons, including victims
often do not want to be identified as LGB in official police reports, fearing
the possible social repercussions of being “outed” in their communities. In
addition, “sexual orientation-based hate crimes may not be perceived as
bias-motivated by responding officers because of their inexperience, lack of
education, or their own biases” (Marzullo & Libman, 2009, p. 2).
The well-documented violence against those individuals who identify as
LGB occurs in K–12 schools as well. The 2013 National School Climate
Survey found that 55.5% of LGBT students felt unsafe at school because
of their sexual orientation, and 37.8% because of their gender expression;
64.5% heard homophobic remarks like “dyke” or “faggot” frequently or
often; 51.4% of students reported hearing homophobic remarks from their
teachers or other school staff; and 52.7%, more than half, of the 7,898
young people who participated in this survey were either physically harassed
(pushed or shoved) or physically assaulted (punched, kicked or injured with
a weapon) in the past year because of their sexual orientation (Kosciw,
Greytak, Palmer & Boesen, 2014). These are the students, in particular, for
whom a critical analysis of LGBTinclusive curriculum may exemplify dif-
ficult knowledge, given the personal trauma(s) they have endured at school.
Personal Impact and Controversy Surrounding Shepard’s Death

When I first learned about Matthew Shepard’s death, I was in my third year
of teaching middle school social studies in a suburban school district near
a mid-sized town in central Virginia. News of his murder changed the way
I taught and the way I carried myself at school. At the time, I was 28 years
old and struggling with my identity as a closeted gay teacher. Unlike Mat-
thew, who lived his life openly and spoke out for gay rights on the campus
of the University of Wyoming, I lived an existence shrouded in fear of being
fired if the truth about my sexual orientation was ever revealed. Despite
this fear, however, I began to speak out loudly against some of the language
I too-often heard in the hallways at school. Students often called each other
“gay” with a derogatory tone or they used more inflammatory language like
“faggot” or “dyke” in an effort to intimidate, bully and control the actions
of their peers. Upon learning about Matthew’s death, I no longer sat quietly
when I heard students using this language. Instead, I called them out and
explained why such language was harmful. I remember having discussions
with fellow faculty members, asking them to support me in “cleaning up
the language” at school, and I began to investigate ways that I might incor-
porate some lesbian and gay history into my social studies lessons. Though
I never came out to students, it was not long after Matthew’s death that
I came out to chosen colleagues. Whereas I did not imagine (at the time)
being an openly gay professor who focuses on LGBT inclusion, events were
set in motion that eventually led to where I am today. Matthew’s death
changed me.
Clearly, I was personally impacted by the events surrounding Matthew
Shepard’s death—as I understood them—in October 1998. As a gay man
watching from afar, Matthew’s death symbolized that my life was expend-
able, and that there were individuals in this world who would feel justified
in doing me harm. But there is another side to Shepard’s story, one that
would not be told until September 2013 when Stephen Jimenez released
The Book of Matt: Hidden Truths About the Murder of Matthew Shepard.
In this book, Jimenez makes a controversial claim: The death of Matthew
217
218 J. B. Mayo, Jr.
Shepard was not a hate crime, but instead, it was the result of a drug deal
gone horribly wrong. Peyser (2013) writes, “Shepard’s tragic and untimely
demise may not have been fueled by his sexual orientation, but by drugs.
For Shepard had likely agreed to trade methamphetamines for sex. And
it killed him.” This new perspective about Shepard’s death does not alter
the tragedy of a young life taken too soon, but it does make a difficult
moment in history all the more challenging for gay and lesbian people like
me. Given the manner in which Matthew Shepard died, his death became a
rallying cry for the passage of federal hate crime legislation. At the time of
Shepard’s death, 19 states had no such laws on their books. The very state
where Shepard was so brutally attacked, Wyoming, resisted moving in that
direction. Learning that Matthew’s death may have been caused by motives
other than homophobia is unsettling, and being confronted with the idea
that Shepard may have been involved in illegal drug use in exchange for sex
tarnishes an idealized image that has surrounded him for all these years.
Though we may never know—with 100% assurance—the exact nature of
the events leading to Shepard’s murder, this possibility reminds me of the
disappointment I felt when I first learned about the extramarital affairs of
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
The narrative created around Shepard’s death also represents a caution-
ary tale for teachers who wish to infuse LGBT topics in their social stud-
ies curriculum. Sometimes instructors will present lesbian and gay people
as trailblazers and deem their actions purely heroic and worthy of praise.
Whether the lessons center on Bayard Rustin, Harvey Milk, the struggle for
dignity during Stonewall, or the coming out stories of lesbian and gay poli-
ticians, athletes and actors, the stories often take a positive spin indicating
a step toward LGBT equality and/or social justice. When teachers present
a more holistic view of the lives of lesbian and gay people, moving beyond
the heroic stance, however, the opportunities for students to confront chal-
lenging, complex issues multiplies. For students and teachers who identify
as lesbian, gay, bisexual, or queer, what may have initially been uplifting can
take a sharp turn toward being more difficult.
Concluding Thoughts
The murders of countless Two Spirit indigenous people and the brutal
attack leading to the death of Matthew Shepard represent difficult histo-
ries for LGBT people. Shepard’s broken body tied to a fence may also con-
jure images of African American bodies in the aftermath of a lynching in
the southern U.S. On multiple levels, it represents difficult knowledge for
students and teachers who identify as gay or lesbian, especially those who
also identify as black. Likewise, the near destruction of Two Spirit indig-
enous people may evoke similar feelings for transgender people, especially
in the wake of the ongoing violence, both symbolic and physical, committed
against individuals who violate society’s restrictive gender norms. Though it
is difficult to confront such harsh realities from our distant and recent past,
these incidents and others like them must be unpacked, discussed in class-
rooms and openly confronted if we ever hope to overcome hateful, societal
bias and ignorance that may lead to more pain and suffering today. My
hope is that Leelah Alcorn did not die in vain, and though the circumstances
surrounding Matthew Shepard’s death are controversial, I believe the words
spoken by the Lambda Defense and Education Fund’s legal director, Bea-
trice Dohnr, ring just as true today as they did in October 1998. She said:
This University of Wyoming student was beaten and left to die—tied to

a fence like an animal because he was honest and open about being gay.
Matthew Shepard’s horrible suffering and death cannot be dismissed
simply as the fault of deranged, isolated individuals. His attackers are
among millions of Americans who constantly hear the message that gay
people are not worthy of the most basic equal treatment.
(Brooke, 1998)
As long as that message is part of the larger narrative supporting bigotry

and hate, there will be groups and individuals who wish to change, elimi-
nate and eradicate behaviors (and people) who they deem expendable. Les-
sons from history support this troubling notion.
Note
1. The author fully recognizes the problematic nature of terms like Native American
and Indian and will only use them in cases where direct quotes or historical usage
make it impossible to avoid.
219
220 J. B. Mayo, Jr.
14 Learning the “Burdening History”

