Let’s teach students to see the fingerprints

In the rush to adopt generative artificial intelligence (GenAI), we risk forgetting that every technical revolution promised more leisure, but it just created different work. The “workslop” of the future may well be an endless loop of humans checking the meaningless documents generated by one AI for another. In a world where a machine can synthesise information, write a passable essay and even generate art, we must confront the foundational question: what is the enduring value of a humanities education? 

The irony is rich. We, who have spent centuries studying the human condition, are now tasked with diagnosing the psyche of the machine and defending the soul in an age of intelligence without sentience (for now).

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Let me go back to the question of value. It’s the difference between a handmade ceramic vase and a machine-made one. One is unique, bearing the faint fingerprints of its maker; the other is perfect, identical and much cheaper. Why would anyone pay for the former? People do – but only if they understand the effort, the intention, the humanity imbued in the clay. A GenAI tool can write an article, but will you read it with the same care as you would one you knew was forged in the messy fires of a human mind? We must teach students to see the fingerprints.

This is not a call to arms against GenAI – not at all, as I firmly believe it is the future – but a plea to reframe our purpose. The promise of AI-driven personalised learning is seductive: tailored knowledge, on-demand support. But the key factor in student success isn’t just information delivery; it’s the relationship with a teacher who cares and gives space to explore and create. GenAI can provide data, but it cannot provide the spark of shared curiosity that truly motivates.

Our classrooms must change. We can no longer be the sage on the stage, dispensing facts that students can get distilled, on-demand, in a language they prefer. Let them do that at home. Let the chatbot be their personalised textbook.

Then, let our classrooms become something else entirely: workshops for the human spirit. Let’s use our time together for the things that only we can do. Let’s get students to socialise, to collaborate and query, to create, to fail together and to try again. 

Putting into practice

Crucially, this work doesn’t always require GenAI. Sometimes, the most powerful tools are our own hands and eyes. In my history classes, I present students with ceramic artefacts from across different regions and eras (yes, I am into ceramics!). Their first task is to work in teams, arrange the artefacts in chronological order and justify their reasoning. The revelation comes when we check the answers: they are often wrong. This sparks a deeper discussion – why doesn’t progress follow a neat line? We brainstorm the reasons that cause technologies to advance, regress or transform in different places. This initial exercise in critical thinking requires nothing more than physical objects and human conversation. A follow-up task to confirm those reasons can then use GenAI.

For creativity, I look to the Victorians, who entertained themselves by creating tableaux vivants – staging living pictures based on famous artworks. I ask my students to do the same. First, they must investigate: What did the oriental carpet on the table signify? Why that specific fruit in that bowl? The posture of the figures? They have to read a lost visual language (I allow them to use GenAI for this initial research – the knowledge has to come from somewhere). Then comes the creative part: “Recreate this scene with objects that hold equivalent meaning today.” They replace a laurel wreath with a viral hashtag or a quill with a smartphone. They are not just copying art; they are translating meaning across centuries.

Teaching European history in Hong Kong demands similar creativity from me. While museum exhibitions here often focus on Eastern topics, the global connections are always there, waiting to be uncovered. A current exhibition on Mughal India at the Hong Kong Palace Museum is a perfect example. It allows me to trace the threads connecting the Mughal Empire to the Portuguese, the Habsburgs and ultimately, the British East India Company. A single artefact can become a portal to a discussion on global trade, religion, diplomacy and colonialism. The point is to show students that history is not a series of isolated silos, but an interconnected web – an understanding that requires human curiosity to map.

Beyond history, this principle applies across disciplines. In my sociolinguistics course, I task students with researching a topic of their own choosing. The process begins not online, but in their own world. They take photos of their surroundings – a multilingual street sign, a tattoo, a halal shop in a wet market. Their first job is to link these images to sociolinguistic issues. From there, they select one issue to pursue, embarking on a journey that no AI can replicate: contacting stakeholders and experts, understanding the human side of the issue and linking it to existing studies and theories. This gives them the tools to create and implement a solution to the issue, following the explore, create, offer approach.  

Our job is no longer to teach students what to think, but to give them the tools, the resilience and the moral compass to decide why and how to think. The ultimate value of the humanities in the age of GenAI is not in the answers we provide, but in the profound, essential and imperfect human questions we teach our students to ask.

Renia Lopez-Ozieblo is assistant dean, Faculty of Humanities at The Hong Kong Polytechnic University. AI was used to polish the language of the article.