Challenges for History Education
in Brazil
Maria Auxiliadora Schmidt
Introduction
In 2011, the German historian Bodo von Borries wrote that “coping with
burdening history” (p. 166) suggests some initial definitions for what he
called “burdening history” or a tense, heavy or difficult history. For him,
learning this kind of historical knowledge has to take into consideration
some fundamental pedagogical assumptions, including that new histori-
cal insights need to be related to existing insights, emotions and historical
knowledge need to be connected, and historical inquiry needs to be relevant
to life. In this sense, according to von Borries, learning experiences related
to victimization, guilt or shame (or all of these) are much more difficult than
learning about affirmative experiences related to victories, glory and satis-
faction. For him, the Holocaust and other mass crimes of National Social-
ism are apt examples of this difficult history.
Another assumption is that historical learning includes processes of cog-
nitive conflict and change, and engaging with burdening or difficult history
is part of the intellectual activity of historical consciousness, which Rüsen
(1987) defined as “how the past is experienced and interpreted in order to
understand the present and anticipate the future” (p. 286). When engag-
ing with difficult history, there may be no positive associations to connect
past and present. In addition, historical accounts are often incomplete and
contradictory, such as when considering difficult history as synonymous
with conflicting stories and vendettas, as the history of the conquerors (the
cynicism of power), and/or as the history of the losers or “underground his-
tory.” This intellectual activity is highly complex because people need past
and present experiences to relate to each other, which involves, besides the
unquestionably necessary analysis and interpretation of historical events,
a process of employing distance from their own and others’ pasts, without
forgetting their own history. A primary objective of historical conscious-
ness, according to Rüsen, is seeking conditions and chances for a common
future, despite conflicting histories.
The contemporary relevance of the debate about difficult history can
be affirmed by the conference for which this chapter was written. The
221
Challenges for History Education in Brazil 223
organizers of the event, Terrie Epstein and Carla Peck, opted for the con-
cept of “difficult histories,” which at the time of the conference they defined
as follows:
We mean historical narratives and other forms (standards, curricu-

lum frameworks, memories from historical learning) that incorpo-
rate painful, traumatic and/or violent events in accounts of regional,
national and global pasts. Teaching and learning difficult histories
are among the most sensitive issues in the teaching of the humani-
ties, still necessary for reconciliation and judicious civic participa-
tion. Research on the teaching and learning of difficult histories can
not only promote broader and deeper historical understandings. It
also can also enhance young people’s civic identities as they learn to
understand, reflect and act on the complexities of today’s increasingly
interdependent world.
(Epstein & Peck, 2015)
While the concern for civic education is not present in the assumptions
and foundations of von Borries’ view of “burdening history,” Epstein and
Peck highlight the connection between and importance of history and civic
education, as well as the relationships between these discussions and the
formation of identities.
“Difficult History” and History Education in Brazil

The historians Lilia M. Scharcz and Heloisa M. Starling utilized the concept
of “difficult history” in their 2015 book Brazil, A Biography. The authors
selected events and phenomena that they considered as constituting “dif-
ficult Brazilian history.” These include:
1. Genocide of indigenous peoples: This includes history of the systematic

extermination process of Brazilian indigenous peoples, which began
with the colonization of the country by the Portuguese with the par-
ticipation of the Catholic Church, and which has contemporary sig-
nificance involving disputes over indigenous land currently used by
companies that extract ores, wood and Amazon products.
2. The slavery system: The adoption of slavery by the Portuguese as a
structure of Brazilian society, for 300 years, has left deep marks on Bra-
zilian society, with racial prejudice being one of the most concrete and
current.
3. The Paraguayan War: Considered one of the greatest military conflicts
that occurred in South America, it was fought between Paraguay and
the Triple Alliance, made up of Brazil, Argentina and Uruguay. The war
lasted from December 1864 to March 1870 and caused the decimation
of much of Paraguay’s population.
223
224 Maria Auxiliadora Schmidt
4. Canudos: This refers to the confrontation (1896–1897) in Canudos in
the state of Bahia between the Brazilian Army and members of a popular
movement composed of rural people with a socio-religious background
and led by a monk named Antonio Conselheiro. The inhabitants of
Canudos, suffering from drought and famine, fought against the land-
owners but were massacred by soldiers from the Brazilian army. It was
one of the largest popular uprisings in Brazil. The war ended with the
total destruction of Canudos, with the beheading of many prisoners of
war and with the army burning down all the houses in the village.
5. Clandestine centers of human rights violations: Clandestine centers
were used by the military dictatorship that ruled Brazil from 1964 to
1985 and were sites used to interrogate, torture, kill, disfigure and hide
corpses of opponents of the government. Seven of these centers have
been demonstrated to have existed, but it is believed that there were at
least 10 more centers in different cities of Brazil.
These “difficult histories” are a selection based on criteria that Scharcz

and Starling (2015) defined. Using other criteria, it would be possible to
select episodes such as the land conflicts and attacks against homosexuals
that have spread throughout Brazil. Moreover, the history of racial discrimi-
nation would be a topic to be included in the difficult history of the country.
At the same time, it is important to remember the progress made after
the 2003 introduction of Law 10.639/03, which established not only the
mandatory teaching of indigenous and African-Brazilian cultures in public
schools, but also the introduction of African history into the curriculum and
history textbooks. However, even after more than a decade of the law, there
still is little discussion about how teachers engage with the teaching of these
aspects of “difficult history” of Brazil, as well as the issues surrounding
learning by students. In addition, empirical research studies on the teaching
of these subjects in Brazil are at an early stage.
In a study entitled, “The meanings conferred to acting and the challenges
for learning and formation of the historical consciousness of young Brazil-
ians,” Schmidt, (2013) analyzed youth narratives about the history of Brazil
and the world. In these narratives, the researcher found a prevalence of
certain “canons,” or traditional topics, as milestones and markers of his-
torical changes in relation to the history of the country. The prevalence
of traditional topics also signaled the absence and/or exclusion of content
that could have expanded, quantitatively and qualitatively, young people’s
understandings of their place in relation to the past, present and future.
Among these, for example, were the lack of curriculum concerning con-
troversial episodes in Brazil’s history, the history of ordinary people and
the history of young people. The absence of these topics hinders significant
historical learning, especially in relation to enabling youth to relate past
and present experiences, and hence the formation among youth of a more
complex historical consciousness.
Although the young people in the study highlighted in their narratives
topics related to wars, dictatorships and terrorism as drivers of change,
Schmidt raised concern that students did not refer to or make arguments
about the dehumanization process accompanying these historical episodes.
Moreover, students did not refer to the involvement of young people in the
history of the country or the world. For example, with respect to the history
of Brazil, the students cited periods related to historical actors associated
with political history as the main agents of change, such as the “Vargas
Era,” “JK Period” and “Collor Era.” Students also almost always explained
change through the integration of Brazil’s history into the framework of
European history, signaling the strong presence of a Eurocentric model (spe-
cifically French) of historical explanation for structuring a narrative about
Brazilian history.
The Research and Its Methodology

In the 2013 study, Schmidt used a qualitative research methodology to ask
162 ninth grade students (ages 13–15) to perform the following task: Imag-
ine you are in a group of young people from all over the world. One day,
everyone was challenged to tell the history of his or her own country. How
would you tell the group the history of your country in the last 100 years?
The research was conducted in six public schools in the city of Curitiba, in
the state capital of Paraná, in southern Brazil. The teachers of the respective
classes administered the task between November and December 2012.
One of the research assumptions underlying the study was similar to
the assumption described in a study conducted by Isabel Barca (2011) in
Portugal, showing that it is possible to detect major landmarks to which
students give importance (Republic, beginning of the dictatorship, demo-
cratic revolution, integration in the European Union, murder of a political
leader, participation in the fight against terrorism), the historical mark-
ers they select (especially political and economic dimensions, with some
social-oriented notes), as well as the sense of change that they confer to
history (p. 115).
Schmidt used the ideas of historical landmarks or “historical periods”
and markers or “factors” that students selected, as well as the meanings
they conferred to historical change and to historical agency, to analyze the
narratives. She also used them to verify whether the teaching of history has
contributed to meeting the challenges of historical learning proposed by
Rüsen (2013) and Seixas (2012): How do young people construct historical
experiences or “what did I notice?” How do they deal with the challenge
of understanding the other’s past, or “what does it mean?” How do they
consider the challenge of orientation of the temporal dimension their own
life, or “where is my place in time?” Finally, how do they address the chal-
lenge of choosing their own motivations for agency, or “what can I do now
and in the future?”
225
Results and Analysis
In relation to historic events, periods or phenomena that students included
in their narratives and were related to concepts of historical agency and
change, the narratives reflected two different patterns. Of the 162 narra-
tives, 110 of them attributed historical change to the actions of individu-
als (presidents, etc.) and 52 attributed change to political, technological
or other factors. The actual events or phenomena that students included
in the narratives were the following: 1) actions of dictatorial presidents,
governments and the dictatorship of Getulio Vargas (1937–1945), includ-
ing Juscelino Kubischeck’s government and the construction of Brasilia, the
election of President Lula, and the election of the first woman president
(Dilma Roussef); 2) technological innovations; 3) military dictatorship;
4) re-democratization after the military dictatorship; 5) soccer; and 6) violence.
Some inferences can be made from the markers included in the students’
narratives. It is important to highlight that, in Brazil, historical knowledge
has some peculiarities, particularly in the way it appears in Brazilian text-
books. There is still emphasis on political history, with certain periods of
the history of Brazil known in terms of the leaders who presided during the
time. For example, student narratives often referred to historical periods
such as the “Vargas period,” or the different stages of the administration of
President Getúlio Vargas; “Government JK,” or the period of the Juscelino
Kubitschek government; the “military dictatorship” or the dictatorial phase
of the military governments in Brazil; the “Collor government of corrup-
tion” and the “Age of Lula”:
Our country has undergone several transformations during the

100 years that included the Vargas government, Dutra, Vargas again,
JK, Fernando Collor, who stole a lot of money, Cardoso, who created
the coin of 1 Real, Lula who paid the debt to the US and was succeeded
by Brazil’s first female president, Dilma.
(Boy, 14 years)
In addition, students’ selection of some historical events or periods can

be attributed to the influence of the media. In recent years, the media has
highlighted the election of the first woman president of Brazil and increas-
ing technological innovation. The presence of the phenomena of “violence”
and “soccer” in the narratives also can also be related to the influence of
the media, but also is an effect of the permanence within Brazilian histori-
cal culture and its identification with soccer, as evidenced in the following
narrative:
My country is a country that many people want to visit, a country that

has many artists, landscapes, historical sites and the best country for
soccer. But Brazil went through several economic, agricultural, financial
and material crises, underwent several presidents, some good and some
bad. Brazil is a great country, except for the corruption, theft, crimes
etc. But it’s a good place to live.
(Boy, 15)
Referring to the meanings students attributed to change and agency, as

discussed by Rüsen and Seixas, some young people wrote about historical
change in terms of its meaning in the present. One 14-year old girl wrote
that “from dictatorship until today many changes have happened. It is much
better than before because in the past we could not vote for our own gover-
nor.” A 14- year old boy noted:
Brazil has many people passionate about soccer, so it is often called the
Land of Soccer. Not everyone in Brazil is rich; sometimes I think that in
Brazil there are many more poor people than rich people, but still we
do not cease to be a happy nation. In Brazil there are many beautiful
places, landscapes; it is a very beautiful country, but also, like all other
countries, Brazil has its downside, namely marginality. In many places
Brazil is a dangerous place because there are many marginal persons. It
can be said that Brazil is the country of all races.
And another boy (15 years old) commented,
From what I know Brazil has developed a lot, went through many dif-
ficulties such as basic sanitation or when a car passed in the street and
filled the house with dust; we lose great people like Chico Xavier and
for the first time I saw a woman in the presidency of Brazil.
While several students made connections between the nation’s past and
present, almost none connected their historical narratives to their own lives
as young people who have agency or motivation to change the present or the
future. Analyses of these narratives about the history of Brazil found that
110 of the 162 youths attributed the changes that have occurred in Brazilian
society to the actions of elite individuals, rather than ordinary people, and
the other 52 students attributed change to non-human factors. Yet, accord-
ing to Seixas (2012), understanding change as a result of the participation
of ordinary people is essential for historical learning:
The need to understand the potential and limits of agency is what brings
historical action into the province of historical consciousness. Histori-
cal consciousness can even be reset by the realization that things change
over time in fundamental ways—that worlds are made and broken—
that ordinary people play a role in historical change and that orienting
oneself in relation to historical change is a central task for all people.
(p. 14)
227
Overall, the young people in the study, in their selection of histori-
cal actors, events or phenomena related to dictatorship, conflict and vio-
lence, clearly understood that history is not only about positive events or
change. But it is problematic that their presentation of these phenomena is
not accompanied by explanations or arguments about the dehumanization
that results from these phenomena. They also showed no recognition of the
involvement of ordinary people or youth in the history of the country, either
as historical actors or victims, particularly in relation to what might be con-
sidered episodes of the “difficult history” of the country.
Final Considerations
As noted in the analysis of student narratives, the prevalence of narrative
structures that attribute historical change to elite individuals but not to ordi-
nary people, and the absence of discussions of dehumanization related to
conflicts and controversial events of Brazilian history may cause, as stated
by Seixas (2012), a “historic paralysis” in the development of historical
thinking of our children and adolescents:
There is a danger of historic paralysis of withdrawal before any pos-

sibility of an active agency, of making any significant change. In fact,
this may be another aspect of the lack of position of many students,
who take the world that they are given as the only one possible. Faced
with these students, what kinds of lessons, what kinds of demonstra-
tions will bring them face to face with the possibility of compromised
agency and the possibility of profound historical change? The answer
to this question points us toward the central pedagogical question:
how do we teach the concept of historical action? Making historical
agency one of the central concerns of history education can help us do
the best we can to chart a course between these two dangers, particu-
larly if we are aware that there is a dangerous conversion on each side
of the road.
(p. 17)
This research starts from the assumption that the analyses and reflections
presented in this work are initial and provisional, given the early stage of
discussions about difficult history in Brazil. First, the concept of difficult
history itself is multifaceted, now being considered by some in terms of a
nuanced sense of a traumatic history and often referring to historical events
considered to be controversial. In Brazil, this is an open, largely unexplored
field with regard to the historiography of the nation, as well as how history
is taught in the schools.
Second, despite significant advances in dealing with controversial issues
in the history of Brazil, there are several gaps related to the problems of
the history of indigenous peoples and African Brazilians, especially as they
are not well represented in school curriculum and textbooks. At this stage,
research related to the historical understanding of students and teachers
remains sparse. Little or nothing has been produced in the field of history
education in relation to controversy that has marked Brazilian history.
Third, considering the concept of difficult history, one cannot fail to
take into account the principles of the new humanism suggested by Rüsen
(2015), particularly in reference to their implications for teaching history,
such as the problem of learning world history and the unity of historical
time in the diversity of historical experiences. Overall, Rüsen suggests that
there is a path toward a history education that contributes to the formation
of the historical consciousness of our youth and younger children, starting
from the understanding of the present in light of past controversies.
In Brazil, there is still much work to do in teaching and learning about
the difficult history of the nation and in researching what and how teach-
ers teach and students learn about difficult history. As Rüsen and Seixas
make clear, historical learning is not just for the sake of learning; it is also
important for living in the present and crafting a future that young people
have a stake in and believe they can make an impact on, whether as ordi-
nary citizens or as potential leaders. The future of the country depends upon
young people’s understanding of the connection of the past to the present
and beyond.
229
15 Intersections of Students’ Ethnic

Identifications and Understandings
of History1
Carla L. Peck
On February 17, 2009, the Department of Canadian Heritage’s National
Battlefields Commission (NBC) cancelled a planned reenactment of the
Battle of the Plains of Abraham, perhaps the most well-known battle of the
Seven Years’ War. The reenactment was to take place in September 2009,
the 250th anniversary of the event. However, when the NBC began to pub-
licize the event in January 2009, historians, politicians and people living in
Quebec raised concerns. Historians argued that such reenactments do not
really promote deep historical thinking, politicians worried how their Fran-
cophone constituents would react to such an event and many Francophone
Quebecois (sovereignists and federalists alike2) considered such a reenact-
ment akin to rubbing salt in a 250-year-old wound.
Many Canadians living outside of Quebec could not understand why the
reenactment had been cancelled. Many living in Quebec could not fathom
that such a reenactment had even been considered. Globe and Mail colum-
nist Lysiane Gagnon supported the cancellation, arguing that the Battle of
the Plains of Abraham “signaled the end of the expansion of the French
language and culture in North America” and that it continues to have “a
strong emotional echo in Quebec” (Gagnon, 2009, p. A11). Historian
Rudyard Griffiths balked at the move to cancel the event, arguing that the
NBC’s decision was “a worrying sign that Canadians’ deep-seated compul-
sion to whitewash the country’s past is very much alive and well” (Griffiths,
2009, p. A10). Konrad Sioui, Grand Chief of the Huron-Wendats, proposed
replacing the reenactment with a peace ceremony over which he offered to
preside (Dougherty, 2009).
Why, 250 years later, was there such controversy over the historical sig-
nificance of the Battle of the Plains of Abraham? For Francophone Quebe-
cois, the Battle of the Plains of Abraham marked the beginning of English
Canada’s dominance over Quebec (Létourneau, 2004). For Anglophone
Canadians, the battle represented a victory that “filled Britain with joy”
(Duncan, 1922). Such controversies over historical significance permeate
narratives of Canadian history. Is Louis Riel a traitor or a hero? Was the
Red River Rebellion an act of rebellion or an act of resistance, as the Mani-
toba social studies curriculum states (Manitoba Education Citizenship &
232 Carla L. Peck
Youth, 2006)? Charles Taylor (1993) was right when he observed, “in Can-
ada, even history divides” (p. 25).
The construction of historical narratives involves, among other things, the
purposeful selection of historical people, places and events and the expla-
nation of the relationships among them. At a very basic level, historical
narratives answer the questions of who, what, when, where, why and how.
In consideration of these questions, historians mobilize evidence, establish
causation and make decisions about significance. “What is the narrative
about?” is the essential starting point. Establish this, and historians can
more easily answer questions about time frame (beginnings and endings),
actors and their actions, and context.
Another approach to constructing historical narratives is to focus on a
particular event and then build a narrative around it. Instead of starting
with the question, “What is this narrative about?” some may begin by ask-
ing, “What matters in history?” “What am I interested in?” or “Why is it
important to know about this?” An example of this in Canadian history is
the World War I battle at Vimy Ridge. For decades, historians and Canadian
history textbook authors have pointed to this battle as the precise moment
when a modern Canadian identity was formed, an identity based on col-
laborative achievement and sacrifice. Vimy became the anchor on which
historians and textbook authors hung narratives of the forging of Canada’s
national identity.
In either approach, the historian’s central concern is historical signifi-
cance. According to Peter Seixas (1997), decisions about historical signifi-
cance involve understanding the connections people in the present establish
with people, places and events of the past. Questions about historical sig-
nificance are not asked and answered in a vacuum, devoid of context. They
are answered by every generation in response to the question, “How is this
moment in history relevant (or not) to me/us/our time?”
The significance of any particular event is derived from how it fits into
a larger narrative, and, ultimately, how the historian (or student, or mem-
ber of the public) relates to that narrative (i.e., what the narrative means
to him or her). Although many factors shape how an individual (whether
an historian, or student, or anyone else) ascribes significance to historical
events—including knowledge of the subject matter, interest, past experi-
ences, familial influences and type of narrative in which the person situates
the event—recent work has demonstrated that an important and thus far
under-researched influence on students’ historical understandings is identity.
Identity, Historical Understanding and Citizenship

At first blush, the debate over the planned reenactment of the Battle of the
Plains of Abraham appears to be solely a matter of differing perspectives
on the significance of an historical event; a matter best left to historians to
Students’ Ethnic Identifications and History 233
sort out. However, embroiled within this debate are issues directly related to
identity, citizenship and belonging. If, as Benedict Anderson (2006) argues,
a nation is an imagined community, there is little doubt that Francophone
and Anglophone (and Aboriginal, and immigrant) Canadians imagine the
past and present Canadian nation differently (Saul, 2008) and therefore
have very different ideas about their place in the nation’s stories.
As is clear from the Plains of Abraham example, and many other events
too numerous to list here, interpretations of the past have provided, and will
continue to provide, much fodder for debates over Canadian identity and
belonging. As Yvonne Hébert and Lori Wilkinson (2002) note, “Canadian
citizenship exists today within multilayered belongings and complex under-
standings” (p. 3). In English Canada, the Battle of the Plains of Abraham
is known as “The Siege of Quebec” and is part of a narrative of nation
building. In Quebec, its significance is seen quite differently. In Quebec,
“survival” (of Francophone culture and identity) narratives dominate both
public and private discourses (Létourneau, 2004) and shape how Franco-
phone Quebecois understand themselves and their history. Part of the rea-
son for this difference is the tie one establishes between an event and his or
her identity.
Researchers interested in students’ historical understandings have
expressed interest in the ways in which one’s identity can shape a person’s
interpretations of history. Levstik (1999) argues that research on students’
historical thinking should always include questions of identity:
Making sense out of history—perhaps especially national history—can

never be a simple task. This is especially the case in post-colonial, mul-
ticultural societies. In these contexts in particular, any investigation of
children’s historical thinking is also an investigation of positionality—of
children’s different local and present as well as national or international
historical contexts. The influence of these contexts makes it difficult to
decide what constitutes a nation’s history.
(p. 4)
A growing body of research on students’ historical understandings indicates

that the positionality of the learner is a vital component for understanding
how one engages in historical thought. Many scholars have begun to rec-
ognize the impact of socioeconomic, cultural, political and gendered factors
on students’ understanding of various aspects of history and have incorpo-
rated these elements into their research design and data analysis procedures
(Almarza, 2001; Barton & McCully, 2004; Epstein, 2009; Seixas, 1993;
Terzian & Yeager, 2007). This research tells us that students, most notably
those from ethnically diverse backgrounds, find it difficult to make con-
nections between their family and/or ethnic histories and those which are
taught in school. This is particularly true when neither the school nor the
233
234 Carla L. Peck
teacher make explicit attempts to establish such links. For example, after
working with an ethnically diverse group of students, Seixas (1994) found
that although “many students expressed rudimentary historical understand-
ings that could provide a framework for further learning,” these same stu-
dents “also expressed frustration at the school’s failure to build upon that
framework” (Historical Significance section, para. 4). This is problematic
for both majority and minority students; the potential to significantly enrich
both groups’ understandings of history is lessened when these connections
are neither sought nor explored.
A flaw in previous research on ethnic identity and understandings of his-
torical significance is that students have not been asked to describe their
ethnic identity in any detail, nor have they been asked to consider how their
ethnic identity may have impacted their understanding of history generally
and historical significance in particular. Some researchers have analyzed stu-
dent data using a comparative format to examine differences in understand-
ings of historical significance between Māori and White students in New
Zealand (Levstik, 1999); English and Spanish students in Britain and Spain,
respectively (Cercadillo, 2001); Francophone and Anglophone Ontar-
ians (Lévesque, 2005b); and Protestant and Catholic students in Northern
Ireland (Barton & McCully, 2004). However, an in-depth exploration of
students’ ethnic identities (beyond a general description of what it might
mean to be Protestant or Catholic in Northern Ireland, or Francophone/
Anglophone in Ontario, for instance) is lacking in previous work. In Can-
ada, we have very little information on the relationship between students’
ethnic, cultural or national identities3 and their understanding of history.
History educators interested in students’ historical understandings must
more explicitly investigate how identity, and in particular, ethnic identity,
can impact these understandings.
In an attempt to do just that, I worked with 26 Grade 12 students in an
urban center in British Columbia in order to shed more light on these ques-
tions. Immigrant, Canadian-born and Aboriginal students were asked to
complete a questionnaire on their demographic information. VanSledright,
Kelly and Meuwissen (2006) contend that “studying ideas about historical
significance among learners remains only a partially successful endeavor
without collecting sufficient data on their biographies” (p. 227). As a
White researcher, I did not want to make assumptions about students’ eth-
nic identities (Carr & Lund, 2007; Dei, Karumanchery & Karumanchery-
Luik, 2004; Delpit, 1995; Tyson, 2006). Therefore, I also asked students
to write a paragraph describing their ethnic identity “in a way that made
sense to them.” Then, in small heterogeneous working groups, students
completed a “picture-selection” task modelled on well-established U.S. and
European research (Barton & Levstik, 1998; Epstein, 2000; Lee & Ashby,
2000; Lévesque, 2005a; Levstik, 1999). Students were asked to select, out
of a possible 30, the 10 most significant events in Canadian history. Sev-
eral group and individual interviews were held to probe students’ thinking
about the decisions they made during the research exercise. The focus of
the individual interview was on the students’ understandings of how their
ethnic identities may have influenced the decisions they made in the picture-
selection task.
Results
The students in this study employed criteria to ascribe historical significance
to moments in Canada’s past very similar to those in the research literature,
and in particular, those delineated in Cercadillo’s (2001) study with British
and Spanish youth. This finding on its own is significant because it points
to a common lexicon of historical significance criteria that has been used by
students across geographic locations and research tasks. Students employed
particular types of significance to create and explain particular narratives of
Canadian history. Students in the same group sometimes interpreted their
timeline in different ways due, in part, to their ethnic identifications. In
addition, some students drew on more than one narrative template to locate
themselves in the history of the nation.
Students’ Historical Narratives

Students created and used one (or more) of three narrative templates
(Wertsch, 1998) to explain Canada’s history, and they drew on particular
types of historical significance to explain the narratives they constructed (See
Table 15.1). During the individual interviews, students were asked which
events in Canadian history (from their group’s timeline or from Canadian
history writ large), if any, were important to them in terms of their ethnic
identities. As noted earlier, previous studies of the relationship between iden-
tity (ethnic or otherwise) and students’ conceptions of historical significance
have not directly asked students to reflect on the intersection between their
ethnic identity and their historical thinking. Metacognition, or the ability
to think about one’s own thinking, is recognized as a significant factor in
student learning. According to Donovan and Bransford (2005), metacogni-
tion involves “an awareness of the need to ask how new knowledge relates
to or challenges what one already knows” (p. 11). Even the students who
would or might deny a relationship between their ethnic identities and their
ascriptions of historical significance came to recognize there was one when
they probed their thinking more deeply or were provoked to do so.
In what follows, I explore comments from a cross-section of students
regarding the relationship between their ethnic identity and their construc-
tion of narratives of Canadian history. I do not claim that the data from
these students are representative of all students in the study. Rather, these
data shed light on the role of ethnic identity in students’ historical under-
standings and are helpful in excavating what this relationship looks like
across a range of individuals.
235
236 Carla L. Peck
Table 15.1 Narrative templates and historical significance criteria
Narrative Key characteristics Historical significance

template4 criteria employed in
narrative template
Founding of the • Recounts the history of • Pattern Significance:

Nation the first inhabitants of Ascribed to events that
Canada and the events were “firsts,” ground-
that “built” the country. breaking or turning points.
• Stories of Aboriginal
peoples seem to disappear
after Confederation.
Diverse and • Recounts the history of • Symbolic Significance:
Harmonious Canadians overcoming Ascribed to events that
Canada prejudice and discrimina- were symbolic of the
tion to establish a unified, development and growth
multicultural country. of the nation, unity,
• Conflicts, if included, are Canadian identity, iconic
seen as aberrations in an individuals or offered a
otherwise positive and lesson.
progress-oriented history • Significance for the
of Canada. Present-future: Ascribed
to events that students see
as relevant in the present
day; students may establish
connections between
historical and current
events.
Diverse but • Recounts the history • Symbolic Significance
Conflicted of multiculturalism in • Significance for the
Canada Canada with an explicit Present-future
focus on conflicts and
tensions that have arisen
as a result of Canada’s
changing demography.
• Provides a template for
critiques of racism and
discrimination.
Dao-Ming
In her interpretation of her groups’ timeline (see Table 15.2), Dao-Ming
employed the “Diverse and Harmonious Canada” narrative. Dao-Ming, a
Chinese immigrant with Canadian citizenship, described her ethnic identity
as follows: “I think I belong to both groups, Canadian and Chinese.” She
points to markers such as food and traditions to explain herself, and also
points to the “national pride” she feels for both Canada and China. Finally,
she writes, “I don’t think I can really identify myself as one ethnic group
because I love both groups equally.”
Table 15.2 Timeline created by Adélie, Minha and Dao-Ming
Mid 1800s Creation of Indian Residential Schools
1880s–1890s Recruitment of Chinese workers to build CPR

1885 Imposition of Chinese Head Tax
1885 Louis Riel and the North-West Rebellion
1913 Record immigration numbers
1970 October Crisis and the War Measures Act
1971, 1988 Canada enacts Multiculturalism Policy and Act
1990 Collapse of the Meech Lake Accord
1995 Quebec Referendum
1999 Marshall Decision
Dao-Ming was clear about the influence her understanding of her ethnic
identity had on the decisions she made during the timeline activity.
Dao-Ming: I think I said last [time] that that I fought really hard to keep
the two Chinese ones—the Chinese workers on—working on
the Canadian Pacific Railway and the Chinese head tax cause
that’s like—that has to do with Chinese people and that also
has to do with Canada—so yeah I really wanted to put those
in there . . .
Carla: Okay—and did your—do you feel that your identity had a
role to play in the selection of the other ones?
Dao-Ming: Oh yeah—maybe if I weren’t Chinese I wouldn’t have . . .
I wouldn’t have put those two in the timeline . . . because we
were only allowed to choose 10 right? So if I weren’t Chi-
nese I probably wouldn’t have deemed these two important
enough . . . to put in the timeline . . . because I—I do love
China and I also love Canada—like I really wanted to put—to
include these two.
The excerpts demonstrate that Dao-Ming’s Chinese identity influenced her

decision to advocate the inclusion of events related to Chinese-Canadian his-
tory on her group’s timeline. She argued that the CPR and the Chinese Head
Tax were representative of Chinese history in Canada and noted the strong
influence her identity had on the selection of these events. Dao-Ming also
drew on her Canadian identity to explain the significance of the Quebec Ref-
erendum. She said, “I love Canada. I don’t want Canada with a chunk
missing cause that would just totally separate what we are. I don’t want
Canada to break into pieces. I want Canada to be whole and good and
happy.” Dao-Ming’s explanation is tied to a mythic idea of Canadian identity
as “happy” and united, which, interestingly, could also characterize her own
description of her ethnic identity. Dao-Ming’s explanations provide examples
237
238 Carla L. Peck
of how a student’s ethnic identity can dictate which type of narrative he or
she may use to explain the significance of moments in Canada’s past.
Mae
As can be seen below, Canadian-born Mae placed a great deal of emphasis
on her Canadian identity in her response to the ethnic identity question on
the questionnaire:
I dominantly identify myself as Canadian because not only was I born

here and lived here my whole life, but the Canadian culture influenced
me. At home, however, my Chinese roots still play a big part of me. As
the traditions (eating rice for dinner, talking in the native language, etc.)
are still to be done under the roof because my parents’ identity are still
for the most part how they were before they came to Canada.
However, when I asked Mae which event on her group’s timeline (see
Table 15.3) was most important to her in terms of her ethnic identity, her
selection of the building of the CPR and the explanation that followed
revealed that her Chinese identity influenced her thinking: “Just because
it mostly deals with the Chinese people and if it weren’t for them here
I wouldn’t be here.”
Mae’s use of a counterfactual statement to explain the significance of the
building of the CPR is an example of causal significance. Mae employed the
Development of the Nation narrative to establish the arrival of her ancestors
to Canada.
Munny
Canadian-born Munny selected confederation and multiculturalism as
events that were the most significant in terms of his ethnic identity. On the
questionnaire, Munny described his identity as follows: “I feel like I am
Table 15.3 Timeline created by Binh, Mae and Eliya
1778 Europeans arrive on west coast of Canada

1867 Confederation
1880s–1890s Recruitment of Chinese workers to build the CPR
1885 Louis Riel and the North-West Rebellion 1914–
1914 Britain (and Canada) enters World War I
1919 Winnipeg General Strike
1929 The Person’s Case
1929–1939 The Great Depression
1970 The October Crisis and the War Measures Act
1982 Canada Act passed
a Canadian and also a Cambodian. So basically a Cambodian-Canadian.
I was born in Canada but my roots are Cambodian. I’ve never been to Cam-
bodia before. I’ve been in Canada all my life.” Despite never having been to
Cambodia, Munny reported that his “roots” are Cambodian and therefore
chose to self-identify as Cambodian Canadian.
During the timeline activity (see Table 15.4) and follow-up interviews,
Munny employed causal historical significance to explain that Confedera-
tion is important to “his Canadian side . . . because if Canada hadn’t become
a country then I might not? have been born, right?” He also noted that the
Multiculturalism Act is important “to my Cambodian side” and drew on
his knowledge of the internment of Japanese Canadians during WWII, to
explain how he understood its significance: “What if, like, now to this day
we still, like treated them . . . like mistreated them? What if they [Canadian
government] moved on suddenly to the Cambodians?” Using significance
for the present-future, Munny created a link between his ethnic identity, the
internment of Japanese Canadians and the legislation of official multicultur-
alism in Canada.
Vincent
Vincent, the only immigrant student to employ the Development of the
Nation narrative, also used this narrative to understand both the develop-
ment of Canada and his own presence in the country. For example, he noted
that his group’s timeline “points out the main things that make Canada
who we are, you know—like Confederation, the Quebec Referendum—
everything” (see Table 15.5). This statement is less about Canadian identity
(even though he uses the phrase “who we are”) than it is about how the
country was formed and responded to questions of unity and is therefore an
example of causal historical significance.
Vincent identified strongly with a card from the picture-selection task that
depicted Canadian immigration statistics. He noted that “the immigration
thing” was historically significant, particularly in terms of his own identity
Table 15.4 Timeline created by Munny, Jessica and Aidan
1867 Confederation
1880s–1890s Recruitment of Chinese workers to build the CPR
1914–1918 Britain (and Canada) enters World War I 1916–
1918 The Women’s Suffrage Movement
1939–1945 Canada enters WWII
1942 Japanese internment
1971, 1988 Canada enacts Multiculturalism Policy and Multiculturalism Act
1995 Quebec Referendum
239
240 Carla L. Peck
Table 15.5 Timeline created by Vincent, Teresa, Mark and Sam
1867 Confederation
1881–1885 Building of the CPR
1913 Record immigration numbers
1929 The Person’s Case 1939–
1945 Canada enters World War II
1957 Pearson wins Nobel Peace Prize
1971, 1988 Canada enacts Multiculturalism Policy and Act
1995 The Quebec Referendum
as “culturally Canadian” yet “full Filipino” (student questionnaire), because

“that really came to me because, like, I immigrated here, right?” He later
added that immigration was historically significant because it was about
“where I came from.” This is an example of pattern significance in that it
marks a milestone in Vincent’s personal history. These two statements are
indicative of a bidirectional use of ethnic identity to understand historical
significance. That is, Vincent employed his ethnic identity to ascribe pattern
significance to the history of immigration in Canada. However, he also used
his interpretation of the significance of this event to locate himself in the
Development of the Nation narrative, which was how he interpreted his
group’s timeline.
Aakil
Aakil, a student born in Canada to a mother and father who had immi-
grated from India and Poland, respectively, resisted any kind of “categoriza-
tion” of his identity on the questionnaire:
Being of mixed ethnic background, I would contend that I choose to

withdraw from being categorized in any sort of ethnic, cultural or
national identity. I feel no strong sense of duty or loyalty to my parents’
ethnic groups, nor the state. I would characterize myself as a purely
individual person who retains no allegiances. I find national and ethnic
backgrounds to be a source of friction and confrontation in our world
and wish to adhere to the view that the human race shares a common
history and identity and that it should be thus far more concerned with
where it is going than where it is coming from. My identity then is
human, but none other. Legal definitions, i.e., that I am Canadian, mean
little to me, for although I recognize the state as necessary and useful, it
does not by default command my loyalty.
A rejection of nationalism and nationalist identifications runs through

his response (for Aakil this appears as “the state”). What is perhaps most
interesting about this answer is Aakil’s awareness of choice—that he is able
to take an active role in how he self-identifies in that he is able to select
factors that are important to him in his self-identification processes (Hall,
1991). Ethnic identities do not inhere solely based on to whom one is born
or where one lives, but involve an active (subconscious or not) process of
boundary formation (Barker, 1999) and the negotiation of power relations
(Bhabha, 2001).
Although Aakil chose not to categorize himself one way or the other in
terms of his ethnic identity, when pushed to think about how his identity
may have influenced his thinking during the picture-selection task, he articu-
lated some important connections between his identity and his ascriptions
of significance to discriminatory moments in Canada’s past:
Yeah, it—definitely—it did affect me . . . to the end that . . . I looked

at different groups from all over the world coming to Canada and
I thought . . . Yeah I felt that it was important for me to include that kind
of information on there, rather than just the status quo history because
that’s like you know—that’s how I was raised. My parents . . . were
very much conscious of where they came from and how other people
were dealing with, you know, moving into Canada society and saying,
you know, what we have is some semblance of a multicultural society.
So definitely that really influenced me. Yeah, like looking at different—
under-represented people—because sometimes I think, you know, [if]
someone’s under-represented they need to be brought to the front and
maybe even over-represented so people will remember that they’re there
and where they’ve come from and that their stories are valuable too.
Aakil’s use of the terms “status quo” and “semblance” point to his critical
construction of Canadian history and explain his desire to include events
such as the creation of Indian residential school and the imposition of the
Chinese Head Tax on his group’s timeline (see Table 15.6).
At one point during the picture-selection task Aakil revealed that one
of his ancestors had been aboard the Komagatu Maru when it was turned
Table 15.6 Timeline created by Aakil, Victoria and Rosa
1867 Confederation
Mid 1800s Creation of Indian residential schools
1885 Imposition of Chinese Head Tax 1914–
1918 Britain (and Canada) enters World War I
1916–1918 The Women’s Suffrage Movement
1929–1939 The Great Depression
1939–1945 Canada enters WWII
1970 October Crisis and the War Measures Act
241
242 Carla L. Peck
away from the west coast of Canada. During the individual interview he
reported that his mother (who had emigrated from India) was “quite sur-
prised” that he did not argue more voraciously to include it on his group’s
timeline. However, Aakil noted that he was
okay with it not being there—I mean—just as a symbol of the systemic

racism that used to exist in Canada. We do have other examples of
that—the imposition of the Chinese head tax and the creation of Indian
residential schools. I think it is important—more so to the west coast
though. It’s certainly a part of this, you know, BC style racism that used
to exist.
In this excerpt, Aakil points to several symbolic events of “systemic rac-

ism” in Canadian history, and in British Columbian history specifically. As
he explained in the previous excerpt, Aakil felt such events were histori-
cally significant both in terms of what (racism) and who (under-represented
groups in Canadian society) they symbolize.
Discussion
Barton and Levstik (2004) argue that, from an early age, most North
American students are very familiar with historical narratives because of
frequent encounters with them. Students read, construct and repeat nar-
ratives without necessarily understanding why they do so. Narratives of
Canadian history permeate Canadian society. They appear on television
and movie screens, in books and newspapers, in museums, in textbooks,
and as stories passed down through generations. White (1998) argues that
“no given set of causally recorded historical events can in itself constitute
a story; the most it might offer to the historian are story elements” (p. 18;
original emphasis). He further asserts that the same events can be viewed
as either comic or tragic, “depending on the historian’s choice of the plot
structure that he [sic] considers most appropriate for ordering events of that
kind so as to make them into a comprehensible story” (p. 18). Progress nar-
ratives (comic) are common in Canadian mythos (see the Dominion Insti-
tute at www.dominion.ca and the Historica Foundation at www.histori.ca
for popular and widely known examples). Narratives of decline (tragic) are
equally prevalent in Canadian society, however. For instance, Létourneau’s
(2004) research demonstrated that “melancholic,” decline-oriented nar-
ratives abound, particularly in and about Quebecois history. In the past
quarter century, several Canadian prime ministers have apologized, and in
some cases offered redress, for the internment of Japanese Canadians dur-
ing World War II (1988), the imposition of the Chinese Head Tax (2006),
the creation and effects of Indian residential schools on Aboriginal peoples
(2008)—and the list goes on. The apologies are part of Parliamentary record
and the Canadian news media gave them wide coverage, ensuring them a
prominent place in public discourse. All of these topics also receive treat-
ment in school history or social studies texts, and in social studies and his-
tory curricula (Lévesque, 2008). The wide publicity of such events and their
inclusion in social studies curricula across Canada ensures them a promi-
nent place in public narratives of Canadian history.
In this study, students employed a variety of narratives to construct sto-
ries of Canada’s past and they also demonstrated an awareness that ascrip-
tions of historical significance to events in Canadian history could change
depending on one’s ethnic identity. For example, Will noted that,
I think people are a little more interested in . . . how their family came
to Canada and what their history is with Canada—so obviously it’s
completely different for different ethnic—ethnic groups. Some people
have just moved to Canada and they’ve only been here for five years
right—so they would—I think—they will have a pretty different view
on like say someone like who just moved here—they might deal with
some more of the multiculturalism aspects than—than maybe I would.
I might look at something more important as when the Europeans
arrived and like maybe the railway because like my great-grandpa was
one of the first people to go on a railway kind of thing so that interests
me more—well—maybe I might see that as more important than some
of the multiculturalism stuff.
Similarly, Binh argued that
if you’re Caucasian you would think about the first White settlers and if
you were Chinese you would think about the CPR and immigration—
the immigration act—and if you’re a woman you’d think about the
Person’s Case or women’s rights.
Annabelle provided a similar argument, noting that
If your ethnic group is relatively new to Canada—say you’re from

Afghanistan or something—they might look at things differently . . .
they might look more at, like, rights and stuff—and freedoms because
they come from a place that doesn’t have that opportunity.
What might this mean, however, for students who are unable to locate
themselves in the nation’s history? For instance, Canadian-born Binh con-
fessed, “When I see no Vietnamese events here I feel . . . I feel detached from
it, like, I’m seeing it [Canada’s past] through a TV screen. Like, I really don’t
see it as a part of me.” In this case, Binh was unable to connect his ethnic
identity to the narrative of Canadian history created by his group.
Given the complexity of student ethnic identifications and the salience
of certain identities over others in particular contexts, it is important that
243
244 Carla L. Peck
teachers become—and provide opportunities for the students to become—
aware of how ethnic identity can impact learning history. Although the
teacher may be teaching one topic to the 25 students in her class, it is quite
possible that the students are imbibing that topic in 25 different ways.
Although there are many factors that can contribute to this difference in
learning (prior knowledge, interest), the relationship between a student’s
ethnic identity and his or her learning of history must also be attended to
by both the teacher and the student. Students also need to be taught that,
“How a given historical situation is to be configured depends on the histo-
rian’s subtlety in matching up a specific plot structure with the set of histori-
cal event that he [sic] wishes to endow with a meaning of a particular kind”
(White, 1998, p. 19). This opens up many new learning opportunities, such
as investigating why different people, or different groups of people (and
different people within the same “ethnic” group) have differing ideas about
what is historically significant. Why are there competing accounts of the
past? Why do ideas about significance differ? And why do these differences
matter? These questions can lead to deeper historical understanding and,
perhaps, opportunities to explore and understand the position from which
the other person speaks.
Notes
1. This chapter is based in large part on Peck (2009b), parts of which have been
published previously (see also Peck, 2009a, 2010, 2011).
2. The long and complex history of Quebec sovereignty requires significant explo-
ration that cannot be done here. In the simplest of terms, Quebec sovereignists
favour independent statehood for Quebec whereas federalists advocate Quebec
remaining a province of Canada.
3. Hereafter shortened to ethnic identity.
4. An important limitation needs to be acknowledged at this point. There is no
question that, because students were provided with thirty events from which they
were to choose ten for their timeline, certain narrative explanations were pos-
sible while others were not. To address this, I asked students questions during
the follow-up group interviews and the individual interviews, in order to provide
them with opportunities to challenge the narratives embedded in the task. For
example, I asked students if they thought the timeline “told the story of Canada
as they would tell it?” and offered them opportunities to add, change or other-
wise modify the timeline they had created with their group.
Terrie Epstein
Since at least the 1980s, scholars such as Stuart Hall, Paul Gilroy and James
Gee have brought to the fore the notion that “identity” is a social construc-
tion rather than an essential biological or cultural characteristic. Individual
and group identities are never singular nor static: Individuals and members
of collectives perform various identities in specific contexts in and over time,
and these identities often are fluid and flexible, multiple and overlapping,
contradictory and contested. At the same time, researchers and the con-
temporary realities of the streets in Europe, the U.S., South Africa or Syria
provide constant and painful reminders that identities based on constructs
of nationality, race/ethnicity, religion and/or gender/sexuality are not just
performed but imposed, and continue to divide people and populations.
Those on the upside of the divide are constructed as the national, racial/
ethnic, religious or gendered norm or in short, fully human; those on down-
side are the abnormal, the less than fully human, who continually contend
with overt and covert forms of violence.
Identity issues often if not always are implicated in the causes, course and
consequences of difficult histories. Wars, genocides, oppression and dispos-
session are experienced differentially along identity lines, and these experi-
ences among others shape the historical and contemporary understandings
of those living in the present. Yet the multiple ways in which identities and
histories intersect are complex and context specific. For some people in some
contexts, engagements with historical texts are relatively unproblematic, as
evidenced in Schmidt’s chapter 14: Young people or adults appropriate the
historical narratives with which they come into contact and imagine them-
selves or people like themselves within the text in principled and positive
ways. For others, as Mayo’s chapter 13 suggested, interactions in particu-
lar contexts with historical narratives involve difficult knowledge: young
people or adults may reject the historical narratives with which they come
into contact because they erase or misrepresent the pasts with which they
affiliate, or see (or don’t see) themselves or people like themselves in ways
that conjure up traumatic pasts and contemporary experiences. In still other
contexts, as Peck’s chapter 15 indicated, individual or group engagements
with the past involve less straightforward and more nuanced exchanges, a
245
248 Terrie Epstein
complexity of cognitive, emotional, ethical and moral responses to the dif-
ficult histories of those with whom they do or do not identify.
The three chapters in this section, like others throughout the book, engage
with some of the complexities that the research on history, identity and
pedagogy has begun to unpack. Each demonstrates one or more of the many
ways of how identity in the field of history education matters. The chapters
do so by referring to 1) how difficult histories have or have not been repre-
sented in school and broader societal contexts, 2) how power and violence
has or has not been represented within national historical narratives, 3) how
young people’s identities have or may have influenced their engagements
and understandings of difficult histories and contemporary societies, and
4) how teachers do or can mediate young people’s interactions with difficult
histories.
Mayo’s chapter, for example, reminded us of the intersections between
difficult histories and contemporary identities that are at best marginalized
and at worst the subjects of tremendous violence. He introduced an original
configuration of history and identity in his discussion of Two Spirit Native
Americans, people who embodied masculine and feminine spirits, and per-
formed male and female social roles. Although Native American groups
accepted Two Spirit people, first-contact Europeans killed and condemned
“gender-variant” people. Mayo’s second example of the intersection of his-
tory and gender identity regards the well-known case (in the U.S.) of Mat-
thew Shepard. Shepard’s 1998 murder was widely reported in the U.S. and
was a catalyst for the expansion of federal hate crimes legislation. Yet Mayo
has cautioned us not to turn this example of difficult history into a sanitized
story of martyrdom, devoid of a more complex human drama that nonethe-
less represents society’s intolerance of difference in the extreme.
In his chapter, Mayo also reminded us that LGBT youth and adults
navigate dangerous terrain every day of their lives, experiences rooted not
only in their contemporary marginalized identities, but intensified by the
absence of their very existence within the historical narratives of every soci-
ety. Along with inclusion, Mayo also promoted the concept of complexity,
a move away from simple archetypes and towards more complex portrayals
of lesbian, gay, bisexual, or transgender (LGBT) actors and communities as
a way for young people to engage with challenging concepts of humanity.
He recognized this inclusion as a form of “difficult histories for students,
teachers and school personnel who identify as LGB or queer” (p. 215). Yet
LGBT historical experiences also may be difficult for those who don’t iden-
tify as or with LGBT people. Secondary schools in particular are spaces
where issues of gender and sexuality are at once invisible and hyper-visible,
spaces where stereotypes, micro-aggressions and actual violence towards
gender-variant youth abound. Mayo’s chapter opens up questions—and
research possibilities—about the effects of inclusion on LGBT and non-
LGBT youths’ understanding of the complexities of difficult histories and
identities.
Schmidt’s chapter, like others in the book, has demonstrated the signifi-
cance of nationality as a singular and extremely important concept of iden-
tity that influences young people’s perspectives on the past. She has made
a case for the inclusion of the agency and subordination of marginalized
groups in school-based historical narratives of Brazil, but has found little
empirical evidence of the incorporation of these difficult histories into Bra-
zilian classrooms. Her research with 162 high school students seemed to
confirm the absence of curriculum or pedagogy about difficult histories.
For example, in attributing change to elite historical actors or political or
technological factors, students made no mention of the dehumanizing poli-
cies and practices that dictators or political or technological factors have
engendered throughout history. Student discourses also neglected the roles
of ordinary or young people in history. Although several students connected
past events to contemporary issues, they did so without positioning them-
selves as actors with the ability to make a difference in present or future
society.
Schmidt has argued for the necessity of teaching history in ways that com-
plicate students’ historical consciousness. One way to do this, she suggested,
is to enable young people to see people like themselves as having made a
difference in the past, as well as to enable them to see themselves as being
capable of making a difference in contemporary society. She also advocated
for including Brazil’s difficult histories as part of the school curriculum,
and to do so in ways that both incorporate the historical experiences of
ordinary people who both endured and resisted dehumanization, and as
historical actors responsible for significant historical change. For Schmidt,
the connection between the identities of the young people she interviewed
and the national histories they constructed were uncomplicated and rela-
tively untroubled. It is not the kind of connection between history and iden-
tity that broadens or deepens young people’s historical consciousness or
that enable them to act more effectively with the difficulties that they will
encounter as citizens in the present and future.
Peck’s chapter not only made connections between young people’s ethnic
identities and their representations of Canadian history, but it also exam-
ined how young people analyzed the relationship between their and oth-
ers’ subjectivities and youth generated national historical narratives. The
research is an important contribution to existing studies on the relationship
between young people’s identities and their historical understandings. It not
only demonstrates variability rather than uniformity across national histori-
cal narratives created by young people who share common ethnic or reli-
gious identities as ascribed by others, but it also illustrates young people’s
recognition of the influence of their and others’ identities on the content
and structure of the historical narratives that they and others construct. The
research provides an example of the ways in which cognitive dimensions
intersect with sociocultural dimensions in the shaping of young people’s
historical understanding.
249
250 Terrie Epstein
The implications of Peck’s inquiry for teaching and learning difficult histo-
ries beg questions that are ripe for research. Peck conducted interviews with
students within a context in which difficult histories were not in the locus
of attention. Nevertheless, her research can provide a point of departure
to investigate how the fluidity or multiplicity of individual/group identities
may influence narrative constructions of difficult histories or how student
engagement with difficult histories affects their understanding of their own
or others’ multiple identities. As Peck pointed out, identity formation is an
active construction of boundary formation, as well as negotiation of power
relations, and the meaning and significance of individual/group identities
may shift in relation to the particular historical contents and social contexts
in which young people interact. So, for example, will a student’s awareness
of her ethnic or religious identity become a more complex issue when she
engages in classroom discussions around difficult histories related to her
ethnic or religious groups’ historical marginalization in ways that aren’t
significant in other social contexts or with other historical contents?
This is just one of any number of future directions for research that come
to mind in contemplating Peck’s, Schmidt’s and Mayo’s chapters. The rela-
tionships among research, history, identity and pedagogy seem more urgent
now than ever. I originally delivered this commentary on June 26, 2015,
about 10 days after the Charleston (South Carolina, U.S.) church massacre,
in which a young male white supremacist murdered nine African Americans
in an African American church. At the time, I included in the commentary a
quote by President Obama in response to the massacre and I think it still res-
onates toady. He reminded people living in the U.S. of the significance of our
difficult history and its legacy of change and continuity. Although content
and context specific, Obama’s recognition of the historical legacy that fuels
contemporary violence and hatred can be applied to many nations today:
It is incontrovertible that race relations have improved significantly dur-

ing my lifetime and that opportunities have opened up and that atti-
tudes have changed. That is a fact. What is also true is that the legacy
of slavery, Jim Crow, discrimination in almost every institution of our
lives, that has cast a long shadow and that’s still part of our DNA that’s
passed on. We are not cured of it: racism. Societies don’t overnight
completely erase everything that happened two to three hundred years
prior Progress is real and we have to take hope from that progress
but what is also real is that the march is not over and the work is not
yet completed. And then our job is in very concrete ways, “what more
can we do?”
(Obama, 2015)
Horrendous as the Charleston church massacre was, people in the U.S.,

Europe, Asia, the Middle East and other regions around the globe in 2017
are faced with even greater national and international trends towards
intolerance and violence. The Brexit vote in the U.K., the election of Donald
Trump in the U.S. and the ongoing legal and physical assaults of migrants,
refugees and other marginalized populations worldwide expose the divi-
sions within and across nations. Controversial contemporary issues almost
always arise from difficult historical legacies; therefore, research related to
teaching and learning difficult histories in an age of increasing nationalism
and authoritarianism seems more necessary than ever. Although disciplinary,
sociocultural, historical consciousness or critical/sociocultural approaches
to research on history education may differ, each privileges rather than dis-
respects critical thought, reflection and tolerance for those who see the past
or present differently. Research on teaching and learning difficult histories
can continue to make a contribution not just to scholarship but also to edu-
cational policies and practices that support rather than subvert democratic
thought and participation.
251
253
254 Index

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15

Disciplinary Approaches to Research

Sociocultural Approaches to Research

what gets defined as the ‘official’ memory’ or beliefs about . . . victim-

One of their greatest contributions is research on the role of emotions

Critical Sociocultural Approach to Research

Niemi’s experience illustrates ubiquitous historical moral burdens of com-

Figure 1.1 Fields of making history

History is a tale of unrequited injustice. Treaties have been broken, com-

Moral Myths Shaping Maintaining Historical Divisions

• Unjust treatment: A community fosters stories of deception and exploi-

Serbs Croats Muslims

For a dialogue between the conflicting narratives to be opened, two cru-

Dialogical History Classrooms—a Quest for Today

Difficult History: Hidden Hierarchies of War Memories

Difficult Heritage: Immersive Experiences of Pain

A past that is recognized as meaningful in the present but that is also

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Distance, contrast and perspectives is what matters in history .......... We

diachronic: tracing long synchronic: focusing on a

near or far see, hear, touch, smell

personal cognitive moral political

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commitment can reinforce each other or lead to internal friction. Students

The Historian and the Community

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SG50 and the Official Response

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Teaching and Learning

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Have you ever studied Indigenous History?

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His position is a tricky one, he says:

it’s actually considered that most of we white people are considered to

We do actually have a high population of Indigenous students here but

“Indigenous History Still Matters”23

Indigenous history is obviously an integral element of Australian his-

Brian also senses the intellectual significance of the topic:

It’s an integral part of understanding who we are, and if history’s going

While respondents in so many of these interviews expressed frustration at

Lindy: Yeah, I think it’s really important, especially Aboriginal history,

Students haven’t been completely closed off from Indigenous history—it’s

Cultural Forgetting and Indigenous Peoples

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Australians rarely appear to concern themselves with the obvious fact

The Treaty of Waitangi in Nationalist Discourse

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7 “People Are Still Grieving”